I ain’t never tol’ nobody. Nobody know what I got in my head. I gots a mean fog churning an’ seepin’ in dem folds, curlin’ round my eyes an’ dullin’ da pupils. I ain’t no evil. I ain’t da mist dat’s makin’ me crazy. But dis fog here gots a power, an’ even I ain’t holdin’ a candle up to it. Not da holies’ candle takes on dis hidden god an’ its captives. Not da holies’ light banish da hate here.
Lookin’ at dis jungle I gots a tinglin’ in my hands. Even dose who ain’t native can feel da spirits, dem bitter souls cravin’ a chance to push you outta your skin. An’ dey can. Da sleepin’ pull o’ da forest, da lullin’ leaves an’ saggin’ limbs, droopin’ low down ta face you… Look up. You ain’t dat tall. You ain’t nothin’ here.
You gonna die here.
Your sword ain’t gonna down a thousand trees. You couldn’t exorcise da millions pullin’ your ass down to da soft, soft soil. Too soft. Once you feel dem vines curl on your legs, you done. An’ dey will. One with da dirt, man. You gonna be crawlin’ fo’ legs ta creep on, next.
Not even da Light can save you from dis mist.
You gonna die.
---

She stood at the entrance. Past wide, dewy limbs and thickly veined leaves was a blackness she knew best in her sleep. Steep glimmering shards of city upon city, beckoning her. Reclaiming. This was the void she came from. This was the anchor of her darkness, one she could never be rid of, no matter how often she danced in the light.

Flashes.

She dreamed in red flashes. Blood-lust priests slashing, her robes red, copper stains, their god (themselves) never sated. Perpetual hunger she constantly felt berating her, even now, years later. She’d taken the high road, tried to abandon her own instilled brutality and she just couldn’t win. He called to her. To all of them.
She was pulled to the deathtrap of her heritage, the blood in the soil, the tainted souls of these mighty trees, just begging her to take one step closer. Get in a little deeper, girl. I’ll give you your blood back and you can give me something better.

“My soul?”

The bark left her fingertips red. Everything bled for its master. Everyone bled for him. Turning from the forest, she felt the connection half-heartedly sever in her head, the mist curling back into the safety of its jungle. Perhaps it would nestle in the mind of an ignorant visitor, or drift onto the lap of its slumbering master. No matter. For now the fog was gone and she could see enough to make her way back to camp.
---

Several were with her there, at the edge of the forest with a mind and blood pumping through its limbs. A templar-zealot, the spiritual leader of the expedition; the scout and tracker pair, their eyes and reflexes rival to the jungle’s deadliest serpent; and the expedition leader, a warrior with a blade’s sense of humor. She felt uncomfortable, standing on the outside of her home, feeling the spirits whisper her skin, unprotected by the templar’s crusade or the warrior’s shield. They were of the Light, these so-called guardians; they had forgotten the gods that had birthed them eons ago, the ones who could pluck their righteous stench from the earth with the flicker of a leaf in the wind.

“Da’nya.”

“Ya?”

He sat his mace against a long wooden beam supporting their rugged camp. Lowering his eyes, so foggy and soft. Torment on his face. Blood dripping from his nose. His hands, too, on the wooden beam; his breath escaping, the wheeze of a final step.

“I know who you are. I know what you did here.” As if he didn’t want to admit it, but had to. Self righteous bastard. His mother was a whore and his father was no nobleman either. He had no right to claim himself the son of the Light, to judge with a holy hand. He was born in the dark, just like her. He was born in blood.

“Dat important now, templar?”

“It would help us, if you could give us the details. We could find the city quicker, find him quicker.”

“Da god? You wantin’ ta find a god! Templar, you a fool!”

“He’s not a god he’s simply powerful enough to make you-“

She moved to slap him, but her talon hand was caught by his eyes. Held and caressed with them, eyes like cotton and mist. Pale blue and flat, wispy.

“He a god. An’ your eyes ain’t gonna catch his hand. You be spillin’ blood first. You go crazy first, you stupid Light lickin’ man.”

Those cotton eyes did not waver from her face, though his pale lashes fluttered and obscured them. Made them deeper, more threatening somehow. He said nothing. His nose kept bleeding.

She knew she was right, till the bleeding stopped and she realized that she was the one wanting him to bleed.


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Gonna keep working on this. I always wanted to write something fantasy-like.