User blog:Ziharku/Log 9: Calm Before the Storm

Fear. I encountered a party of people, their clothing making clear that they too were from the mainland. Upon seeing me in attire to match the Immortals a glint of fear shot into their eyes as they thought they may have been in trouble with the law for an Immortal to travel to such a location as troublesome to get to as this. With my own voice, something I haven’t heard for what feels like an eternity, I relieve this fear in that there is no trouble, that I’m merely passing their camp en route to the beast of 3 heads.

They too, are headed to the beast. They desire the fame and glory associated with killing large marks, and this being the biggest they’ve ever seen makes them greedy for riches it may hold or glory in having killed it. They’ve had their camp set up for days, they say, hoping the beast will come out of hiding.

I sense it, though where I know not. Their camp overlooks the place I’d seen it before, such a large clearing. It had not seemed quite so large as they claimed it to be when I saw it last, so I wonder if perhaps it grows quickly. My sense of time is severely distorted though, so perhaps it grows slowly and I have not been back here for too long a time.

Energy spikes. It senses me, like I sense it, and it begins to gather the energy necessary to move so large a body. I feel for the flow of energy in its body, to get an accurate judgement on the size of the beast. It is….far worse than I imagined. To fight such a thing alone surely would mean death. Perhaps so large as a Wyrm, maybe larger. What hellspawn is this to grow so large and hide itself so well?

Begrudging company as I do these days, the party eventually convinces me to join them in the hunt. I am offered a pitiful amount of the possible wealth, but I decline. I wish more to see this beast, to see them live through the fight, than to be rewarded. Two more days pass, it gains more energy during the day than the night. I gather must be either a plant or cold blooded, the latter seeming far more likely. The voices are quieter with this beast so near, as though they worry too loud a call will bring it sooner, and death will follow. The newest voice, that of the Soulflayer fought in the ruin, is eerily familiar. It is…the voice I had used that day. There must be some truth in the prison warden’s (for he was in the prison with no bars, and yet not a prisoner. He must be the warden instead, myself the prisoner) words. Restful sleep eludes me, despite the quieting of the voices. Perhaps the quiet is so estranged to me that I cannot sleep without the noise.