AI Rory stumbled, catching herself on a trunk that felt like cold, slick obsidian . The air tasted of honey and rust, buzzing not with insects, but with a deep vibration that worked its way into her bones. Beside her, Nyx flowed from a deeper shadow cast by a tree whose bark shimmered with an unhealthy, viridian luminescence. Isolde, however, stood perfectly still, her silver hair a stark contrast against the otherworldly foliage, her pale lavender eyes wide with an emotion Rory couldn't quite decipher – awe, or perhaps dread .
"This is not the Grove," Rory stated, her voice remarkably steady given the jarring transition. It had felt less like walking and more like being violently ejected from reality, landing here in this place that defied terrestrial logic.
Nyx’s form solidified further, a humanoid silhouette against the alien glow. "The Veil is... porous here. Like tissue paper soaked in ichor." Their voice, a whisper amplified by the strange acoustics, brushed against Rory’s hearing.
"Tissue paper?" Rory scoffed, flexing her fingers . The crescent scar on her wrist felt unusually warm. Her Heartstone Pendant, nestled beneath her shirt, pulsed with a faint, insistent throb against her skin, a silent alarm. "Feels more like a damn brick wall just broke us through."
Isolde finally stirred. Her gaze swept over the impossible growths around them, not scanning, but absorbing . "Where the roots drink deep from forgotten wells," she murmured, her voice like wind chimes made of ice.
They began to press forward. The ground beneath their feet yielded slightly , not like soft earth, but like densely packed moss that pulsed with a faint, bio-luminescent light. Towering trees, if they could be called that, twisted into impossible geometries, their branches weaving intricate , skeletal arches overhead. Emerald sap, thick and viscous, dripped from gashes in the obsidian-like bark, coalescing into puddles that glowed with an ethereal, sickly green light. The air grew heavier, the cloying sweetness intensifying, carrying with it an undertone of something metallic, like old blood.
"The rot is spreading," Nyx whispered, their voice seeming to come from all directions at once, or perhaps from the very shadows pooling at the base of the unnerving flora. "The boundaries weaken when the indulgence spills."
Rory’s gaze flickered from her pendant, which felt like a tiny furnace beneath her fingers, to Isolde. The Seer’s ancient eyes traced the intricate patterns woven into the canopy. "Indulgence?" Rory prompted, her tone sharp .
"When the gluttons feast too long," Isolde replied, her gaze distant, focused on something unseen . "The hunger seeps. It finds purchase." She gestured vaguely with a slender, unblemished hand. "This place remembers older hungers than Dymas alone."
Rory didn't understand. Dymas was sin, Hel. How could that leak into a Fae-touched place like this? Unless Hel’s influence wasn't direct, but a corruption of the Fae realm itself. The Fae Grove was supposed to be protected, timeless. But here, Rory felt time stretching, pulling at her like taffy. A moment of intense light from a pulsing fungus made her vision swim, and when it cleared, she swore Nyx had moved three paces closer without making a sound.
"We're looking for a way through, Isolde. Not a philosophical treatise on gluttony," Rory said, impatience threading her words . She knew Isolde spoke in riddles, but the situation demanded clarity.
Isolde met her gaze, her pale lavender eyes holding an ancient, knowing melancholy. "The path you seek is not measured by steps, but by appetites," she stated .
Rory felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach . Appetites. Her pendant pulsed again, its warmth now a distinct heat against her skin. This was connected to Hel, then. Not just a corrupted Fae place, but a nexus where Hel's craving had found an ingress.
Nyx shifted, their shadowy form coalescing closer to Rory. "The whispers grow louder. They taste us."
"Taste us?" Rory echoed , running a hand over the smooth, cold hilt of the Fae-Forged Blade tucked into her belt.
"Hunger," Nyx confirmed. "Not for flesh, but for essence . For shadow. For... light." They seemed to select the last word with great care. Rory felt a primal urge to duck, to become smaller, to disappear. Nyx’s sensitivity to the ethereal was something she’d learned to trust, and their unease was infectious.
Rory shifted her weight , the strange, viscous moss hissing softly under her boots. A faint, almost imperceptible ripple passed through the air, distorting her vision for a split second, making the pulsing fungal growths around them appear to swell and recede like slow breaths. It was like being underwater, but breathing was surprisingly easy, if unnervingly perfumed. The honey-and-rust scent was now laced with something acrid, like burnt sugar and decaying flowers.
"They feed on what is drawn, what is lost," Nyx rasped, their form blurring at the edges . "The Veil's tears are a buffet."
Isolde’s gaze drifted upwards, towards the skeletal canopy where impossibly twisted branches formed abstract sculptures against nothingness. "The Gilded Mouths find their own flavour. They crave what starves others."
"Gilded Mouths?" Rory frowned, the Fae-Forged Blade feeling heavy in her grip. She noted the intricate patterns of what looked like dried venous blood staining the roots of a colossal, weeping tree. Was this a physical manifestation of Dymas's Gluttony, or something even older and more primal that Dymas merely tapped into? The Pendant’s warmth was now a burning brand, making her hand ache.
"The gluttony of Dymas is a shallow pond compared to some chasms," Isolde explained, her voice barely audible above the low hum emanating from the crystalline structures. "This is where the oldest hungers gather, invited by the fraying edges of worlds. Where the scent of overwhelming plenty attracts those who know only absence. Those who consume to feel real."
A wave of dizziness washed over Rory, sopotent she staggered. The pulsating ground seemed to tilt. The sweet, overpowering scent choked her. This was more than just a place; it was a manifestation of primordial need, a hunger so vast it warped reality itself. She felt a moment of sheer, unreasoning panic, a desire to flee back through whatever impossible route had brought them here, only to remember there was no clear route.
The rhythmic clacking began again, closer this time, a percussive counterpoint to the ambient hum. Rory raised her blade, the faint luminescence of the moonsilver a defiant glint against the oppressive gloom . Nyx solidified into a more solid, humanoid shape directly beside her, their presence a sudden density of cold.
"They come," Nyx stated, their voice a single, sharp whisper .
Rory’s heart hammered against her ribs. The ground ahead of them quivered . The soft, bio-luminescent moss rippled as if a great weight moved beneath it. From the deeper shadows between the colossal, frosted fungi, shapes began to emerge.
First, a pair of multifacetted, violet eyes. Then, elongated limbs ended in sickle-like claws, dripping with a viscous, dark fluid. They unfolded from the gloom like nightmares made manifest, their forms a disturbing blend of insectoid and predatory mammalian features, all rendered in chitinous plates that gleamed with an oily sheen. Their bodies were segmented, jointed in ways that made Rory’s stomach churn . They resembled nothing she had ever seen, yet carried an undeniable aura of ancient, predatory hunger. Their heads were disproportionately small, dominated by those unsettling eyes and sharp, clicking mandibles.
They moved with an unnerving, jerky grace, each step accompanied by the scrape of chitin against the glowing moss. Two of them. Then three. And then, from the periphery, a fourth emerged, its form slightly different, more bent, and carrying a crudely fashioned, obsidian-like spear. It pointed the spear directly at Rory, at the burning pulse of the Heartstone Pendant beneath her tunic.
The air grew thick, suffocating. The intoxicatingly sweet scent of rot and decay intensified, now overlaid with a sharp, metallic tang that spoke of fresh prey. A collective hiss, like a thousand dry leaves skittering across stone, emanated from the creatures. Rory tightened her grip on the Fae-Forged Blade, its ever-present cold a small comfort against the inferno of her pendant. This was no mere exploration; it was an invitation they were not meant to accept.