June; 6 months after The Start of The End

The opening to The Dead Woods stood in front of The Golden Stag like a gaping maw, a portal into sheer darkness. Besides the entrance a worn sign stood, the words “NATIONAL PARK” barely visible in its decay. All around him the world was silent; the woods were as dead as their name. The remnants of the old trail was barely visible to The Stag, and no sensation of home greeted him. The air felt wrong upon his skin, and shadows danced on the edges of his vision. The entrance called to him in the dark, daring him to enter, hinting at sorrows within. The King of Ghosts had returned home. The spirits beyond awaited him.

The Stag stepped forward carefully, glancing about as he did. Nothing living moved around him. No figures darted through the trees. No caravans moved along the trail. Everything was exactly as he had left it, but an ominous air hung over it. A light breeze seemed to dance at his heels, delicately pulling him closer. Whispers played on the edge of his hearing, but no voices could be made out. Placing one foot in front of the other he grew nearer, until finally he reached the start of the trail. Shattered asphalt gave way under his feet to dirt, with overgrown grasses reaching past his boots. He stepped fully onto the soil, and the wind stopped. The world grew silent again; the Dead Woods were watching him. He paused at trailhead, building his courage. Frowning at the fear of his own realm, he lifted his foot to step forward.

“Drachma for the poor?”

A voice shattered the silence, and The Stag jumped slightly. He turned towards the sound, finding a haggard beggar crumpled on the ground against a tree. He wore a long coat in tatters, and his skin was wrinkled and cracked from exposure. His slacks were threadbare, and his boots had many holes from long travels. A metal tin sat beside the man, a few twinkling coins lying inside. Long grey hair obscured most of his face, blending in with a scraggly beard that hung down to his chest. From inside the tangled mess of hair a single eye looked out wearily, the other fully hidden. A battered hiking stick leaned against the tree. The Stag searched around in his pockets and found a single golden coin, then tossed it into the tin.

“I’m afraid that’s all I have.” The Stag said wearily. The beggar nodded knowingly. The Stag turned back to the entrance, and began to step forward once more.

“Those woods are no place for the living. Even those fated to rule them.” The Stag glanced over to the beggar, who was looking down at his feet.

“There are no ‘places for the living’ in this madhouse of a world.” The Stag responded.

“There are a few left, if you know where to look.”

The Stag regarded the man curiously, and a sensation of familiarity washed over him. He had seen this figure before, though when and where seemed lost in his memory. The man was not as he appeared, though The Stag could not place why.

“Do I know you?” The Stag finally asked.

“By asking you have answered your own question, for if you knew me you wouldn’t need to ask.”

The Stag paused for a moment, unsure of what to say to the strange being before him. A cold breeze blew through the area, and The Stag shivered. A slight static was upon the air, though its source was unknown. There was a sound in The Stag’s ear, but he was sure that the area was silent. Magic ran through his realm, radiating outwards as a signal of danger.

“You said that these Woods were no place for the living, have you walked through them recently?”

“I’ve walked through many woods, and traveled many places.”

“Do you always speak in riddles?” Irritation crept into The Stag’s voice.

“Only when talking about things of utmost importance.”

“Uh-huh.” The Stag turned away from the beggar, and stepped onto the path. Soft tendrils of magic lightly touched his skin, and he shivered once again.

“Before you pass the threshold of home, take a good look around for dangers. You never know where your enemies may be seated within, lying in wait. Even for its king, this road is treacherous.”

“Enough riddles!” The Stag turned to address the man, only to find an empty trailhead. All trace of the beggar had vanished in an instant, and the woods fell back into silence. The Stag looked around in suspicion, watching for hidden figures.

“CAW!”

The Stag turned his head towards the sound, spotting a crow sitting on a tree branch nearby. A great sound of flapping echoed through the Woods, and a second crow landed on the branch. The two looked at The Stag, and he glimpsed an unusual intelligence in their eyes.

“CAW, CAW!”

The crows cried out again, seeming to urge him on. They stared at The Stag unblinking, watching his every move. The Stag shuddered for a third time and turn back towards the trail. He stepped forward quickly, and was soon swallowed by the darkness of the Dead Woods.

AUTHORS NOTE:

No one knows where the forests came from, or how they grew so rapidly. They sprouted during the violence at The Start of The End, consuming many of the greatest cities of man. Impossibly tall trees grew overnight, toppling skyscrapers where they stood. Their appearance has returned the world to a wild state, as the natural world recovered rapidly from its prior degradation. In less than a month the forests reached an old growth state, and all efforts of removing or reclaiming the territory has been futile. For every tree cut down two more grow in their place, and strange creatures have been seen wandering the forest’s depths. The only exception to this has been The Dead Woods, which has never recovered from the calamity. It’s one of the few places almost none dare to enter, as few who do ever return. Besides The King of Ghosts, no one knows what walks beneath its trees. Rumors abound that the woods are haunted, but most dismiss them as fairy tales and folklore. So long as The Golden Stag walks the woods, the people outside them remain safe.

Episode 6 takes place six months after The Start of The End.