MCHC: New Beginnings

MCHC: New Beginnings

Faint scritching of a quill against the parchment-like pages of my journal.

The flames of the fireplace burn low, a gentle crackle as the smell of charred kindling fills the room.

The gash rests on my arm; dried. Besides a quiet ache and the fear it might tear back open; it's healed, for the most part.

It's been a few days now. The pot is near empty, save for a few smears that cling to the sides. Only half an armful remains of the wood I gathered for kindling a few fires ago.

The infusion, the one that keeps them at bay, I'm down to the dregs. Barely enough to circle the base.

I should rest. Bottle up whatever's left of the remedy. Be as healed up as possible for tomorrow.

If surviving's a concern, I'll have to move at first light.

Daytime

I stepped forward— boots sinking, sun beating down. My back aches; sweat runs in rivulets. Every breath feels a little heavier, but I'm equipped for it now.

Behind me the cart lurches forward— lazily, squeaking with each turn. A couple tools, some basic materials, a morsel of food or two— enough to set up base— or at the very least a makeshift camp if the weather turns to hell.

The ground's uneven. I figured I'd be adjusted to it by now, but beyond each step sinking deep like the floor's turned to pillows— it twists and contorts just enough to betray me. Just enough that I have to keep from falling.

The trees are empty. No prying eyes, no dark figures concealed behind the trunks. Just me today. Me and this endless stroll to get far enough away from *them* and find something out there, if there is anything.

Ahead of me, a half-rotted fingerpost clung to its post. Splintered arms pointed this way and that—scrawled in some ancient looking text; blocky and geometric, like a machine's idea of written text.

I stopped anyway, trying to read, hoping it meant something. Between ⎓ꖎ𝙹∴ᒷ∷ ℸ ̣ 𝙹∴リ and ᓵ⚍↸↸ꖎᒷ ᓵ𝙹⍊ᒷ, or ᓭᒲ╎ꖎᒷᓭ ᓵ╎ℸ ̣ || and ᒷ⍊╎ꖎ ᔑᓭᓭ ∷ᔑ!¡ᒷ ʖ⚍╎ꖎ↸╎リ⊣ ,most settlements now are either barren plots or empty abandoned buildings crawling with them.

But I've seen some of these symbols before. A ruined chapel, a dried up well, an abandoned mine. They're crawling with them, but you can usually expect to find things there. Useful things. It was at one of them that I found this blade; still sharp even now, never once dulled or rusted.

A tether hung from the post, frayed at the end. It blew in the air like it were carried by a light breeze while the air around me hung dead still. It was then I remembered.

I had a horse before all this. A sturdy bay— dusting of white across her back like someone'd poured flour all over her. Her gait was a little clumsy— frame a little lean, but she was well mannered, and for the price she fetched? More than enough.

I thought of her as I continued. Figured I'd try my luck with ᒷ⍊╎ꖎ ᔑᓭᓭ ∷ᔑ!¡ᒷ ʖ⚍╎ꖎ↸╎リ⊣. The clearing narrowed as I stepped forward; trees crowding a path long overgrown, hugging the edge of a battered fence, half swallowed by moss and vine. At this pace, hopefully I'll reach shelter before nightfall.

FUck

Hours pass— the high sweltering noon dips low, replaced by a low pre-evening glow. I drag myself forward—the cart dragging with me— hitching on damned near every pebble and every pothole along the path. Even as sweat continues to bead, the cool evening air soothes me, even if just lightly.

I'll set up camp, soon. My decanter's near dried up. I'll find some place. Some alcove. Some narrow cleft with stone to my back and just one way in. Use some more of the infusion, eat something, maybe rest for tomorrow, maybe I'll—

Something hits my neck. A drop. Cold, menacing. Cart still tied to my waist, just ready to set up camp, gods not again, PLEASE not now—

The silence breaks— not with thunder but water. Trees sway in the wind, hails of rain caught by the wind's tantrum— whipping sideways in sharp spiraling sheets. I catch a glint in the sky— a flash. A distant, thunderous boom.

My eyes scan the surroundings. A rock shelter, a cave, anything to seek refuge, but nothing. Just trees, stretching for miles in every direction.

But it's no use sticking to the path.

???

The slop of boots in half-rotted earth. Each step squelches beneath me— ground slurping at my heels. There has to be something out here.

The storm rages on, sky—splitting roars of thunder growing ever closer with every flash of lightning.

I can't die like this. Not again, not— oh god. Oh thank the gods.

In the distance, the dark silhouette of a building. Tall, still, rising against the brutal downpour. A barn, solid enough to wait out the rest of the storm. I race for it, mud splattering as I rush to wrench my boots free with each step.

The storm surges, harder now— gusts fierce enough to stagger— slamming into me every few steps. The air had turned wild— almost alive, shrieking through the trees with purpose.

I drive the sword into the earth— deep, until the hilt bit into my palm, forcing myself steady. Levering forward, step by gritted step, the cart behind me barely staying upright. Just a crawl away from salvation.

I scramble to flick the lock open— each gust sharper, more frantic, more desparate. Just open, please, just let me in—

The barn doors swing forward with an exaggerated creak. I throw myself inside, yank at the cart's tether hard, then slam against the doors.

The wind currents fight against me, thrashing, clawing.

I brace against it, and force the lock into place.

Outside, the wind howls. Loud, angry. Wind? More like losed, haha

Jesus Christ

Minutes pass— my back still pressed to the door. Eyes jammed shut, breathing heavy, peeling off my damp shirt as it clings to my skin

The barn felt lived in. Wood sodden with rot. Faded paint clinging to the walls, flaking like scabs. Standing against the dark cloudy skies, the deathly growl of thunder, and the rain that poured down sharp and relentless, the dusty— probably 200 year old barn managed to seem almost cozy.

Outside, rain continues to drum the roof— each drop sharp, needle-thin. Wind knives through slats with a banshee scream— rain dripping through the ceiling in slow, steady drips

It hasn't rained like this for months. It only rains like this every few months. When the first drop hits— you better make damned sure you can find shelter nearby. The first few times I wasn't so lucky.

If I hadn't found this barn I'd be dead. Stupid. Clumsy. A rookie's death. I'm getting slow.

I turn back to the cart, journal in hand. Waterlogged, of course. Most of my things survived— save for a couple packs of food, soaked through.

Updates on food stock. Current situation. Plans for tomorrow if I manage to survive this storm.

While writing, I reach for a few scraps. Ready to tear into it— a rustle from the corner. A stall. A mess of dry straw scattered across the floor. The whisper of a breath. Something's there. Hiding. shifting around in the dark.

Slowly, I tuck the food away and mask the rasp of my blade. It's noticed me, without a doubt, but maybe— just maybe, I can still catch it off guard.

I crouch low, inching forward in slow calculated steps. I've been ambushed before. I know how they think, but— it's not normal for them to hide like this.

Could be a skeleton— yeah. It saw the storm, took shelter, and now it's waiting to slit my throat while I sleep.

I round the corner. Firm grip. Sword raised. One final step and—

Oh.