HOME | DD

Description
A man came to the village today. He was dressed all in black with a strange white collar. A gray scarf was draped over his shoulders. He called it a stole. He smelled like the rotting foliage of the underbrush. There was something strange about him, something off. Maybe it was his smile, or the gait that he walked with. I asked him his name. He just kept smiling and told us we could call him Pastor. He said he was here to help us.

Pastor set up in an abandoned stone building at the edge of the village near the forest. That building's been there as long as anyone can remember. Stories say it was the home of a great demon a long time ago. Stupid stories.

Pastor talked about how the forest was dying and that it was our fault. We've failed and angered God, and this is his vengeance. Some people were scared, others were angry. I don't believe a word he says, but it's true. The forest is different. It gets worse every year and has for decades. More men that go in to clear trees or hunt disappear every year, and not just from our village. And there's more direlings than ever, and not just the sickly little things there used to be. I saw one as large as a wolf prowling the edge of the village just the other day. It was dark and hard to see, but I could see the anger in it's glowing eyes. Too many eyes.

A week has passed since Pastor came. Where most people used to be angry, now he's won over so many with talk of his God. He speaks every day, whenever anyone will listen. He bellows out tales of corruption and decay, how the forest dies because we haven't taken care of it or ourselves. Our taint leaks out and poisons the land that we stand upon. He calls us cursed by the wrath of God. A curse he says he can lift. Thankfully, the village is still wary of him. There's just something about him. His perpetual smile. His perfect clothes and hair. His girly face. I don't trust him.

The forest has done nothing but get worse and worse. Men disappear from towns and villages everyday now. Travelers and merchants too. There are more direlings everyday. I saw one dragging the carcass of a small girl. It didn't chase me because it was too stuffed with it's previous meal. I'll never forget that beast, and the look frozen on the girl's face. Maybe we can't trust him, but we have no choice any more. Whatever taint seeps into the land, we can't fight it. We need the help of that man and his god.

We never should have trusted him. That Pastor and his conniving ways. I knew from the beginning that there was something wrong with him. He's done something to the others. They stand around glassy-eyed and they seem to forget everything. Some disappear without ever leaving their homes. And it always happens after he visits. I have to leave. But where would I go? I'll find somewhere. I have to.

-------

The village was quiet, the only sound the gentle swaying of the branches of the queer, off-color trees that stood against the night. Every house was abandoned and dark. Every small lane was empty, every little bump and hill across the village devoid of life. Hunched shapes roved about in the starless, moonless night, staying far away from each other as if attempting to avoid gazing at their own disfigured shapes.

A single man strolled quietly through the center of the village, flanked by abandoned shacks. A lone lantern struggled to illumine him as the lazy light it cast was eagerly consumed by the black suit he wore. A gray stole inscribed with strange, ludicrous patterns was draped over his shoulders. He held a worn book in one hand, perusing its contents as he drifted through the village. It's binding was frayed, its pages torn, wrinkled and some dashed quite liberally with blood; not all of the blood was dried.

As he turned the pages he would titter or giggle or gasp, but rarely did he give any other reaction. A smile was plastered eerily on his face, and never would it leave. He came to the last page and gave an especially loud guffaw before tossing the book carelessly to the hard dirt. "Never should have trusted me," he said aloud quietly, "Fools. Trust has nothing to do with this. This was inevitable. I can hear his call coursing through my veins. To please him is ecstasy. I would wish for no other fate."

Suddenly, the flesh of his arm rippled beneath the black cloth of his sleeve, twisting and churning. "I did not lie," he cooed as he caressed the fraught arm, "God will bring them salvation in the end. Are they not better off as they are now? No fears, no worries, no obligations to tie them down. They are blissful in their ignorance, resplendent in their simplicity. Naught more than beasts now," he chuckled darkly, "though they weren't much more before."

Description
A man came to the village today. He was dressed all in black with a strange white collar. A gray scarf was draped over his shoulders. He called it a stole. He smelled like the rotting foliage of the underbrush. There was something strange about him, something off. Maybe it was his smile, or the gait that he walked with. I asked him his name. He just kept smiling and told us we could call him Pastor. He said he was here to help us.

Pastor set up in an abandoned stone building at the edge of the village near the forest. That building's been there as long as anyone can remember. Stories say it was the home of a great demon a long time ago. Stupid stories.

Pastor talked about how the forest was dying and that it was our fault. We've failed and angered God, and this is his vengeance. Some people were scared, others were angry. I don't believe a word he says, but it's true. The forest is different. It gets worse every year and has for decades. More men that go in to clear trees or hunt disappear every year, and not just from our village. And there's more direlings than ever, and not just the sickly little things there used to be. I saw one as large as a wolf prowling the edge of the village just the other day. It was dark and hard to see, but I could see the anger in it's glowing eyes. Too many eyes.

A week has passed since Pastor came. Where most people used to be angry, now he's won over so many with talk of his God. He speaks every day, whenever anyone will listen. He bellows out tales of corruption and decay, how the forest dies because we haven't taken care of it or ourselves. Our taint leaks out and poisons the land that we stand upon. He calls us cursed by the wrath of God. A curse he says he can lift. Thankfully, the village is still wary of him. There's just something about him. His perpetual smile. His perfect clothes and hair. His girly face. I don't trust him.

The forest has done nothing but get worse and worse. Men disappear from towns and villages everyday now. Travelers and merchants too. There are more direlings everyday. I saw one dragging the carcass of a small girl. It didn't chase me because it was too stuffed with it's previous meal. I'll never forget that beast, and the look frozen on the girl's face. Maybe we can't trust him, but we have no choice any more. Whatever taint seeps into the land, we can't fight it. We need the help of that man and his god.

We never should have trusted him. That Pastor and his conniving ways. I knew from the beginning that there was something wrong with him. He's done something to the others. They stand around glassy-eyed and they seem to forget everything. Some disappear without ever leaving their homes. And it always happens after he visits. I have to leave. But where would I go? I'll find somewhere. I have to.

-------

The village was quiet, the only sound the gentle swaying of the branches of the queer, off-color trees that stood against the night. Every house was abandoned and dark. Every small lane was empty, every little bump and hill across the village devoid of life. Hunched shapes roved about in the starless, moonless night, staying far away from each other as if attempting to avoid gazing at their own disfigured shapes.

A single man strolled quietly through the center of the village, flanked by abandoned shacks. A lone lantern struggled to illumine him as the lazy light it cast was eagerly consumed by the black suit he wore. A gray stole inscribed with strange, ludicrous patterns was draped over his shoulders. He held a worn book in one hand, perusing its contents as he drifted through the village. It's binding was frayed, its pages torn, wrinkled and some dashed quite liberally with blood; not all of the blood was dried.

As he turned the pages he would titter or giggle or gasp, but rarely did he give any other reaction. A smile was plastered eerily on his face, and never would it leave. He came to the last page and gave an especially loud guffaw before tossing the book carelessly to the hard dirt. "Never should have trusted me," he said aloud quietly, "Fools. Trust has nothing to do with this. This was inevitable. I can hear his call coursing through my veins. To please him is ecstasy. I would wish for no other fate."

Suddenly, the flesh of his arm rippled beneath the black cloth of his sleeve, twisting and churning. "I did not lie," he cooed as he caressed the fraught arm, "God will bring them salvation in the end. Are they not better off as they are now? No fears, no worries, no obligations to tie them down. They are blissful in their ignorance, resplendent in their simplicity. Naught more than beasts now," he chuckled darkly, "though they weren't much more before."