I managed to make it to the foot of the mountain just before night broke, allowing me some brief view over the plains using the height advantage. Unfortunately, these glimpses proved insignificant, coupled with the fact that the darkness held back my vision. I was beginning to feel that this was a waste of my efforts.
Looking left and right from my temporary foothold, two mountains sandwiched me between themselves, as if they were… arms, welcoming me into the fold between. However, it didn't put me at ease in any way. If anything, I found this embrace to be cold, disregardful and indifferent to my plight. It was there for me, and yet it wasn't.
As I grew more and more uncomfortable with the darkness obscuring my ability to climb, I found myself nearly losing my footing on several locations. At this point I decide to end this little expedition of mine and head down for the time being, as I don't intend to fall to my death in such an… amateurish way.
I stand at the break between mountain and plain, squatting down and feeling the queer formations of granite and rock scratching against my skin. I recall with some amusement from science class that all stones are made of crystals… mostly silicon, I believe.
Crystals, I wonder. How can you say that when there's no light to these dead things?
Looking up once again, I finally realize that this whole time, there was no sign of life or vegetation on this mountain, not even a speck of dirt or dust.
This valley is dead. These mountains are dead. The entirety of this mountain range is dead.
Speaking from what I know of the earth sciences, this is rather peculiar. For there to be such a sudden disconnect between the living and the dead— I'm confident there are, or at least were forces at work here. Even if you were to vaporise the surface of a mountain entirely, let's assume with an explosive, there would still be a significant deposit of dirt remaining, meaning plenty of chances for life to reveal itself once again.
However, that simply isn't true here.
There is not even the slightest touch of nature here.
Of course, I can't credit myself as being knowledgeable in how mountains are formed in the first place. I will suspend this line of suspicion for now.
Otherwise, I find it appropriate to seek shelter, or at least a resting ground at which to spend the night. I begin drafting ideas, thinking of ways to deter potential trouble. First of all, I was fortunate to have not run into any large animals on my way here. The presence of burrowing rats, however, certainly confirms the existence of predators at least on par with hyenas or wild dogs.
Naturally, being a human, I cannot stand against a pack of such rabid animals with a knife alone. The cavemen of old utilised spears as their main defense when faced with theses threats, but I don't have the materials on hand to make such a thing.
The natural deterrent is logically fire. At this stage I can pride myself for the ability to make one from scratch, not to mention that I also have a lighter with me. However, I don't have a branch to effectively extend my range, so I should make it my priority to secure one before our nocturnal friends decide on a course of exotic human flesh.
I realize with some irony that I'm back at where the first humans started. A stick. Brilliant.
But for our unfortunate protagonist, there's not even a fucking stick to be found. No forest. Just grass and mountains.
The only choice that I can make in this case is to either stay on the move during the night or to stay still and hope for the best. The answer is unfortunately that I have no clue. But if there was a scent to be caught by my walk here earlier, then perhaps I should get a fucking move on.
In fact, let's start fucking running. If anything, this will warm me up in preparation for any potential escapades against wild animals. You see, one of the prime evolutionary advantages to being human is having an extraordinary stamina for running while keeping a decent speed. Being the domesticated human that I am, perhaps this is time to utilise this hidden talent.
You'll surely have noticed me writing with a strangely polite and perhaps fakely elegant style until now. You can be assured it is not because that I have any respect for you, dear reader. I shudder to imagine anyone respecting you at all. My current writing style is simply because I find it a waste of energy to devote any of my precious energy to criticise your pathetic self.
As I prepare to fight (and run) for my life, I ask you to please restrain the urge to project your fantasies onto me, to please not turn me into your self-insert to live out your boring and meaningless lives. Any and all future scenes involving "battle" and "killing" are not to be experienced for your pleasure. It is unlikely in your existence that you will ever encounter such a life-and-death scenario, and you should count yourself lucky for not being in such a situation instead of thinking it to be "awesome" or "exciting".
Of course, if you have been in a life-threatening situation, my condolences, and I hope you have made a full recovery since then.
Anyways, as I spin my knife in my hands, I feel an uncanny sense of masculine pride... excitement... and bloodlust.
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Why do I bother with you? I wonder, I wonder.
But hey, it's far too early for me to show this creepy fourth-wall breaking behaviour and address you readers this directly. I'm not mentally unhinged like a particular costumed antihero, you know? I write like this because I feel like I can blend this otherworldly experience and a diary in one book. One thing you will have to bear because of this is my personal dose of heavily opinionated perceptions and introspection.
I'm also writing now because of excessive boredom. I mean, the MC is supposed to encounter a goblin or something by now, right? I know my life will be at risk because of that, but please, those who command fate, please give me anything that even remotely resemebles plot development or tension.
No?
Alas, I return to walking for the rest of eternity. I wonder if the rest of this story will just be me walking. The thought sickens me.
But as you know, my job as a writer is to instill interest in readers. And to that I bring the proverb that 99% of war is absolute boredom. Action, combat, fights, these things are as short as they come, lasting no more than seconds, even. The longest all out brawl between two martial artists will last no more than a minute.
Shit, it's still boring as hell here.
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Day 45. I'm losing my grip on reality. What is reality? What am I? Why do I walk? Just to suffer? Can I end it all?
I jest. It's at best been 45 minutes, and no sign of an attack yet, which is fortunate. I'm currently trying to keep some semblance of silence as I tread in the darkness, hoping for a poor tree somewhere that I can take advantage of. If you need a reminder, I need some kind of stick to effectively use fire.
Wait, darkness? Doesn't that mean I can't write anymore? It's pretty dark now, at least. Ok, I just need something interesting to finish this off. Uh quick, whats a good thin to say, yeah..--
S
ociety. Yeah soceity is broke and dosent work properly, only a uh
small precentages of people get to live happily and but most people tend to be not happy and poor 'cause there lazy and it's really unfair. Rich man bad, poor man good.
Seeya
I think thats a wolf