On the morning of the third sunrise, while leafing through the old storybook Echoes of Elioudra, a book she had instantly taken a liking to for its smog-gold gilding, luxurious finish, and sturdy hardbound cover—she found herself lost in its pages.
In an attempt to piece together this world's origin, she noticed a strange map tucked within the first few pages of the book.
From its fragmented drawings, she tried to make sense of her current location.
But being surrounded by towering trees within this forest, with only a nearby river as her landmark, she realized she needed to establish a clearer sense of the land she stood on.
It's not like I can climb those tall trees without a harness.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps nearby.
Whether it was her heightened state of awareness or the forest's serene stillness, she could make out two distinct presences approaching.
Slow, careful. Not hiding, but not charging in either.
Drawing attention wasn't her full intention; certainly not this soon. Yet, here they were.
Oddly enough, she felt no fear, only curiosity… or maybe a bit of both.
Clutching the rod she had established to be a good choice for a weapon, without having considered the drawer full of knives in the kitchen, she walked toward the direction of the approaching presence.
I didn't want to be found—I wanted to meet them on my terms.
And to her surprise, she found not beasts or hunters, but two elderly people, cloaked and carrying satchels.
An old man and an old woman.
They looked feeble. Fragile. Weathered.
The old woman's appearance seemed to have a slightly stooped posture, but she held a certain grace and dignity. She had peach pale skin. A mixture of ash-grey with lavender and muted rose streaks that were pulled back loosely into a thick braid unfurled as she reached up and removed her grey hood.
Her wide-set eyes were dusty purple, held a sparkle of wisdom, despite the fine lines, looked as if it was not because of ageing, but because she might have laughed or smiled often in her youth.
The old man soon followed in removing his hood, and deep-set, hooded grey eyes stared back. He held a set of stern brows that were perpetually furrowed, but does not seem to be angry, just deep in thought.
Short-cropped salt and pepper hair sat on top of his head, and a contrasting long, well-groomed beard covered half of his face down to his neck. His lips are partly seen.
A quiet moment passed as she observed the elderly pair standing before her.
I swear I heard footsteps, but they were this far from the cabin?
Despite their eyelids riddled with wrinkles, their eyes held a startling clarity. More than that, she felt an overwhelming sense of… Power? She wasn't sure, but whatever it was, they had it.
What am I sensing here? They look like they mean no harm.
Even if they looked as though they could barely lift a log, something within them still pulsed strongly.
"We didn't mean to startle you deary. Did you just wake up? Orthan and I just thought we'd drop by. We live within these woods too, not far from here, you see," the old lady spoke first, her voice gentle, almost motherly. "I'm Vien, by the way," she added. Her thin, graceful lips pulled into a soft line.
They looked kind, seemingly friendly. There was something inviting in the way she spoke and smiled. Her slow, careful manner of speaking felt like she was wrapping her in a warm, cozy blanket.
Did she cast a spell on me? Why is she acting so familiar?
"Our cabin's just a little ways from here, through the thicket and over a small ridge. We've lived there a long time now," Vien continued.
"Haven't seen a new face in these woods for… well, longer than I can remember," Orthan added.
Curiosity clung to every word they spoke. Vien's warm smile and steady gaze seemed to catch the hesitation in her expression.
"Why don't you come by tomorrow? We'd love to share a meal. It's been a while since we've had company."
She remained silent. But her inner monologue was loud.
With a small nod and a forced smile, she obliged.
Still unfamiliar to this world. She couldn't say for certain if these strangers were truly trustworthy.
Are elderly people here naturally calm and comforting like this? Why in the hell was I a bitter old man then?
It must have been a habit from her old life, she felt it would be rude to refuse their invitation.
But something else urged her to accept. She couldn't pinpoint it exactly.
Before departing, the elderly gave directions to their home, clear and easy to follow.
"We'll burn bristlepine," Orthan said, tapping the side of his satchel.
"It smells of warm anise and soft pine needles, you'll know it when the wind carries it," he continued.
"It'll guide you like a trail," Vien added with a smile, "and it doesn't attract beasts. Only those with intent."
And with that, they turned to leave. Her eyes followed them until they vanished into the dense forest and towering trees.
It struck her as peculiar, yet her instincts felt reliable. The scent would lead the way.
The smoke and smell of bristlepine would guide her there.
The night came not long after her encounter. She sat by the fireplace, Echoes of Elioudra on one hand, pen and paper on the other. At the very least, the day's events deserved journaling. But the blank page stared back.
Nothing came to mind to fill the silence.
Am I trying to make a diary? Or a story? Would my writing be in characters, or would it come out the same symbols as the ones in the books of this world?
Something tugged at her mind, a strange sense that something was missing… or perhaps forgotten. The unease sat in her chest like a stone. Still, she shrugged it off, thinking it would pass.
By the time sleep reached for her, the page remained untouched.
The next morning, she busied herself with nothing else but the books on the shelves, her only solace from boredom and escape, or maybe the only glimpse to knowledge about her surroundings.
Reaching for Roots & Remedies: A Forager's Fieldbook, she resumed reading. After seeing how the majority of the plant species were familiar to her, she turned her attention to another title that stirred her interest, something about poisons and mushrooms.
Ah! From Rot to Remedy: A Poison's Almanac - it's a guide on how to look for poisons in mushrooms, plants, and even common and wild animals.
She didn't want to carelessly wander through the forest and accidentally step near a deadly sprout or breathe in poisonous mushroom fumes. Or worse, get bitten or attacked by something venomous.
I need to be prepared. I still don't know what's out there.
Remembering her plan to search for truffles, she emptied the parchment box and repurposed it as a makeshift foraging basket.
While sniffing the surroundings, trying to trace the scent of truffles, she noticed scattered nuts on the ground as one crunched underneath her boots as she stepped on it.
Upon closer inspection, she saw they were walnuts and picked a bunch lying around.
She returned to her cabin, almost giddy at the thought of roasting the walnuts she'd gathered. The scent filled the small space as the shells crackled over the fire.
Once the batch was done, she settled again by the hearth, flipping through pages, preparing her mind for the journey to the elderly's cabin.
Learning more about the environment she was in made her feel somewhat progressive.
Excerpts from the book From Rot to Remedy: A Poison's Almanac:
Angel's Trumpet (Brugmansia)
- Habitat: Gardens of the reckless; Silvershroud forest.
- Appearance: Pendulous white blooms like ghostly lungs, exhaling sweet rot at dusk.
- Toxicity: Hallucinations so vivid, victims leap from cliffs to escape them.
Corpse Finger (Phalangea sepulcralis)
- Habitat: Old battlefields, mass graves, execution grounds—anywhere enough corpses fermented into the soil; Enmaat's Scablands
- Appearance: A desiccated, grayish digit (3–5 inches tall) resembling a human finger
- Toxicity: One spore's touch triggers necrotizing fasciitis-like decay
Deadly Nightshade (Atropa belladonna)
- Habitat: Shadowed thickets, abandoned clearings; Ugarta's outskirts. - Appearance: Glossy black berries nestled in velvety leaves—a crow's feast.
- Toxicity: 3 berries = death. Pupils dilate to black pools before the heart stills.
Doll's Eyes (Actaea pachypoda)
- Habitat: Deep deciduous forests, where light slinks away; Enmaat's Scablands
- Appearance: Clusters of white berries, each stamped with a dead pupil's stare.
- Toxicity: Berries stop hearts mid-beat. The white, staring "eyes" mock you as you choke.
Foxglove (Digitalis purpurea)
- Habitat: Sun-dappled forest edges; Ophilim's Grave of the Clerics
- Appearance: Towering spires of speckled bells, humming with bee-song.
- Toxicity: Slows the heart to a dirge. Survivors report hearing their own pulse as funeral drums.
These plants are so intense, it's terrifying me just thinking about it. Hope I don't encounter any along the way.
While taking mental notes on poisonous plants, she noticed a soft scent breezed in through the open window.
Is that it? Bristlepine?
She got up and got ready. The roasted walnuts were set on the counter and covered. The books went back to their places.
The old couple's directions came to mind. It was time to head toward their cabin.
Despite the lingering caution in her chest, she stepped outside. She took a deep breath, looked up, and sure enough — a pale trail of smoke stretched thin above the towering trees, guiding her way. The bristlepine's scent hung heavy in the air, grounding her senses as she moved forward.
Her steps felt heavy, she was trudging as if the ground is trying to tug her back with every stride. Perhaps she was still adjusting to the forest. Or maybe to something else.
She didn't feel sick, but she moved carefully, alert. Her mind ran through every possibility she could think of — unfamiliar plants, hidden beasts, or something more ominous.
Eyes—wide, dead, unblinking.
Lurking behind the bushes.
Silent. Still. Waiting.
Heightened senses and raw awareness were all she could rely on as she wandered farther from the safety of her cabin and the nearly familiar curve of the river nearby.
Every rustle, every shadow clung to her thoughts like warnings. But slowly—step by careful step—she began to reason that the feeling of being watched was just her unease with the terrain ahead, not something lurking behind.
Eventually, the scent of bristlepine grew stronger. A faint smoke trail hovered above the trees, blending softly into the sky.
They sure know how to make a campfire.
And with a little ways away, just like what the old lady said, beyond the thicket, was a small clearing and a tiny hut-looking cabin.
She was welcomed by the smile of the elderly she encountered yesterday. They still seemed kind, warm and inviting. But their presence continued to intimidate her. Almost overwhelming…
Their visit to her cabin the day before wasn't exactly threatening, but for someone like her — someone still new to this world — it felt unusual, even unnerving.
The elderly's cabin sat in a quiet clearing, yet looked rich in detail and purpose. Hides and leather hung neatly around the space. Fine threads, supple furs, and skillfully made tools lined the space. Every item reflected meticulous craftsmanship.
She spotted a log cabin council fire at the far end of their clearing. As soon as she arrived and Orthan saw her, he waved and greeted her with a warm smile before he lifts the heavy bucket overhead and throws the water with both hands.
The fire hisses and roars as steam blasts upward, logs shift and collapse inward, and half the flame dies in an instant. Smoke rolls out like a wave, and for a moment, it's like the clearing exhales.
The sheer strength Orthan displayed caught her off guard, especially after appearing so frail the day before. Without his cloak, his solid build and surprising dexterity is more prominent now.
Orthan was wearing a finely layered grunge-orange tunic, embroidered in black and white. Thick, heavy-looking metal bracers adorned both arms, paired with black leather gloves. His coffee-colored trousers fit snugly beneath baggy black breeches..
They noticed my small campfire from more than a mile away? But they had to burn bristlepine on that?
The height of the council fire also surprised her—it stood a little taller than Orthan himself. Judging by her estimate, he might be around six feet tall, with a rugged build, bulky but aesthetically congruent to his stature.
It slowly made sense after some careful thought; the fire was likely meant as a signal for her. She had counted roughly 4,000 steps on her way there, though she lost track at some point. Still, she estimated the distance between her cabin and the elders' to be around three kilometers.
Vien welcomed her with a warm smile. "Aren't you cold in that nightgown, dear? Come, come. Let me show you around."
Nightgown? Is this not an old maid's dress?
She smiled and followed the old lady without saying a word.
Up close, she noticed more sinewy strands escaping from Vien's thick braid, giving it a wild, lived-in texture. Without her cloak, her slightly slouched posture seemed less obvious, subtle now, almost natural. Like Orthan, her presence felt different from their encounter yesterday.
Vien wore a long herbalist's dress in faded mauve, paired with a loosely tied black half-leather corset across her chest. The sleeves were long and baroness-style, her callused hands peeking through as she moved. The hem flowed gently, brushing the earth with every step.
Vien spoke about how she and Orthan had withstood the test of time—197 years together, nearly two centuries. She was shocked by how long they had been together, but all she did was smile and nod.