~-~
From the journal of John Cleaver.~-~
He wasn't satisfied, not one bit. The entire picture was just
wrong, as if it didn't quite fit the image before him. The shoddy stool he was seated in was slightly cocked forward, maybe that was it? John shut his eyes, knowing that wasn't the problem. The trees just weren't focused enough. They were more than just broad shapes, but concentrating on them proved difficult. Something bothered him each time, distracted him from applying any sort of details to the dead behemoths.
A small cabin was just visible ahead, maybe twenty or so paces. It was worn down, yes, but it was his shelter in the storm and several days had been spent there without any sort of disturbance, leaving him free to do whatever he wanted. The house's stores had procured quite a bit after busting in a plank to a hidden cache. The bread was slightly moldy and stale, the meat dry, but it was food.
Most of his time had been spent drawing. He had only small fragments of memory, but apparently he had been quite the artist. He enjoyed it. Sitting there in silence, the only sound being the scratching of the quill on the dusty old paper of his journal. It both passed the time and helped him forget the loneliness and despair that usually plagued him. That, and his mind was failing. After nineteen days on this strange land, it felt harder and harder to grip the scraps still in his mind.
Drawing them helped. An image that would last longer than he would in this place. Even though he had used many pages so far, the tome was huge, and at this rate would last him years. The world was strange, filled with many interesting things. Just looking through it would reveal great towering giants, ghastly visions in the mist, and vast catacombs begging to be explored. Most of them were taken from a distance. It wouldn't do for him to be killed by some monster, and at any sign of danger, John usually turned tail and ran for his life.
That was what he would've done, had it been a roar or a growl. No, it was voices. Something he hadn't heard before. Not in this world he hadn't.
John found himself at a staggering run, only grabbing the journal and clutching it in his hand as he ran. The voice was strange, but it was distinct and clear and it was almost like music. Something was unsettling him, though. The voice kept repeating,
”She was mine! You stole her!” as if there was another person. Maybe there was another person? It was getting louder as he got closer, and stranger until he finally burst into a clearing.
There was… something. Armored in what once had been quality mail that had now rusted, was the form of a man. He couldn’t quite get all of the features of the haggard berserker that now stooped over someone. A terrified man with a beard was beneath him, a pair of mismatched horrified eyes that complemented a crooked nose. Of course, as soon as John arrived, the claymore was swung, and bright red blood spurted out, covering the rusted warrior.
He fell onto his knees from the sheer surprise, his eyes wide open at the shock. The first person he would have met in this hell, killed before his eyes. He felt like vomiting up the breakfast of slightly burned hasher of meat he had, but nothing came. The rusted warrior, now in full view, looked strange as it walked slowly back towards its resting place, settling down into the dead dirt. It looked like a mummified corpse, skin stretched taut against the thin bones.
The harsh beating of wings caught his attention as he looked up. A bird. A damn bird taking flight from the ground, flying up into the air as if it knew something. It looked like a hawk. All John knew was that it would take him where he needed to go. John would grab his things and follow it, regardless of where it took him. That, and he would leave the restless dead alone.
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