The silence was serene.
Calm waves should be welcomed. But even the world's most forgiving currents are never this docile. The wind, strong enough to pull the sail, yet no whistle could be heard.
The journey was peaceful.
Nothing is ever peaceful.
He survived because of doubt. He knew this was wrong.
Yet against his instinct, his eyes felt heavy.
Despite his will, a yawn escaped his mouth.
He was tired, both mind and body.
The song still echoed.
Rest cannot be awarded.
But a part of him believes he has done enough.
A part of him wanted it to be over.
Being cradled on the ocean, he felt a warmth.
A comforting hug, amidst an indifferent reality.
Sawyer Dumhainn allowed himself respite.
At that moment, the winds changed.
Yet the boat kept moving forward.
He was woken up by a sudden impact, surprised by the sight of an unfamiliar shore. For a moment, Sawyer felt ashamed for oversleeping, his comrades' efforts lay with him. Flustered, he busied himself with protocol checkups around the vessel. As he gathered himself, the strange land loomed over him.
"The waves must have picked up when I was asleep," he assessed. "The breeze is warm."
The early morning rays pierced the dense jungle foliage. For a moment, he marveled at the lush green landscape before him. Unused to the air
"I must have drifted to the west," he said, looking past the treeline. "The tide is too low. Luckily, the Aria mountain range is not too far."
He disembarked to secure the boat. The land welcomed his return with steadiness; the air answered it with rhythm.
"SONG!" he froze, instinctively gripping the hilt of his blade. Disbelief rushed over him, as questions cycled in his mind.
Spawn?
Malady?
Cultists?
Nothing in sight could explain the sensation. If the threat wasn't before him, then it was the land itself—and only one place that radiated it.
"The Maw." he snaps, tensing his jaw as he sprints towards the entrance of the jungle.
The jungle resisted him.
Vines lashed at his greaves. Thorns tore through cloth and skin alike. Roots rose where there should have been none, like desperate hands eager to catch his stride. Be it wet or dry mud, Sawyer did not slow down. He barreled through the foliage like a man possessed. His breathing ragged, his vision fixed forward, his grip held tight.
The farther he went from the shore, the louder the Song.
Each step deeper sharpened the rhythm. A pulse beneath the soil. A cadence in the air. Leaves swayed not with the wind, but with the beat. Discord metal offered the only dissonance in the unnaturally synchronized environment. His heartbeat pounded, adding tempo to the chaos.
It was clear.
Too clear.
Like something able to control the flow. A reaver spawn.
Sawyer clenched his teeth and forced his legs to move faster, shortening the steps, increasing the stride. The rhythm faltered and went awry, as he brandished his blade and prepared his whistle.
Thoughts filtered through his brain in hordes.
How?
Why here?
Why now?
Evolving into impossible scenarios.
A dream?
A new source?
A lie?
The unacceptable. It lived.
No matter. It was clear. Whatever this was. Needed to die.
A branch tore across his forearm. Blood spilled freely, warmly coating his pale skin in crimson. Sawyer barely registered it. Pain was honest. Pain was comforting. Pain meant real.
The jungle suddenly ended. The foliage shook behind him as he dashed through the open area. Bursting into a clearing, damp boots skidding against dry earth—and stopping short.
People.
Steel glinted against the morning sun. A campfire, half-burned. Tents barely packed, the straps still loose. Five figures turned as one, weapons raised, surprise clearly written across their faces. Panicked, yet properly braced.
Adventurers.
Alive. Resonating.
Sawyer staggered back. His grip still tight against the hilt of his blade. A light whistle, not louder than a whisper, rang from his lips. The adventurers recoiled slightly. The air shook as the Song became silent.
One yelled.
"Who are you!"
Another asked.
"Gods—are you hurt?"
He felt his wound with an open hand. Never looking away. Blood traced his arm to his elbows. His torn sleeve revealed a stream of red dampening his great coat.
A robed figure at the back signalled her fellows to stand down. She stepped forward with a holy symbol in hand. Smiling in earnest with pure goodwill. A priestess—young, brave, and loud. So loud.
"Allow me to heal you," the priestess said. "God's grace should be given to all—".
She choked on her words. Her skin turned pale as cold sweat dripped across her face. Fear took the strength from her legs as she faced a being written only in folklore.
A man rejected by the Song.
A man without grace.
A man who is entirely—Silent.