Page 114 of Dark Fate

My hands dart for my daggers, their solid heft both calming and empowering—a tactile promise that I'm not defenseless against whatever horror is about to emerge from the Whispering Woods' deceiving tranquility.

Lucian's question pierces through the heavy mist. "What the fuck was that?!"

My eyes snap open to our new reality. Everyone's dismounted, poised for combat, turning a wary circle to face the unseen threat.

The horses bolt away in a frenzy as though fleeing from flames. The map sits at my feet, enclosed in its leather case, dropped and forgotten.

That's when the nightmare crew decides to make their appearance, stepping right out of the fog. These ugly fucking things? They stand tall and foreboding, silhouettes knitted from the woods themselves with limbs of gnarled branches and a maze of thorns protruding dangerously from their humanoid forms. They move in a freaky lockstep that feels like they're dancing to the tune of the seriously unhinged.

Thorns as sharp as daggers jut menacingly from their limbs while their faces remain veiled in a tapestry of moss and leaves. Only their eyes are visible—glowing orbs radiating pure loathing.

I plant my feet, my resolve steel. We're not the all-you-can-eat buffet they're craving. Rhyland's at my side in an instant, every inch the vampire Viking fortress he is, and our fingers brush—a promise of battle to come.

"Anyone wanna clue me in on what these freaky fuckers actually are?" Lucian asks, his voice taut with wary irritation.

My heartbeat accelerates, thudding in my ears like a drum, sounding the alarm, adrenaline coursing through me. They move with an eerie grace—the forest closing in—reminiscent of twisted trees that come to life, stretching out limbs toward us with purpose.

The whispers begin to invade my mind, sneaking and squirming through with deceit and falsehoods. Without hesitation, I throw up my mental defenses—my mind sealing shut like a fortress. "Shields up!" I tell them.

A buzz of anticipation zips under my skin like my power gearing up to crash this monster mash with its killer playlist. Ready to turn this imminent bloodbath into a dance-off with me as the headliner, the battlefield's about to become my stage—and trust me, I'm ready to put on a show that'll have even the grim reaper taking notes.

"Ax! Care to fucken’ enlighten us?" Lucian calls out, his voice piercing through the uneasy atmosphere.

Axilya's face is etched with concern as she replies, "I believe...these…are Thicket Shades—these woods, sites of ancient betrayals and battles, now give rise to physical forms born from the land's deep-seated pain and anguish. They will stop at nothing to bury you alive."

I shoot Rhyland a look, our eyes sparking a wordless pact in an instant—we'll be damned if we let that happen.

Lucian's brow furrows as he asks urgently, "Alright, so we're dealing with some spooky-ass tree spirits? What's the strategy, Ax?"

"Beats the hell outta me," Axilya snaps.

The first strike comes fast—a Thicket Shade unraveling an arm like a venomous vine, aimed straight for Erik. Even with his vampiric swiftness, Erik can't fully avoid the blow, taking a glancing hit to his side that elicits a feral snarl. In a blur, he retaliates with his sword with an arc of quicksilver vengeance. There is no hesitation, no mercy, just lethal intent etched into each movement as Erik unleashes on our assailant. The clash of blades on gnarled flesh rings out—barbed plants vs. vampire steel, a visceral duet heralding the start of a ruthless battle.

"Battling bitchy bark," Lucian quips with a derisive snort—his own brand of battle hymn, before leaping next to Erik, tapping into his speed and might as if he’s the main act in a supernatural circus act. He springs up and delivers a forceful kick—the impact like a battering ram that sends one Shade falling to the ground—crashing down with a resonant boom, shaking the very foundation of the forest.

Lucian flashes a devil-may-care grin and drawls, "I can play Paul Bunyan."

Faderyn plunges headlong into the melee, blade unsheathed and slashing with precision. He dances through the conflict, an artist severing limbs, each move cloaked in shadow and silence.

Yet the Shade, unfazed, seamlessly regenerates its limb, drawing from the sylvan energies around it as if the forest itself conspires to mend its form.

Right there with Faderyn, Axilya steps into the dance, her sword harmonizing with the clash of battle, a symphony of steel as she meets her foes.

Rhyland, with his subtle command, the very air becomes his weapon. A casual flick of his wrist sends a Thicket Shade reeling as effortlessly as if he’d tossed aside a pebble, revealing the might of his telekinetic prowess—an unseen titan at play. The Shade shatters into fragments as if it were torn to pieces by a wood chipper's relentless maw.

I take a deep breath, and at this moment, I grip time by the reins. The chaos around me succumbs to a sluggish tempo—the Shades now sluggish marionettes in a vicious dance. I explode into motion, my body a whirl of acrobatic flair.

As one of the Shades stretches its limbs toward me, greedy as branches craving the sun's kiss, I dance beneath their reach in this dilated moment. My form twirls and contorts, slipping through the heavy air gracefully—an astral dancer spinning through the very fabric of time.

Craning my neck to peer beyond one of the creatures, I catch a glimpse of a core embedded in its back—a smoldering red beacon. Intrigue flickers through my analytical mind as a hypothesis begins to take shape.

With daggers that might as well be my pointy fingers, one gets to meet the 'heartwood' of a sneaky Shade eyeing Rhyland from the rear. I send it flying with a flick and a wink—it’s got a date with destiny. Even before it lands its kiss, I’m scouting my next enemy across the battlefield.

Who needs regular feet when you can whoosh yourself places? In a heartbeat that feels like a leisurely stroll in my time-warped bubble, I'm there, winking into existence—call it willpower, call it a magic taxi ride with my trusty dagger as the driver, parked right in a Shade's back.

As time snaps back like a rubber band, my fingers wrap around the hilt, pulling it free with a flourish. My 'dance partner' lets out an ear-splitting shriek, a sound so piercing it feels like my eardrums might burst.

Instinctively, I drop to the ground, hands pressed firmly over my ears. Around me, others do the same—a field of warriors brought low by the cacophony. Then, as suddenly as it began, the wail ceases, and the Shade collapses, its form desiccating rapidly, crumbling away like a tree surrendering to the relentless march of time.

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