June, week 4; 6 months after The Start of The End

It took The Stag two days to reach the edge of the Old City. He stuck to the shadows, stalking alleys overgrown with massive roots. His clothing was casual: a dark hoodie and cargo pants, paired with gloves and combat boots. The streets were a tangled mess of allies and enemies; anonymity was his best protection.

Around him the forest was quiet. No birds sung in the trees, no animals cried in the night. Those in the street walked quickly, keeping their heads down. This was a no mans land; avenues bordered by buildings in ruin. Sentries watched from shattered windows, standing guard over their realms. The perpetual twilight was tense. A single spark and it would blow.

After an hour he passed Bacchanalia. Its lights gleamed in neon colors, carving a gap in the shadows. It was raucous and loud, barely muffled by the trees. As he drew close he pulled his hood tighter, hiding his face from the revelry. He quickened his step, and moved into what had once been the business district. Its buildings were dark; abandoned when the trees consumed them. He remembered the first footage of the emergence: great trunks growing in seconds, buildings toppling, people screaming. It had been unprecedented and tragic. Now, it was unremarkable.

Another hour passed, and he found himself in the remains of the suburbs. No one traveled here; it had grown wild. Moss swallowed the remains of fences, glimpses of white picket beneath the carpet of green. Most buildings were completely demolished, with rubble strewn everywhere. On the edge of his vision he saw shapes in the trees; monsters and creatures lumbering in the dark.

Halfway through the night he paused to rest, sitting on a massive root. He looked around the darkness, and was struck by the silence. At its height the city numbered millions, filled with never-ending noise. The Start of the End destroyed it all, leveling it in a matter of days. Teeming masses vanished into the shadows, swallowed in an instant.

The Stag reached into his bag and pulled out an old MRE. He opened it, filling the area with the smell of seasonings. He leaned forward to grab a spoon from his pack, and stopped. Light as the softest breeze a chanting could be heard; soft voices in an unknown language. He cocked his head slightly; the sound was beautiful, and somehow soothing. Suspicious, he placed his rations upon the closest root. He stood slowly and put a hand on the goddess’ dagger. The voices grew to his right, and he turned.

A line of figures passed in the distance, moving slowly through the woods. He crouched behind the roots and stared, mesmerized. They felt inhuman, moving in perfect unison. Each of the beings wore robes of white, which flowed like water around them. Several sat upon pure white stallions, carrying small banners and pennants. The entire procession glowed slightly, projecting soft light on the trees around them. All of them bore elegant weaponry; spears and swords glittering in the glow. It was eerie and fantastical; like a movie made real.

A shadow passed behind the group, large as a small house. The procession halted, and one of the figures threw a spear into the treeline. It hit its target, and there was a massive roar. A large thud resounded through the trees, and the group continued. The Stag kept watch as they moved from eyesight, their songs fading to nothing. He picked up his ration pack and the smell of Lilac danced on the breeze. Shivering, he set into his food.

It was noon when he finally reached the treeline. The forest ended abruptly; a wall of trees surrounded by thick fog. The land beyond was covered in short grasses, lush and green in the cold. A cloud clung perpetually to the ground, hiding everything beyond a few feet ahead.

He had reached the The Land of Mists.

A twig snapped behind him. Static built, his senses heightened, and the smell of fresh rain overwhelmed him. Soft footfalls broke the silence, and a delicate wind blew past. He placed a hand on the Goddess’ dagger and turned.

A creature was approaching unlike any he had ever seen. It thrummed with power, primal and ancient. A slight aura surrounded it, causing the air to shimmer. It was a hodgepodge; a chimera of many beasts which didn’t belong together. Its body was that of a stag, with massive antlers upon its head. Where hooves should have been were talons, and its face was that of a baboon. A shaggy mane hung upon its neck, a bolt of white on its brown fur. As it walked flowers burst about its feet; dying as it stepped away.

The Stag met its gaze, and his body stiffened. His fear built as he stared forward, looking deeply into its eyes. They were unchanging, unblinking, but filled with an inhumane intellect. They were the color of wild berries, shaped like a human’s but twice their size. A slight smile lay perpetually on its face, bringing both comfort and discontent. It was eerie and unnatural, but paradoxically the embodiment of nature itself. It was no deity of human invention, and existed in no pantheon. It was older, a God of something primeval.

It stopped in front of The Stag and cocked its head slightly, staring in curiosity. The Stag’s heart thundered in his chest. He tried to move, but found himself petrified. He was trapped; drawn in by the inhuman eyes. The God leaned its face forward and gently placed its lips upon the Stag’s forehead. It breathed out, and a warmth moved through his body. For a moment he could feel the essence of the trees: every root and branch, every hidden secret. The God moved away and it faded. The Stag was filled with an indescribable strength, like the forest itself had blessed him. The God turned away and padded into the trees, disappearing rapidly.

The force holding The Stag released, and he took a deep breath. His heartbeat slowed, and he stared after the deity. He was shaken, his preconceptions shattered. No Gods had been described that were beyond imagination; all had an origin and culture. The weight of the world’s age pressed upon him; he had seen something which predated humanity, brought forth from the wild realms.

The Stag shook himself, freeing his mind from its existential dread. He had a mission. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, entering The Land of Mists.

AUTHORS NOTE:

Since The Start of The End, countless pantheons have been confirmed. Deities from every culture and tradition have emerged, reflecting the entirety of human experience. Religious movements - new and old - have appeared across the planet in response. The Old Ways have returned, bringing long dead faiths back from the grave. Some philosophers have argued this makes us unique; only we have the hubris to invent gods. Several religious sects have posited this is proof of human divinity, citing our imagination as our piece of the divine. They both state this separates us from nature, for animals and plants have no gods of their own. Each argues it is our imagination which brought forth the entities; an imagination that is uniquely human. Secular scholars have avoided this debate, focusing on classification and description. No gods have been found yet which have no historical record, though rumors have emerged of a beast in the trees.

Episode 14 takes place on Day 1 of The Start of The End.