Bloumen found herself in between the roots of towering trees. Clouds flowed around their trunks, and their canopies, hazy from distance, flickered with a burning red light. The grass about her was white, and strangely soft, and small red flowers were blooming on their tips. Ash was raining from the sky, and a pale sun that felt too cold and too distant washed the scene in pale shades of grey.

A figure sat upon on one of the roots, along a twist in the bark about five meters from the ground. It was a figure without a face, a body composed of a fluid that looked like tar and covered in a gown of fire. A halo of black rimmed in a ghostly light, radiated from the creature. It watched her with its empty face, following Bloumen’s each move with a motion of its head.

“Where am I?” Bloumen asked finally, raising her voice as much as she could.

“Dreaming little one. What have I directed your dreams toward? The far north, in the fae’s forest of fire. It’s where I first entered the world, and it is my first creation.” The cold, ageless voice responded.

Bloumen recoiled at it. Her fear and confusion rapidly turned to frustration as she looked at the demon. “Couldn’t you have helped me more?”

“I may be the greatest of demons, an ageless spirit, and one without boundaries… But there are limitations to what I can do with such a small flow of Erd. One day you will be my vessel, and you will have all the ‘help’ you want. Now you are too small, and too frail to connect with for long. Even now I risk bringing you a fever merely through this little chat. I will not be speaking to you for a while now, but you are in capable hands.” The shadowy figure swept her hand out, motioning to the wasteland around them. “Come here, to my first handywork, and you shall receive a gift that will make matters much simpler.”

Bloumen wanted to pry further. Before she could speak, she felt a wave of nausea hit her. As she reeled about, her vision faded, and the barren forest slipped from her sight. She opened her eyes, as a horrible headache drilled into her skull. Kirtridge kneeled over her, and the acrid smell of vomit lay in the air. He shook her shoulder, and she pulled herself up, squinting at the light.

“Are you all right?” Kirtridge’s gruff voice cracked with worry.

Bloumen shook her head. “I feel like death.”

“What a way to start.” He rubbed the vomit from her face and stood. “Can you walk still?”

“I don’t want to walk, please.”

Kirtridge shrugged. “I’ll carry your things; we don’t have much more time.”

Bloumen wanted to argue, but Kirtridge gave her a hard look. She stood unsteadily, frowning at the sudden increase of pain. Resolutely she shrugged on her shoes and did her best not to throw up again.

Kirtridge picked up a large pack, as well as a smaller leather backpack. He put a sword about his waist, and an unstrung bow over his shoulders, with a quiver. He told Bloumen to follow closely behind him, and the two stepped out of the cabin. The forest looked far more familiar in the bright sunlight, and the temperature was a refreshing balance of the warm sunlight and cool breeze. The air was dry and crisp, the seasonal storms hadn’t yet come to the forest, leaving the pine trees surrounded by yellowing grass and brush.

“Alright, follow closely, the forest is easy to lose yourself in.” He led her around to the back of the cabin, where a loose path cut through the brush. Bloumen, did her best to keep up, keeping her eyes shut to ward off her headache. Kirtridge slowed every few minutes, to allow her to keep pace.

An hour into their walk, a howl pierced the air, mingling with the unearthly sound of trumpets. It felt close, and echoed strangely off the hills, like a drumbeat.

“That’s a poor sign.” Kirtridge looked about them with a nervous glance. “Let’s hope that they took the wrong direction.”

“What is it?”

“Sacred Hounds. The worst possible sound we could hear right now.” Kirtridge took her hand and increased the pace. “You’ll need to step up the pace if you want to survive kid.”

Despite Kirtridge’s warning, Bloumen could barely manage her current shuffle. She didn’t hear any more howling for the rest of the afternoon, but with the growing silence, Kirtridge grew more unsettled.

Kirtridge lead her to a little stream, which he crossed at a shallow point. He helped her along, taking her by the hand and guiding her over the slippery rocks. After that, they walked upstream until the horizon lay tinged with the orange of sunset. Kirtridge finally paused near a clearing, atop a hill to take stock of the surroundings.

Bloumen sat down on the grass beside him with a sigh and looked out over the surrounding hills.

The broken walls of a ruin covered a bluff ahead of them, and behind them the forest stretched on, with the haze of chimney smoke rising in the distance. Blackened and scorched trees lay at the other side of the meadow, where a fire had passed through years ago. It left long black gashes on the hills surrounding them, and she could still remember when ash had rained from the sky.

Her parents were so worried then. Kirtridge had been there too, and she could remember her mother packing her things. The fire had passed them by, but it had been the first time she had seen real fear in her parents. Bloumen found it exciting at the time, and she had laughed at the little flakes of ash that fell like snow.

Her legs were sore, and she rubbed them to relieve the pain. Her headache had subsided after the day’s walk. Kirtridge surveyed their surroundings. The air was clear, and the view was wonderful, hills stretching in every direction about them.

“I’m tired.” She finally announced.

“And?”

“I want to go to sleep. Where are we staying?”

He paused and looked down at her. Confusion played in his eyes. “We aren’t going to be sleeping, or staying anywhere, until at least tomorrow evening.”

“What!?”

“We need distance Bloumen. That’s all there is to it. Did you think it would be a leisurely hike through the woods?”

Bloumen tried to understand what he was saying. She had walked far more than she had ever before. The thought of even more of it was nightmarish. “We have to be far enough by now! I can’t even see the town from here.”

“No, my best guess is we’ve made about ten miles from the cabin. You’re slow, and I can’t push a weak child like you, we will have to forego rest to even have a chance.” With that, Kirtridge set down his pack, and opened it up. He withdrew some jerky, and a little bread.

After he handed some to her, and broke off a bit of bread for himself, he sighed. “We’re aiming for a place your parents set up for you. The Southern Fool’s Troupe, a band of rejects, should be perfect for someone like yourself.”

Bloumen wasn’t sure how she should take that statement, but it sounded offensive, so she fixed him with a glare. Kirtridge had been so nice to her before, taking her on walks around his little cabin, and he had a big and fond laugh that came around often. This was a new way of talking, and it made her cheeks flush with anger.

She bit into the bread, and it was course and rough. Her face twisted in disgust. “Your bread is horrible.”

“Now let me be clear, you need get used to that fast. You have a black mark on your head, and so everyone around you sees you like a lit fuse at best. I wouldn’t even be out here if I didn’t owe your parents for what they’ve done for my old man.” Kirtridge shrugged and looked out over the field. A brilliant flash of light flickered in the distance. A golden tree of light sprouted from the flash, surrounded by flickering sigils and circled runes. It hung in the air for a moment, before it faded from sight. The source looked like it was the next hill over, separated from them by about two miles.

“Shit.” Kirtridge looked to the tree line and picked up their bag. “We’re moving. Now.”

“Hmm?” Bloumen jumped as Kirtridge grabbed her hand and began pulling her towards the tree line. He kept glancing over his shoulder with quick movements, and his hands were shaking. As they reached the edge of the meadow, he didn’t stop, pulling her through a thicket and along the forest at a rough pace. Dazed and tired, she did her best to keep up, tears welling in her eyes from the pain.

“Kirtridge…” She gasped. “What is wrong? What was that?”

“The Viscountess.” Kirtridge slowed down, and Bloumen collapsed, leaning against a tree and gasping to clear the burning feeling in her lungs. He continued; “We don’t have much time, not with her upon our tail.”

He was already ten paces ahead, and after one last gasp she set off after him. “Please. Please go more slowly!”

“Better to be tired then dead.” He responded.

They walked down the hillside, and then up a new hill. Pines and deep thicket covered the valleys. As night fell, darkness drowned the forest. Fear tugged at Bloumen, when she She could tell Kirtridge was worried as well, as he rubbed his sword hilt and glanced back and forth. The wind was picking up, and now the sounds of the forest were in full swing. It felt like there was movement in every direction, grabbing her attention to a new noise again and again.

Night fell quickly, and the moonlight hung in tatters from the pines. As the two made their way up along a hill, Kirtridge stopped. His eyes were wide, fixed at a point behind them.

Bloumen turned to look as well, peering into the gloom. In a clearing, about two hundred meters away, a shadow moved through the gloom.

Shuffling along in the darkness was a silhouette, long and sinewy. It was larger than a carriage, and broad, it looked like the pictures of lions Bloumen had read. The monster shambled along drunkenly, skipping about at times, and then wading about like a hippo. She could see its legs moving wildly, and its body seemed to writhe and wriggle about. Over its body was a dim circle of golden light, like the halo of an angel.

Bloumen froze as the thing lurched closer. It entered a patch of moonlight, and her heart jumped in her chest. It had the head of a dog; blisters coated its skin, and its maw didn’t close right. Malformed teeth spread from its broken maw in every direction, glinting in the moonlight. The neck of the creature was long and jutting in every direction from it were the faces of little creatures, their mouths opening and closing wordlessly. Its ribs jutted from its back as if they were wings, and skeletal arms jutted from the fleshy wound where its back should have been. It had six legs, and the knees and paws were all crooked and deformed, not one leg looked like the next. It shimmered under the moonlight, covered in a layer of shimmering fluid.

Kirtridge slowly reached over and took her shoulder. He was quiet and slow, but he pulled her along. Too numb to object, Bloumen followed him without a word, too terrified to even breathe. As the creature went out of sight, Panic slowly filled the void which terror had left behind. As her breath returned to her, she began to gasp for air. “What was that? I don’t understand, why is that here? Is it-?”

Kirtridge put his hand over her mouth. It was rough and smelled of dirt and smoke. She looked up at him, and he shook his head.

He guided her along a cliff, and then along a stream. Even in the dark he seemed sure of where he was going. Bloumen couldn’t keep her mind from her pursuers, and now every fresh movement in the forest sent a shiver down her spine. The wind howled as it shook the dry pines, making the forest dance and come alive.

They came to a rocky hill, and he paced along it for a little while. Finally, he pulled her into a patch of brambles. They cut at her, and it was all she could do not to yelp in pain. Once she had fought free of the thorns, she found herself on a small trail, leading up the rocky hillside, nestled among pines and leaves. At parts, the path disappeared entirely, and Kirtridge had to pull her from rock to rock on the steep slope.

Kirtridge stopped by a large outcropping, sinking down against a tree and drawing in a deep and shaky breath. He whispered, in a voice barely audible through the wind. “Well... Fuck. Sacred hounds, gods preserve us.”

He laughed and looked down at her; “Well maybe not gods.”