Pain is unique.

Wrapping its way around every victim in new and exciting ways while introducing agony into the lives of those who suffer through and endure.

Pain has a special way of indulging those who cry and scream and surrender. Rejecting its embrace and thrashing pointlessly against its sweet kisses.

Pain hunts and haunts and lingers. Truly a unique entity all on its own. And much like death, it finds everyone.

How tragic for those that have its affections.

There was a new face in the village. Strange and unfamiliar but not unwelcome to the friendly villagers. It was such a small village hidden away by nature that they had no inn but there were those who were kind enough to open their homes to a stranger for a reasonable price.

Moss quite loved it. It was just about everything his lonely heart had been longing for in that long and wretched trek through that awful forest. Friendly people, good food, and a place to lay his head at night. He was so happy and excited about it that he didn’t notice how the little boy who’d guided him here had disappeared until he woke up the following day.

Guilt immediately overtook Moss. He’d promised to make the kid some soup but he’d gotten so caught up in talking about this and that. He was the social type, he couldn’t help but enjoy the company of others. When he was younger, he used to collect as many books in as many different subjects as possible in order to become a good conversation partner for anyone he met.

He didn’t have any particular interest in things like biology or the latest and most popular gossip, he certainly didn’t care all that much for poetry. But he studied everything and absorbed as much information as he possibly could. He was fairly knowledgeable in just about any given subject, or at least knowledgeable enough to entertain a conversation partner for long enough to convince them to like him.

It was a shallow and hollow thing but he couldn’t help himself and he even prided himself in it. He was a dedicated conversationalist, even if no one really knew or cared about his dedication.

As for the topics that actually interested him, well, if he was lucky enough to find a person who cared for it then he’d happily indulge himself. He’d never be the person to push that agenda though.

Moss always let other people choose the topics and always went at the pace of others.

He didn’t like mornings at all but the elderly couple who’d agreed to house him for a few days had said they liked an early breakfast with the whole household so he’d woken up at the very crack of dawn.

And after he’d filled his stomach, Moss remembered the child and knew that he owed the kid some mushroom soup. Happy and guilty, Moss headed outside for the day.

He regretted not asking the elderly couple about the child after he left but he figured a small village like this, the search would only enable him to talk to more people. Moss had never been a person impatient to finish a task he ought to do. He worked decidedly at his own pace and ideally, with the pace that allowed him the most interaction with others.

There was a light drizzle but the village hardly felt the rain. An overhang of trees from the forest protected most of the outskirts and the path had plenty of shades to rest under.

Moss quite liked the village. It was homey and cute. If he had the time, he’d love to search out a person who was knowledgeable about the history of the area. Learning about the folktales and humble beginnings was a guilty pleasure of Moss’.

In the bustle of the early morning there were plenty of villagers who were already starting out their days, opening stores and heading towards fields and living life in a simple humdrum way that only a fool would upturn their nose to.

Moss had been so busy observing the peaceful village that he almost entirely missed the faded brown on the ground underfoot. Moss looked down and frowned, kicking up the muddy earth and wondering why it looked so much like blood. Perhaps they slaughtered chickens here? Moss had heard roosters crowing earlier and there was certain to be other farm animals to help support the ecosystem of the tiny village.

The amount of fading brown melting away with the rain stuck with him though.

“Not you again.”

Moss looked up and grinned. There was the boy from yesterday, arms full of mushrooms again and just leaving the forest. There was a twig sticking out from his hair and an unfriendly scowl on his face as he hugged his mushrooms possessively to keep them away from the dirty grasp of the mushroom thief.

“I came to keep my promise!” Moss said, approaching and stealing another mushroom to plop into his mouth. “Where’s your house? I’ll pick up the other ingredients on the way.”

The boy hesitated before shaking his head. “I don’t want it anymore.” He said, marching briskly away from Moss.

Moss jogged after him. “Then I’ll buy breakfast.” He stole another mushroom. “Are there any good places?”

The boy sent him a long suffering look and Moss cut him off before he could answer. “Oh yeah, what’s your name? I never caught it!”

“Astor.” Astor’s lip twitched and he turned to look away. “There’s a tavern up ahead.”

“Should a kid like you go to a place like that?” Moss asked, friendly as ever.

“Should a kid like me endure the presence of a mushroom thief?” Astor shot back and Moss let out a laugh.

“I deserved that. I’m sorry.” He stole another mushroom, this time just because it was amusing to do so. “But I’ll buy whatever you want for breakfast.”

Astor sighed and nodded. It was a good deal and her stomach was empty.

If only a scream hadn’t rung out through the peaceful village.

Astor’s legs moved without asking for permission and she left a trail of mushrooms behind her. She was surprised to realize that Moss had also sprinted towards the sound. He shot her a grin that seemed to say running towards trouble, eh? that she purposefully ignored.

It was pointless to run though.

By the time they arrived, it was already much too late.