I watched Trynton's face, illuminated by the flickering flames of the campfire.
He took a sip of his ale, then began to tell me his story. "It was a long time ago, when I was just a boy. I lived in a small village on the outskirts of Medosha, surrounded by green fields and forests. It was a peaceful place where people worked hard and worshiped their Forgotten Gods,"
"My mother was a seamstress, and my father was a blacksmith. We didn't have much, but we were happy to have one another."
He paused, a distant look glazing his eyes as if he could see that simple past unfolding before him. "One day, everything changed. The sky turned red, and a portal opened above us. From it, came the Daemons. Horrible creatures with claws and horns and glowing eyes,
"They swooped down on us like vultures on a carcass, killing everyone they saw. Men, women, children, leaving their mangled bodies in the street. I watched as they burned our homes, our crops, and our animals, showing us no mercy."
The creatures he described sounded like waking nightmares made flesh. I scarcely dared to ask, "How...how did you survive at such a young age?"
Trynton took a deep, steadying breath before continuing.
"My mother grabbed me and ran. It was all she could do. She tried to find some safe place to hide, but there was nowhere to go...the Daemons were everywhere, hunting us down like sport."
He clenched his fist, his eyes feral as he took another gulp of his ale, then finished.
"My mother shielded me with her body, taking the blows meant for me. She screamed, and I screamed with her, feeling the pain of a mother that feared for her child more. The last thing she told me was that she loved me. I told her I loved her back. Then…she went silent and I felt her go limp."
I remained quiet for a long moment, not knowing what to say. Had I experienced something like that, I don't think I'd ever be the same. If anything, it solidified my want to go home. Back to my world.
"Don't worry," Trynton cut through my chaotic thoughts as if he knew I was wordless for his loss. "For she is our only salvation, our only hope, our only light."
He pulled a star penant from the inside of his shirt and kissed it, then looked at the reddening sky, whispering. "All Mother."
When he said All Mother, it struck me as strange. In the lore of dad's game, those who worshiped All Mother didn't like Punishers. So why was a believer of the Vatican church running around being a guard for one?
"You best pray boy," Trynton warned me as he stood up from the crate, then cuffed my hands above my head the way I was before. "I'd hate to clean your body up in the morning."
I swallowed, watching him leave. His stories about the Daemons left me paranoid by the slightest noise or shifting of shadows.
To distract myself, I mentally pulled up the menu again, searching the terms in the dictionary I hadn't had time to.
[Dictionary]
Blood Moon
Underground Church
Punisher
All Mother
Forgotten Gods
Daemons
???
???
???
There were three more terms added to my list. Well, two, since Underground Church had been there the last time I checked, I just didn't look at it. But Forgotten Gods and Daemons were new.
I picked Daemons first.
[Daemons]
[ Ψ An umbrella term for all the species against the Church. All Daemon's are capable of holding magicked weapons—though, those on the weaker spectrum will have difficulty controlling/resisting them. Sometimes a holy artifact can swallow them whole.Ψ ]
[Daemon: Five Stages Of Sinful Salvation]
??? - locked until after witnessing your first Daemon attack.
[Tips & Warnings]
??? - locked
After witnessing my first Daemon attack?
Not a chance. Dad's stupid video game already felt too real. I didn't want to imagine anything even remotely related to those nightmarish creatures. Being chained up in this freezing barn, half-beaten and miserable, was enough for me.
A sudden rustle in the shadowy corners made my heart stop.
Please don't let there be some unholy thing lurking there, waiting to tear me apart. Trynton's description of the Daemons came back to me—razor-sharp teeth, claws, and glowing hellish eyes.
Of all the people trapped here, they'd probably target the more populated areas first. If I remembered Dad's tactics right, he liked putting pressure on players to split off alone in overcrowded zones.
Being isolated was safer. That was, if—and this was a really big if—the Daemons didn't decide on a Solo Hunt.
A solo hunt was a self-imposed penance, a way for Daemons to redeem past failures or regain honor after a shameful defeat. The Daemon could be seeking a powerful artifact or slaying a legendary Dark Priest to appease their own conscience or fulfill a vow.
I prayed fervently that it wasn't undertaking such a solo mission right now.
Shivering hard enough my teeth chattered, I selected a different term on the game's info-menu.
[Underground Church]
[Ψ These are not your typical, incense-swinging worshippers. The Underground Church is a cult for Punishers, a ragtag band of outcasts bound by a singular, twisted belief: the true All Mother has been usurped. The Church above, with its gilded statues and droning sermons, has corrupted her teachings, replacing her raw, holy power with a sanitized, watered-down version.Ψ]
It was interesting to see how this world used the term Church, but their religion was entirely different from the one from my own world. When I tried clicking the term "Forgotten Gods" for more context, an intense buzzing filled my mind.
I grimaced, squeezing my eyes shut against the overwhelming noise.
When I looked again, the game system had locked me out with a message—I couldn't access that information until reaching the "proper level", whatever that meant.
Some stellar game design there, dad.
With a frustrated sigh, I closed the screen, dreading the suffering that awaited me come morning. For now, I needed whatever rest I could get.
***
I finally drifted into an uneasy slumber, haunted by dreams of my sister and me when we were young. I was ten, she was eight.
It was a sunny day and the grass was an inviting emerald blanket under my bare feet. I sat cross-legged, gently cradling a tiny bird I'd found fallen from its nest high in the huge oak shading our backyard.
It was a pitiful thing, all fluff and beady eyes, reminding me too much of myself.
Earlier, Dad had already scolded me for supposedly stealing a part off his motorcycle. His harsh words still stung—he'd immediately believed Mia when she smirked and claimed to have witnessed the theft herself.
The injustice made me want to hit something as I gingerly stroked the chick's miniature beak with my thumb, feeling its fragile frame shiver against my finger.
I sat near the burbling fountain surrounded by neatly trimmed bushes, letting the sparkling water and sweet floral scents soothe my anger. Our yard was peaceful, its beauty and tranquility calming me.
Until a shadow fell across me—Mia, hands on hips, glaring down her nose at my cupped hands. "What do you have there?"
"A baby bird that fell," I explained simply,not really wanting to talk to her.
She snatched it from my grasp, her glare turning accusatory. "So you told Dad you didn't take that part?"
I blinked, dumbfounded. "I didn't!"
"No, I did," she sneered. "But you were supposed to take the blame for me. That's what big brothers do."
We went back and forth until, with a sudden vicious twist, she snapped the little bird's neck and let its lifeless body tumble from her grasp to land at my feet.
"You're a monster!" I screamed, cradling the broken creature as tears burned my eyes. "Dad will never believe you this time."
Her laughter was cold and mocking. "He'll believe me, just like he always does."
Snatching up one of the stone frog sculptures in our yard, she swung it down full-force on my shin. The loud crack of shattering bone made my vision blur, and I writhed on the ground as Dad came running.
"What happened!" He yelled.
Mia immediately burst into crocodile tears, pointing at the oak tree. "H-he fell from up there...!"
She lied. And the worst part was; he believed her.