9

It didn’t take long for Hunter to realize the new Abilities he’d picked up were indeed a solid choice. Granted, neither Mystic’s Eye nor the raven familiars would be much of use in a fight, but for the time being that was beyond the point. For a man lost in what essentially was a new and strange world, a reliable way to get knowledge and information was invaluable.

On the other hand, Hunter also found out that having familiars could be… disconcerting, at least in the beginning. Biggs and Wedge–that’s what he’d decided to call the ravens, an homage to his nerdy upbringing–were like two excitable little voices he could hear in his head all the time, chattering non-stop. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, not exactly, but he got the gist of it. They were thrilled to be in this new world.

Hunter tried to talk to the ravens, but they didn’t seem to understand the concept of speech. Willing them to do things didn’t work, either. In the end, he just projected his thoughts to their cheeky presences in his head, and hoped for the best. After a long moment of silence, they gave him the mental link equivalent of “Roger Roger!” and took wing.

Your Conjure Familiar has increased to 3.

As the two feathery forms disappeared beyond the tree canopy, he felt their voices and presences fade away. There was a limit to the range of the mental bond, he presumed. He wasn’t sure whether they’d be able to track his location or something, so he sat tight until they returned. It turned out he was half-right; a quarter-hour or so later he felt the mental bond strengthen again and was pelted with a stream of excited “???” messages–the ravens’ way of asking him where the hell he was. He responded with the mental link version of “I’m right here, you feathery assholes”, and the two black birds landed on the ground right beside him.

It wasn’t like he could hold a proper conversation with them, not even in his head, but the flashes of images and notions they projected to him were good enough. “Big rock, no trees, THAT way”, they said. That sounded like the big clearing and the standing stone he’d seen earlier. “Take me there, o winged windbags”, he projected, and was hit with another wave of mental “Roger Roger!”.

Hunter followed them as they hopped from branch to branch chattering to each other. He kept an eye out for anything unusual–he didn’t know what kind of beasts made their home in the woods, after all–but didn’t spot anything bigger or more menacing than a squirrel. His pace was a bit too slow for his new companions’ liking, so getting them to remain focused and not chatter about every single twig and leaf that caught their eye proved to be an issue. Still, they managed to guide him just fine. Half an hour later, Hunter could see the brightness of the clearing among the trees.

There wasn’t an obvious natural reason for the clearing to be where it was; the pines and firs just refused to grow anywhere closer than thirty feet to the standing stone. As he crossed the tree line, Hunter felt a palpable change in the air

A notification confirmed his suspicions; this was some kind of special location.

No, special wasn’t the right word.

The right word was otherworldly.

Investigate points of interest in the Brennai Weald. (1/3)

Whatever this place was, Hunter got the distinct feeling he wasn’t supposed to be there. The sounds of the forest suddenly felt distant and muted. No birds flew above the clearing, and a thin layer of mist covered the barren ground. Each crunching footstep in the bed of dry leaves and pine needles seemed to echo out between the trees for miles in all directions. Hunter had never had such a bad case of the goosebumps before in his life, and it wasn’t just from the chill of the forest air. Even Biggs and Wedge had shut up. At the center of it all, the stone gave off some seriously eerie vibes, somehow dampening the colors themselves around it to drab monochromes.

Hunter, of course, being Hunter, walked right up to it.

The standing stone looked like a giant shard of dark rock jammed straight into the ground by some primeval titan’s hand. There were lines upon lines of writing etched everywhere on it, letters and symbols and runes and sigils. It looked so heavily eroded, though, that Hunter doubted he’d be able to make heads or tails of any of it.

“APPROACH.”

The resounding voice spoke in Hunter’s head the same way Biggs and Wedge did–only a thousand, a million times stronger. Its timbre–if it was timbre, as it was more like a powerful notion than an actual sound–was ageless. Sepulchral. The single, massive word was permission and invitation and command all rolled into one. Hunter was transfixed. Without even giving it conscious thought, he raised his hand and touched the stone’s rough surface.

It was all over before it began. The presence washed over him like a tsunami, brutally baring and scrutinizing every part of his psyche. What control he had, he lost; he was a single drop of water lost in the bleak, fathomless ocean of the being’s consciousness.

You have failed a contest of will against [???? ?????].

“UNWORTHY, STILL.”

Hunter did not understand whether his body was thrown away from the stone by force, or he fell back on his own volition. All he knew was that the presence had left him empty, and that he was on the ground. Biggs and Wedge were chattering frantically, warning him of some danger, but he couldn’t muster the focus to pay attention.

The mist that clung to the ground rose around Hunter, thicker and more real than before, and took the ghostly forms of featureless men and women. They fixed their milky white eyes on him, opened their mouths as if to whisper something, reached for him with twisted limbs and appendages. They were dead, all of them, he knew. Wraiths. He tried to scream, crawl away, close his eyes, do something. He couldn’t. All he could do was stare at the semi-translucent forms that gathered around him, frozen and numb.

Spectral claws dug in his chest like hooks, tearing his flesh, stretching it like the world’s most morbid saltwater taffy.

A Mist Stalker attacks you for 14 psychic damage.

A Mist Stalker uses Withering Touch.

You are now afflicted with Paralyzing Fear.

A Mist Stalker attacks you for 11 psychic damage.

He tried to scream again, but nothing came out of his throat except a bloody gurgle. The ghost-things tore deeper in his body with fevered hunger, ripping him apart, freezing his blood and lungs and heart with their icy touch.

For the first time in his life Hunter truly understood the meaning of agony. Real, visceral, soul-breaking agony. There was no escaping these things; the only thing he could do was stand there stunned and scream in his head as they maimed and mutilated him, all under the watchful, merciless eye of the presence in the stone.

Critical hit! A Mist Stalker attacks you for 39 psychic damage.

A Mist Stalker attacks you for 12 psychic damage.

Critical hit! A Mist Stalker attacks you for 35 psychic damage.

You lost 0 Aether.

You died.