Chapter Text
Research Record #28
Field Researcher: Flint McCarthy
Date: 7th of February 1782
Objective: Survive.
Observations: When we received word from the besieged village to the south, a thrill of excitement coursed through my brother John and me. We had yearned for such an opportunity to once again embark upon the path of adventure and scholarly pursuit that had been our calling. Alas, as we set forth with haste, little did we know that this endeavour would prove to be a grave miscalculation on our part.
Our boots hit the muck of the forest floor. Navigation becomes increasingly treacherous. My vision narrows. The colours blur into an overwhelming array of greens and browns. Each breath burns my throat. My lungs burn. I cannot draw a full breath. Behind me, John grunts, offering the smallest comfort. He is still here. His heavy footsteps close the distance. The pain in his voice barely worries me; it means he is well enough to talk. It means he is alive.
I cling to that thought, pushing myself to speed up. A gasp escapes my lips. My foot is caught in the mud beneath me. No time to panic. A rough hand grips my upper arm, pulling me along.
John is in front of me. His fingers tighten painfully around my arm. He does not dare look back. The fabric usually hanging around his neck is now around his shoulder. A dark red blotch of blood spreads through it.
An arrow whizzes past, embedding itself in the wet ground beside me, breaking my worry. Panic floods me. My legs catch up to my thoughts, sprinting closer to John. The embarrassment of my stumble fades. My ragged gasps echo in my ears. Normally, my brother would tease me. This is not the time for jokes.
Glancing over my shoulder, I let out an undignified curse. The sight of the angry townsfolk pursuing us is intimidating, I must admit. I would not say it out loud; he would have a field day with it. This situation is mostly my fault. How could I have known the townspeople did not want the monsters killed, which is why they summoned us?
Oh! Apologies! Perhaps I should explain…
The crunching of gravel under our boots echoes as I huff in irritation. We have been walking for days since the letter arrived, navigating a town that seems to be off the maps. Hours under the scorching sun and swarming insects have exhausted me, while John skips ahead as if on holiday. He cuts through the underbrush, seemingly unfazed by the dirt and physical labour.
It contrasts with my heavy steps, as if I am walking through knee-deep snow. His steps look elegant compared to mine. As I struggle to keep up with his long strides, I cannot help but feel envious of his carefree attitude and lack of concern for danger.
Despite my annoyance, as his older brother, I feel responsible for this barbarian who shared a womb with me. At the cave's entrance, John pulls down vines and suddenly, light spills from the tunnel, revealing a vibrant town. Excitement floods through me as we burst into the sunlight, leaving behind the jungle's oppressive heat. I tie my coat around my waist, realising how similar I look to John. I wonder what our parents would think of our choices: me, abandoning the past for monster hunting, and John, always by my side.
“Bet you can't reach the town before me!” John calls, igniting old competitive feelings. I chuckle and take off, the wind in my hair making me forget my worries. My foot slips, and in a flash, John races ahead, reaching the town first. I catch my breath beside him, relieved to see him unharmed after hearing a familiar voice call out.
“Johnny?” My heart sinks momentarily, but I relax when I see he is all right. Turning back to the town, my eyes widen, jaw dropping in amazement. We marvel at the town before us, its beauty overwhelming. Golden decorations adorn the buildings, and the square features a fountain shimmering in the sunlight. It is a scene straight from a fairytale, yet I feel my cheeks flush as I realise we look like children caught in awe.
Then a woman approaches, her sharp ears revealing she is one of the changelings. “Greetings! You must be the hunters we have been waiting for! I am Iridia. Thank you for coming!” Her warmth relaxes me, and I introduce myself and John.
As we walk through the town, we learn they are changelings, not hostile in the way they are described in folklore. Their homes, crafted from special wood resembling marble and adorned with gemstone-like leaves, are breathtaking. Suddenly, a commotion catches our attention. An elder changeling is distressed, claiming a monster is terrorising their village and stealing children.
“Why have you not fought it off?” John asks, confusion and concern filling his voice. The Queen explains their reluctance to draw blood and their desperation for help.
Glancing at John, I feel a surge of determination. “We will help,” I hear him say, feeling my resolve harden in a way I did not know it could. “Lead us to where you last saw the monster,” I continue for him, seeing him nod at me. I nod back, not needing any words to understand his train of thought.
The elder nods, gratitude mingling with sorrow. She guides us into the jungle, where signs of a struggle await. With weapons drawn, we prepare to confront the creature.
She leads us deeper into the jungle, vibrant foliage closing in as the sounds of the village fade. With each step, I feel the weight of the changelings’ hopes on our shoulders. We are strangers here, yet now bear responsibility for their safety.
After what feels like an eternity, we reach a glade marked by evidence of a struggle: patches of fur snagged on branches and deep indentations in the soil. The elder whispers, “This is where it hunts.”
Determined, John and I draw our weapons, ready to face the creature. The hunt is heavy with purpose, and after a tense march through the woods, we finally spot the beast—a massive, desperate creature. It lunges at us with a primal roar, and instinct takes over. We fight fiercely and, after a brutal struggle, overpower it, standing breathless over its lifeless form.
Returning to the village, we celebrate with a feast; the air is filled with laughter and music. But unease lingers. Suddenly, a commotion draws our attention: a trio of scruffy cubs bursts into the gathering, their wide eyes filled with confusion and fear.
The villagers freeze, laughter dying in their throats. Someone gasps. “They killed a mother!” Horror dawns as the reality of our actions sinks in, and a chill runs down my spine. We have drawn the ire of those we sought to protect.
The festive atmosphere shifts dramatically; suspicion and fear twist their expressions of joy into shock. Whispers ripple through the crowd, igniting anger like a flame. In an instant, celebration turns to outrage. The villagers narrow their eyes, and someone shouts, “Mother killers!” The very people we saved now call for our heads.
“We have to get to the river!” The breathless shout snaps me out of my thoughts.
I nod, breathless. I can barely speak from exhaustion. “It’s our way out—they won’t follow, Flint!” He’s right. They won’t.
An angry roar from the crowd rings out. My heart is in my throat. Regardless, I speed up, almost tripping over my own feet as we near the river. One reason the townspeople avoid it is the current. It is strong enough to drown, and it is our only chance to survive.
A shout from John rings out. For a moment, my heart stops. My stomach drops into a bottomless pit, then resets when he yells back profanities over his shoulder at the crowd chasing us. Letting out a sigh of relief, I shout for him to keep up. That earns me an undignified sign. Despite myself, I grin. It lasts only a moment.
The feeling of dread returns as the river comes into view. There are no stones in sight, as always. Water covers them as it rages, flowing like a strong sea. The sight makes me consider turning back and trying my luck elsewhere.
John seems to have no such doubts.
For a moment, I remind myself to make a doctor’s appointment once we are home. My brother seems to have lost his mind. Or perhaps I have not enough of one. Regardless, his pace turns into a sprint, and then he takes a barely sufficient start.
He grabs my arm and leaps over the river. I do not have time to yell at him for his lack of critical thinking.
There is shouting from the townspeople and yelling.
Then there is cold air and a steady hand. Distantly, I remember the water washing over me should feel cold.
The next thing that greets me is darkness and muffled shouts.