the witchwood is as big or as small as it needs to be , a fact solomon lauter knows all too well. but hidden in its depth , he can't help but wonder if it's actually as big or as small as it wants to be. there's malice bled into the very soil , histories of horror deeper than the roots of the oldest trees. and now his blood is a part of it. torn flesh caked in dirt rotting away. there's no way to measure how long he's been here , in and out of consciousness until only pain could bring him to his unsteady feet. he is a creature of hunger and thirst and festering wounds. a king brought to kneel before the elements and beg for absolution. his own pathetic bargaining with that monster still echoes in his ringing skull , a shameful act of someone beneath him. but self preservation will always come first , even if he wore the facade of dignity for far too long.
it's thirst now that drives him further into the forest-- somehow he knows it's further , knows that he is the sailor in the tale heeding the siren's song , but there is only need. rationale dies in a place like the witchwood. seeing only through one eye , he trips over himself , navigating by a starless sky. he's pretty his left is gone , knocked from his skull in a blow that should have killed him. should have killed him. why didn't it kill him ? the gods of this place like to play with their food.
on hands and knees , he crawls towards the sound of a bubbling brook , but as he gets closer he realizes that's not what it is. that's never what it is. instead , he's found himself moving in the direction of crunching footsteps. man or monster , he can't say which he prefers when either would be at the end of a trap. clumsy limbs bring him back to his feet , though he doesn't walk. he waits , swaying in the darkness , breath heavy and ragged. like he's sustaining on half a lung-- and maybe he is. the extent of the damage , like the day , like anything besides sensation itself , is completely out of touch.
the sound of movement draws ever closer , and his seeing eye begins to decipher a figure to go along with it. amorphous shadow whose edges get more and more defined with every laborious breath he takes. at first , the word monster echos in his head. monster come to finish what it started. please. but soon he realizes what it really is. something much , much worse.
" stephanie-- " it's the first word he's managed , a bubble of blood exploding over his tongue. but then again , solomon has long since tasted that same metallic burn when force to speak to his daughter. now it's just as physical as it's been mental. she stands there , so close and yet so far away. his eye squints through the darkness. @slautertm seems real enough , but so did the sound of water. a mirage or flesh and blood , solomon stumbles forward , croaking desperation clawing out of his throat. " you shouldn't-- you shouldn't be here. "
