Building a home and caring for these bear cubs isn't easy—but I'm committed. Days bleed into weeks. I swing my great-axe against sturdy trunks, drag heavy logs, and lift stones. My muscles grow harder, my breath deeper, and calluses form on my hands. The cubs grow too—batting at wood chips and tumbling through the underbrush. Slowly, the skeleton of a shelter rises from the rocky earth. It is crude, but it's mine. A mark of my will against the wilderness.
As I build, I stay vigilant. When I first woke in this forest, I was caught in a snare. Someone made that, so I am sure whoever did is bound to show up sometime. Because of that, I find myself continually scanning the area from day to day.
One day, while placing a log, I spot something tucked beneath a fallen tree's roots—a small leather pouch, dark with age, expertly stitched. Inside: dried herbs and tiny skeletal effigies pierced with wicked thorns. A burnt, acrid scent clings to it. A shiver runs through me. It's something ritualistic, dark and unholy. The cubs, now larger, bat playfully at bark near my feet, unaware of the grim find.
I search the area for more signs—footprints, tools, anything. But the forest yields nothing. The ground is hard, the air still. Time has erased all traces. The pouch remains, unsettling and alone. I leave it and return to my work.
Months pass. The shelter becomes sturdy. The cubs grow into juveniles—strong, playful, capable of hunting small game. They still seek my presence, curling near me at night. I name them Charlie and Grizz. I explore the forest, charting the plateau and the river's edge. Always watching. Always waiting. The crystal's glow never fades, continually offering a beacon of warmth around our home in this dark forest.
One crisp autumn afternoon, as I reinforce the perimeter of our home, a shadow falls across me—one not cast by any tree. Three figures step into the clearing, cloaked in heavy furs, faces hidden beneath deep hoods. They carry gnarled staves topped with crude black crystals that hum with low, disquieting energy. Their eyes, visible beneath the hoods, fix not on me, but on the crystals near my home. The bears growl low, alert and tense at my side.
"Hello there," I say, voice steady. "I haven't seen anyone else in these parts for months. Where did you come from?"
The tallest figure raises a hand. Their voice is a gravelly whisper, unnaturally cold. "We come from where the earth remembers, barbarian. These lands belong to the ancient spirits—not to your kind, nor to these beasts you foster." Their gaze shifts to the bears, and I catch a flicker of disdain in their eyes.
"These creatures… they are not yours to keep."
I step forward, voice steady but full of questions. "Is there anything I can do for you? It's cold out—can I offer you some warm food? I've got fish from the river. You're welcome to stay the night if you like."
The central figure tilts their hood, barely perceptible. A dry, humorless chuckle escapes the cowl—like brittle leaves crushed underfoot. Their gaze sweeps over my shelter, the river, and finally settles on the pulsating crystal. "Warm food? We hunger not for mortal sustenance, nor for the fleeting comforts of your hearth. Our purpose is ancient, tied to this place, to the pulse of the earth. We seek only what is due to the spirits. Your presence—and that of these unchained beasts—disrupts the balance." The other two figures shift uneasily, their staves clanking against the stone.
"I apologize," I say. "I didn't know I was disrupting anything. I don't mind leaving if that's the issue. What can I do for you?"
The lead figure exhales—a sound between a sigh and a growl. "To move is not enough. Your presence has stirred something. Awakened energies best left undisturbed. The spirits demand balance. And these… creatures…" They gesture toward my bears, now huddled close, fur bristling. "They are an imbalance. Not of the forest's natural order. Tainted by your interference. Rectify your trespass. Leave this place. Relinquish the beasts. Only then can balance be restored." The air thickens. Their staves pulse with a low, rhythmic energy.
I stand firm. "These bears are under my protection. I'll leave if I must, but they go with me—if that's what they want. I'm not forcing them to stay. And those snares I found—were they yours? It's cruel to trap animals and never check them."
The lead figure stiffens. Their head snaps up. The hum from their stave intensifies, dark energy crackling around its crystal. "Protection? Stewardship? You speak of ownership over the untamed!" Their voice is colder now, vibrating with ancient fury. "These beasts are tools—cleansing instruments. And the snares? The forest provides its own offerings. You meddle where you do not belong. This is your final warning. Relinquish the cubs—or face the wrath of those who serve the true spirits." The other two figures draw closer, staves raised like weapons. The ground vibrates beneath my feet.
I narrow my eyes. "You're not listening. I said nothing of ownership. I've tried to be your friend, to care for you. Let's work together. Let's find whoever set those snares. You care about the forest—I do too. We're on the same side."
My words fall flat. The lead figure snaps their head back. The hum from their stave erupts into a hostile thrum. "Friendship? You defile sacred ground and defy the ancient will! There is no common ground with those who harbor abominations. Your pleas insult the spirits!" With a guttural cry, they point their staff at me. The other two rush forward, staves raised.
The air crackles with dark energy. The hooded leader lunges, staff glowing. The other two flank them, eyes burning with zeal. My bears growl, then roar, bracing beside me.
I raise my axe, and divine flames burst along the blade. *I don't like the way they talk about these spirits they serve…* I roar, swinging with all my might, aiming to shatter the hooded leader's staff. "I am a servant of the Most High! This forest and all its creatures belong to Him!"
My axe cleaves into the staff with a resounding crack. The dark energy sputters and flickers. The flames from my axe then cause a surge of holy fire to course through the wood, splintering it. The leader stumbles, disoriented, his weapon destroyed. A shockwave ripples through him as he reels from the blow and falls to the ground, paralyzed in fear as my bears snarl and circle the cultists. Charlie and Grizz are young and still too shy to outright attack, but their presence adds chaos to the fray.
I stand tall, axe blazing, the shattered staff at my feet. The cultists falter, alarmed. The second cultist cries out, lunging at me with their staff, energy crackling. I deflect the attack easily, and their strike whistles past me.
The third cultist snarls and lunges. Their staff glances off my arm with a weak spark, but it causes no harm.
I fixate on the second staff raised against me. With a roar, I swing my flaming axe again. However, I miss their staff, and my axe cleaves into their side. A searing wound opens where my flaming axe struck. The cultist stumbles, a choked gasp escaping his lips as he collapses—defeated.
My flaming axe surges, and my bears snarl protectively at my side. The cultist that still stands, after witnessing the brutal efficiency of my defence, breaks formation and flees into the autumn forest. The leader, still on the ground with the broken staff, flinches and looks up in terror. He then makes a mad dash to follow his comrade into the forest.
I don't feel good about just letting the two escape. I worry about them seeking revenge. Leaving the bears to guard the shelter, I break into a sprint. Adrenaline still floods my veins. The cultists crash through the undergrowth, but their panic is no match for my speed and wilderness instincts. I follow the trail—broken branches, displaced leaves, and the sound of them crashing through the brush. The chase is primal. I corner them in a rocky alcove, their back pressed against cold stone. Their hoods have fallen, revealing gaunt, pale, emaciated faces etched with desperation. Their eyes are wide and manic. They clutch crude daggers, trembling—outmatched and terrified.
I stare them down. "Drop it," I command, voice low and firm. "Show me where you came from!"
My words echo through the alcove, heavy with menace. They flinch and try to catch their breath. Their bloodshot eyes dart between me and the dagger. A whimper escapes, but they grip their blades tighter. Desperation battles terror, yet they are unwilling to yield.
With a swift, controlled motion, I bring the flaming axe down—not at them, but at the dagger one of them is holding. The fiery edge clips the crude weapon. Sparks erupt as steel meets steel. The dagger spins from the cultist's grasp, clattering across the stone. He shrieks—more from shock than pain. Nonetheless, his hands remain clenched, as if still holding the weapon. Both of their faces are pale, streaked with dirt. They tremble uncontrollably, eyes locked on my burning axe.
"I have no wish to kill you," I say, voice calm. "I meant what I said—I want to be your friend. It seems we've had a rough start. Trust takes time. Just show me where you came from. I see you're involved in something dark. Let me help you out of it… Friends?"
The two stare at me, wide-eyed. My words, gentle and steady, chip away at their fear. Their shoulders slump. "Friends?" they whisper, as if the word itself is foreign. "There… there are no friends. Only the whisperers… and the Master."
They point a shaking finger deeper into the forest. A new terror replaces the old. "They gather at the Ancient Maw… beyond the Whispering Falls. They seek to bring forth the shadow. They'll punish me for this. They punish all who fail, please… don't let them find us!"
"I'm here to protect you," I say. "Lead the way. You don't have to go all the way back. I just need to see it for myself. If you want to leave after that, you can. I don't know where you'll go—but until we build some trust, you're a liability. Work with me."
The cultist recoils from my extended hand, panic overtaking whatever flicker of hope I tried to offer. Their eyes dart between me and the oppressive darkness behind them, wide and wild. "No! We… we can't," one whispers, voice trembling. "They'll know. The Master… he sees everything. He'll send the others. He'll send them!"
They press deeper into the rocky alcove, trembling. "But I can tell you. The path… follow the river until it narrows into the gorge. The Whispering Falls guard the entrance to the Maw. Be careful, barbarian. The spirits… they watch." Their resolve collapses. They offer directions, not guidance.
I keep my voice steady. "Remember what I said about being a liability? I'm keeping my eye on you. You're the one who knows this place—so what's the plan? If you think we need a larger party, I'll hear it. But I need something from you first. Promise me, here and now, that you'll forsake the ways of darkness."
My demand only deepens their terror. They shrink into the stone, shaking their head. "Plan? Promise? You don't understand! There's no escape once you've heard the Whisperers. The Master's reach is long. His eyes are everywhere." They clutch their head, voice rising. "I can't lead you! I've already betrayed them by speaking to you! If they find me gone… if they find me leading you… they'll tear my soul apart!"
Their desperation hangs heavy in the cold autumn air. I believe them. But I can't let fear rule this forest.
I ignite my axe. Flames lick the blade as I step forward. "Listen. If you refuse to forsake the darkness, I will kill you." I reach into my pouch and offer a glowing stone. "I made my home around these. There's something holy about them. May it help you see the light—and not reject it."
They flinch violently at the flare of my weapon. Their eyes fix on the stone, unreadable. But fear wins. "No… no light…" they croak, shrinking away. "There is no escape. The Master… he knows. I cannot promise. I cannot forsake them. The torment would be worse."
I take back the stone, sorrow weighing heavily in my chest. I raise my flaming axe. The edge descends in a flash of fire and steel. A cultist's head falls cleanly. The body crumples against the stone. The air thickens with the scent of pine, damp earth, and blood. Then swiftly, I plunge my axe into the heart of the final cultist.
Their directions echo in my mind: "Ancient Maw… Whispering Falls."
I look up, voice rising. "If someone in the darkness is watching me—see this!" I nudge the severed head with my foot. It rolls across the stone, a grim message. "Forsake the darkness before it's too late!"
Then I turn toward the river. I follow its winding path toward the gorge. For the Whispering Falls. For the Maw—whatever that is. The forest path narrows as the river grows louder, wilder. I press forward. The banks steepen. Trees give way to sheer rock faces that loom on either side. Mist thickens in the air. The roar of falling water intensifies. I'm close. The Whispering Falls are near—the cold spray already reaching me.
I search the area for signs of intelligent life. But the roar of the falls drowns everything. Spray slicks the rocks and blurs my vision. Every shadow shifts. Every gust of wind sounds like a whisper. I peer into crevices, behind mist-shrouded boulders. Nothing. The chaos of the gorge consumes all subtle signs. I find no trace of anyone—or anything—beyond the wild, untamed force of nature itself.
I climb to higher ground. If the cultist spoke true, something will eventually come. I find a sturdy ledge overlooking the gorge and build a rough camp—stones, branches, anything to shield me from the spray. It's not comfortable, but it's defensible. I catch my breath and wait. As I do, my bears, Charlie and Grizz, catch up to me and join me on my stakeout. I roll my eyes a little, but I can't stay mad at them. I give them a gentle scratch behind the ears and try to calm them and keep them quiet.
Twilight deepens. The cold spray chills the air. The roar of the falls becomes a rhythmic backdrop to my vigil. Hours pass. The forest falls into silence. Then—movement. From a dark crevice near the base of the falls, a sickly green glow begins to pulse. It grows steadily. A low, guttural chant vibrates from the stones themselves. Cloaked figures emerge from the fissure—more of them. Their voices join the chorus. This is some kind of dark ritual.
I rise, and my bears growl beside me, sensing the shift. I hurl a stone with precision. It strikes a hooded figure square in the head. They stumble, clutch their head and collapse. The green glow flickers as the ritual falters.
"Halt ye who seek to defile this forest!" I roar. My voice cuts through the din. The chanting stops. All eyes turn to me. Staves rise—not in ritual, but in defiance. The Ritual Master points a gnarled finger at me. The others prepare to strike.
With a primal roar, I surge forward, my flaming axe arcing wildly. I throw caution aside and launch into a reckless charge. My blade finds its mark—cleaving into a cultist. The heat sears. They cry out, then collapse, defeated.
The remaining cultists glare at me, staves pulsing with sickly green light. The Ritual Master raises his staff, energy coalescing at its tip. He fires—but the bolt veers off, dissipating into the night.
A second cultist's staff whistles past my ear with a miss.
A third cultist fires dark energy at me. It hits, but his attack doesn't appear to do anything. The cultist gawks at me in confusion, as if something was supposed to happen.
Charlie leaps into action and slams a cultist, sending it sprawling to the ground. Grizz barrels into the cultist that tried to shoot me, and knocks them off balance. In the meantime, I charge the ritual master. My flaming axe blurs through the air as I bring it down on his staff, which shatters with a crackle. A wisp of dark smoke escapes. The ritual master stumbles, hands empty, face contorted in shock. He tries to jump into the river and get away, but I pin him to the ground.
Charlie tears at and mauls the cultist he knocked down. The cultist screams in agony and struggles to get away. Grizz gnaws at the leg of his cultist and then releases him, only to see him successfully plunge into the river to get away. Charlie's target isn't so fortunate, though. A gurgling cry escapes his lips before he collapses—lifeless.
Silence descends. Only the panting of my companions and the whispering water remain. I turn to the ritual master who I have pinned to the ground, disarmed and surrounded. My axe glows faintly, heat radiating from its edge. I step forward, voice low and resolute. "Promise me here and now that you forsake the darkness!"
He stares at the shattered staff, at the bodies of his fallen comrades, then at my flaming weapon. A whimper escapes. "Forsake… the darkness?" he chokes, the words bitter on his tongue. "There is no forsaking, barbarian. Only service. The Master demands absolute devotion. To turn away… that is a fate worse than death. He would know. He always knows. My life… my soul… belongs to him. I… I cannot." He shakes his head, tears welling. Trapped between fear of me—and something far worse.
"Wrong answer," I say, voice cold and final. My flaming axe rises and falls. The Ritual Master's head tumbles, joining the bodies of the others. The gorge falls silent. Only the roar of the Whispering Falls and the crackle of my axe remain, casting flickering light across the grim tableau.
I stride toward the fissure— *this opening must be the Maw.* The green glow still lingers, no longer pulsing with ritual, but eerie and constant. My bears pad close behind, silent and alert. As I cross the threshold, the roar of the falls fades. Dripping echoes replace it. The air thickens, damp and foul. The walls are slick stone, unworked and ancient. The path descends into shadow.
I pause. Something in me recoils. *Maybe venturing deeper is the wrong move.* I decide to seal this place up instead. The green glow casts long shadows as I work. The air stinks of rot and other foulness. My bears settle near the entrance, growling low, sentinels of the threshold in case something tries to escape while I try to fill in the hole. I shove boulders into it from above, layer by layer, until the glow is gone. When the work is done, I place my hand on the final boulder and utter a prayer. "Let this darkness remain buried, and this land be purified."
I take the glowing stone from my pouch. The stone sits warm in my hand. I then drag it across the final boulder, drawing a symbol of a sacred flame. It pulses gently, a silent ward against the darkness now sealed within. It pulses gently, a glowing sentinel marking the barrier.
I then turn to leave.
The journey home is long and contemplative. As my bears and I emerge from the deeper, shadowed woods, the familiar scent of pine and damp earth fills our senses, a welcome change from the putrid air of the Maw. I scratch my bears behind their ears, appreciative of their good work. They surprised me. The sun begins its slow ascent, casting golden rays through the forest canopy, illuminating our path home. The world feels cleansed, a dangerous threat averted—at least for now. The thought of my sturdy home and the humming crystals around it brings a quiet sense of peace after the night's grim work.