Warning: Mentions of blood, injuries and pain in a slighlty explicit way , nothing outside of the fantasy-violence label
Experimentation was relegated to afternoons at first, with Mortigus spreading a few spores around a clearing in the forest. It took hours for him to produce even the faintest glow at the tip of his fingers, slowly giving life to the mushrooms with gleaming droplets of morning dew. Upon further reflection, he realised that his body had begun to mimic the characteristics of fungi. His cuts and bruises healed faster in the cool shade and damp air, and he felt an unparalleled sense of comfort when sheltered beneath trees or during the calm, misty evenings that followed rainstorms. This must have meant that his body, if perhaps even his powers, could be stronger in the right conditions. His emotions of fear and desperation no longer fuelled the magic within him, as they did during the bear’s attack, and so now he could rely only on determination. So it was, letting small patches of colourful mushrooms turn slowly into gardens of alien textures filling the forest trails. With the aid of warm rains and the gentle dusks of the leaves, Mortigus began to grow mushrooms from spores to fully mature in minutes, even seconds, twisting their forms slightly, like a painter who still felt awkward about the weight and movement of a brush. An oddity was the reliance on Mortigus’ magic that these mushrooms presented: after a few hours in which he would not offer them anymore of his "energy," they would slowly shrivel up and promptly disappear, as if their existence was an extension of Mortigus’ care for them. Testing his powers became rather a pastime, keeping his mind focused on better understanding his body and the weird relationship with mushrooms. Indeed, he could push fungi both created and not created by him to grow exponentially, reaching usually triple the size of a regular mushroom of that species. His precision was lacking for sure, but it wasn’t something he couldn’t hone. The variety in species of fungi allowed for surprising effects, as bioluminescent caps of a green glow illuminated Mortigus’ little spot in the forest, bringing a sense of tenderness to the solitary nights.
Progress began to get slower, and his hands were almost automatic in their release of this growth energy, relying more on instinct and practice than focus. And now, his mind could no longer run away from his sense of purpose, or rather, the lack of purpose to this training, to his life. Powers such as this were certainly going to prove useful in the future, for self-defence, food, and even shelter, but what use were they if his sole purpose was merely to survive in this forest? Was he meant to simply guard himself from the likes of human travellers and bears for how everlong this bizarre body was capable of living? Purpose, goal, meaning of some sort—Mortigus felt he could no longer distract himself from the monotone state of his mind. As mushrooms continued to spur slowly around him, his eye gazed into the sky without even processing beyond the rough colours of the horizon.
Mortigus tried to recollect some of his moments with his father and mother, picking them out from his dusty memory. His father spoke with a distinct accent and choice of words, a clear mark of his different cultural background. Along with his sister, Aunt Denisa, they had supposedly moved to Arcut after Denisa could no longer afford her medical education. Despite that, she remained highly knowledgeable and was well-respected in the village. Mortigus never thought to ask why they chose such an inconspicuous place to settle. His father was kind and a bit goofy, but with a strong sense of duty, especially when it came to parenting. Mortigus fondly remembered their trips to the forest, his father talking about the sky, trees and insects, and the way he always listened patiently to his children's silly stories. Yet, deep down, Mortigus regretted never fully expressing the gratitude he felt for all of it.
His mother, a lifelong farmer, had inherited the family farm and tended it with great care. Mortigus appreciated the way she taught him and his siblings about the work without ever being too harsh. She was gentle but firm, a woman who could see into your soul with a single glance. Her caring eyes, the piggyback rides through the wheat fields, and the warmest winter clothes she always brought—these were all acts of love for which Mortigus never thanked her as deeply as his heart desired to.
He had remained in hiding for far too long. His parents deserved more than just his gratitude—they deserved his faith. Faith that their love could overcome his appearance, just as he felt he could overcome his fear. Breaking free from the chains of doubt that had kept him bound to the forest, he realised he could no longer hide from the people he still cared about. Preparations would need to be made, of course: provisions, perhaps tools, and proper clothing. But all those hours spent observing travellers from the shadows would surely prove useful in tackling these logistical challenges. It was time to face the world once more. These were tiny hurdles, and Mortigus decided he could climb over them then never hide again.
A new day marked by the whistling of birds brought upon the beginning of Mortigus’ journey. With determination mixed with restrained hope, he picked up the little reserves he prepared yesterday. He touched the ground, letting mushrooms grow in the form of a symbol, a way to mark this special spot in his heart. Now it was time to move forward and leave the cocoon of trees and mushrooms, showing himself in a new form that could face the future.
The blinding sunlight grew stronger among the leaves and bushes, soaking Mortigus’ eye. Once he reached the end of the forest, he could now see a few hills of greenery, grass barely reaching his knees, in which were scattered red delicate flowers with a brownish centre. Not far away, another forest’s margin was blocking the horizon. The tranquil landscape was not without music, as crickets and various other animals had their voices combined into a lively concert. Mortigus could feel his tired legs giving out a bit, as if pleading to receive some rest. A lingering unease hung in the air, keeping him alert, but he pushed aside his wariness, determined to savour this moment of peace. He almost let down his luggage before he noticed a weird outline popping out in his range of sight. A small tree of some kind swayed gently in the wind, though Mortigus could only feel a light breeze—hardly enough to stir the branches the way they moved. The swinging tree was around 80 meters away from Mortigus, and its swinging was unnaturally even. Three dots were opening in the middle of the tree’s crown, like glistening slots of greenish light, not unlike Mortigus’ eye. In a sudden move, the tree stopped swinging, the dots glistening towards Mortigus’ direction. It was more than clear now that the tree was conscious, and more so aware of Mortigus, as he was now aware of it too. He took whatever defensive position he could, feeling that outrunning the strange tree would be the best option; the safety of the forest behind him was alluring. Mortigus’ feet remained planted into the ground, his knees bent, ready to explosively start running, his body filled with adrenaline, all these and yet Mortigus felt his instincts bringing him closer to the strange tree. Was it curiosity? Was it something deeper, more visceral, something the body could feel that his mind did not decipher yet?
The tree stood motionless, as though it, too, was waiting—observing, calculating Mortigus’ next move. Around its trunk, the wind seemed to gather, dull brownish sparks dancing in the air. Slowly, these sparks began to form columns from top to bottom, pulsating slightly, resembling living bark. At the base of the tree, cylindrical shapes emerged, morphing into what looked like a hand with four fingers. The arms, twisted and textured like parasitic mushrooms clinging to wood, sprouted from invisible shoulder joints.
From his vantage point, Mortigus could see the strange frills and layered lines of fungi running along the length of these arms. Suddenly, one of them lifted, a finger pointing directly at him, sending a surge of panic through his body. Before Mortigus could react, an unexpected voice broke the silence, cold and commanding.
“Mycolian or human, state your intentions, or be ready to give up your life!”
At this moment, Fate blinked, letting time pass until Its eyes would open to let reality unfold again.
Mortigus
The "Tree"
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