9/16/2025, 3:04 AM
It had been several days since his confrontation with the Wisp girl, and Sarge had grown accustomed to the silence that followed. Whether she chose to follow or not was no longer his concern. He would not ask her to join him, not after she had already lost so much.
Instead, his attention turned toward the fog-laced mountains, their slopes shrouded in an oppressive veil of eerie green mist. He had lingered at the edges, walking just outside its reach, trying to gather intel from a distance. But the mist was too thick, too suffocating, leaving him with little to go on. The only way to truly know what lay within was to enter and face it directly.
Sarge was on edge. He disliked moving without reconnaissance, without a solid plan. Yet the voice had been clear: into the mist, into the mountains. And so, that was where he would go.
For days he prepared on the border, watching, hydrating, and feeding himself properly. He doubted the food and water within the mist would be fit to consume. Now, standing tall before the impenetrable wall of green, he drew a steadying breath. He was a soldier. This was what he had been trained for, to take on the challenges others could not.
Settling the last fragments of unease in his mind, he stepped forward. Immediately the noxious air clawed at his senses. His eyes and nose burned, his mouth filled with a rancid taste. It was worse than he had expected, but he pressed on. Each step remained steady despite the relentless assault.
Whispers stirred at the edges of his mind, soft at first, then swelling louder. Inhale. Take it in. Be greedy. The disembodied murmurs unsettled him, but onward he marched.
At the base of the mountain, he finally paused. He had no idea where the rune lay, only that it was near. Would the voice guide him again, or leave him to fend for himself? Refusing to wait idly, he began to search. He overturned rocks, pried at crevices and roots, cleared away dead flora. He supposed he looked half-mad, and the thought amused him as he worked.
The whispers clawed deeper, coaxing him to draw in more of the tainted air. Despite his resistance, he caught himself gulping down a few ragged breaths. Shit.
But retreat was not an option. Not for the old soldier. There was only one path left to him: forward, ever onward.
Instead, his attention turned toward the fog-laced mountains, their slopes shrouded in an oppressive veil of eerie green mist. He had lingered at the edges, walking just outside its reach, trying to gather intel from a distance. But the mist was too thick, too suffocating, leaving him with little to go on. The only way to truly know what lay within was to enter and face it directly.
Sarge was on edge. He disliked moving without reconnaissance, without a solid plan. Yet the voice had been clear: into the mist, into the mountains. And so, that was where he would go.
For days he prepared on the border, watching, hydrating, and feeding himself properly. He doubted the food and water within the mist would be fit to consume. Now, standing tall before the impenetrable wall of green, he drew a steadying breath. He was a soldier. This was what he had been trained for, to take on the challenges others could not.
Settling the last fragments of unease in his mind, he stepped forward. Immediately the noxious air clawed at his senses. His eyes and nose burned, his mouth filled with a rancid taste. It was worse than he had expected, but he pressed on. Each step remained steady despite the relentless assault.
Whispers stirred at the edges of his mind, soft at first, then swelling louder. Inhale. Take it in. Be greedy. The disembodied murmurs unsettled him, but onward he marched.
At the base of the mountain, he finally paused. He had no idea where the rune lay, only that it was near. Would the voice guide him again, or leave him to fend for himself? Refusing to wait idly, he began to search. He overturned rocks, pried at crevices and roots, cleared away dead flora. He supposed he looked half-mad, and the thought amused him as he worked.
The whispers clawed deeper, coaxing him to draw in more of the tainted air. Despite his resistance, he caught himself gulping down a few ragged breaths. Shit.
But retreat was not an option. Not for the old soldier. There was only one path left to him: forward, ever onward.
