The woods were singing. The distant howls of earthly kine, the gurgling squeals of broken things, the creaking of old wood and new growth, all of it swelling into a glorious cry. The figure dashing through the undergrowth had heeded it without question. She did not know why, nor did she truly care. Something with her had not been stripped out like so much meat, not like her past. It drove her into the eldritch greenery with bared teeth, urging her to run among the madness and partake in all it had to offer. Fevered visions filled her mind, promises of swilling and lamenting and cavorting and feasting and rutting and slaying and-
Vomit spattered the base of a gnarled tree as the woman finally came to rest. Her red haze had given way to gray reality as some twisted part of her mind was forcefully expelled. Wiping her mouth with a filthy limb, she found herself taking stock of her situation. Whatever state she had awoken in had abated, but had already taken precious time from her. Two tasks remained.
The first was to remember her first day in the woods. She remembered very little of her meeting with the impossible man. Unknown words and strange clothing. A scroll and a signed name. A smile? It was not easy to recall. She had awoken maddened. Muscles twitching, eyes wild, words tainted by foam and blood. The man had to guide her hand, nearly brought the ground as she sprinted away and left the ‘registry’ trampled in the dirt. She knew in her bones that whatever madness has driven her was an artifact of whatever brought her to this place. Another episode of hunched retching struck her, and her world hardened once more. The past was of no concern now, it’s poison now seeping into the ground. She had prey to hunt.
She did not know how long she ran among the twisted woods, but it had brought her quarry. He was weak and fearful, stumbling through the undergrowth like an overfed ox. He had entered the woods not unlike her, devoid of thought. His was born of ignorance rather than fever, that much was clear. He wore clothes much like the man before, strange to the woman. His weapon was not one she knew, either, and so she had kept her distance. It was a mess of iron and wood, marred by rust and rot. The woman had no idea how one would wield it and doubted the man knew himself, given how oddly he cradled it in his quaking arms. She had thought it a mundane weapon, and had been surprised. He hadn’t heard her, she was too quiet for that, but some cry had gone up deeper in the darkness and panicked him. Whatever he had done with that weapon had split the woods with light and thunder, cutting her side with an invisible blade and setting her ears ringing. It had marked him as a dark thing and an enemy. She could see no cloak, no pack, no flint, no food. His magic was keeping him from death, and the thought set Maighread’s mind afire. It was not right. That was not the way, not the rites. She did not know what the true way was, but she knew it was not that mockery of metal and fire. He would have perished in moments, had his ignorance and profane rites not been true enough to lead him from the Old Growth to the safety of the Sinner’s Ring. He was not at home among the woods, not like the woman who was returning to running him down.
Green flashed through the dark branches as Maighread resumed the hunt. Her mind had sharpened and now she immersed herself in it not as maddened predator, but as a true hunter. She was close to him now, and she felt her features set in grim concentration. Feeling the wind whip against her skin, dirt and filth mingling with her sweat and blood, hearing the ragged breath from terrified lungs, it was the feeling of her madness returned tenfold. It wasn’t wrong, she knew that to be true, it was as should be. Images of bloody stars and carved wood filled her mind, devoid of meaning. It filled her with strength nonetheless. That was the Way. That would be the end of dark things.
The point of her spear gleamed as it struck out, catching the quarry by his ankle. He cried out, flailing as he rolled in the muck. Blood welled up from his wound, staining his clothes and dying the filth around him a sickly color that sent Maighread’s heart racing. He was grabbing for his weapon, but it was too late. A hoarse wail resonated through the woods before trailing off into agonized gurgling, then silence. Maighread smoothly wrenched her spear from the man’s neck, his freshly-split spine releasing it’s grip on the point of her weapon with a sickening pop. A few more practiced thrusts and the head was off.
Maighread held it by her side, fingers locked in the matted hair of her trophy. Silence finally settled over her, the only sound being the drips of blood from a severed neck. She felt her breathing slow, her mind clear completely. She felt at peace. She could feel the forest. She was covered in grime, sweat, and blood, and it set on her skin like a poultice. She was naked except for her woolen cloak, now covered in leaves and twigs. Where the blue spirals and flowing lines covered her, starting below her shoulders and flowing down to her feet, she felt little but the subtle chill of the air. It was good. It was the Way. Drawing the hood of her cloak around her head, she receded back into the undergrowth. The hunt was not over.
