First, there was darkness; a wayward soul in a nameless land, oblivious to itself and the phantasmal world around it, which shifted and obscured like the cresting waves of the ocean did churn in a storm. It was only a temporary guest, for every derelict ship would, sooner or later, either sink and be forgotten in the bottomless abyss, or wash up on distant, unfamiliar shores.

Then, there was lighting, and a howling gale whipped the red sails of this aimlessly drifting vessel, urging it onwards across the unresting seas of black ink. No rest or respite was given to the small, battered caravel whose hull was covered in leaks, the wood having all but corroded as if having sailed in acid. The masts creaked and moaned in the witching tempest, looking just about ready to snap – but they were not allowed to, for their work was not yet done. Some unseen force of will held the rotten wood together, for their goal was in sight: the moon, wrapped in black tendrils, as it was dragged into the briny depths. It was the last lighthouse before oblivion, and all one had to do was to catch up to the horizon. Ever onwards…

It seemed not enough; only a tiny piece of the moon was left reaching out of the black tides, its pristine surface tainted with ebon, ropy fingers. As the light waned, so did the horrid storm, and the vessel became slower and slower. Yet, then, a miracle occurred, and the last bit of surface of the moon did crack like an eggshell. Dark waters poured into the hollow cocoon while ethereal roots sprouted from within, tall into the sky. Within moments, an enormous tree had grown, formed of pure energy. Its translucent, ghostly surface shimmered with a thousand twinkling lights as if it were a liquid gemstone. The tallest branches reached into the dooming clouds, while the roots dug into the seas, and all the world lit up with impossible incandescence. The oceans and the clouds disappeared, leaving the broken vessel drifting weightlessly in a labyrinth of coiling, shimmering roots.

 These roots were living things with a will of their own, and they writhed and moved like serpents did, growing and reaching towards the ship until one of them touched the scabbed underside of it. Immediately, the decaying wood began to creak and malform and grow a forest of its own as thousands of little trees and branches sprouted from the moldy wreck. Before long, one could not tell it was a ship at all anymore, as one only saw an island of rampant, untouched nature in a sea of innocent energy.

A castaway washed up on the distant, unfamiliar shore, naked and covered in sand. She rose to her hands and knees, her head hung low and her face was obscured by a curtain of hair the color of a long forgotten caravel’s sails. Thirst and hunger drove the fugitive onwards, into the emerald forest beyond the coastline, where she disappeared in the green thicket. The weird forest whispered in her ears, and its songs mended her ailing mind. She became tranquil and relaxed, and decided to lie down on an empty patch of grass. As she did, branches with enormous leaves sprouted from the ground, blanketing her in their warm embrace.

The forest sang in many voices which harkened back to days of yore, most of them were unfamiliar, but some were not, and amongst them she recognized not just her own, but also that of others she knew. The voices that once soothed her soul became quieter and quieter, to be replaced by those that would fill her with guilt and regret, those that would point fingers and cast accusations and blame. The exile felt vulnerable and frightened, and wanted to leave but could not, for the blanket of leaves held her tightly in its dubious embrace.

“I’m sick of it, Vincent!” an angry woman’s voice hissed, and a nearby tree suddenly combusted into flame, burning brightly.

“I hate you, Jillian! You’re a whore!” another, girlish voice yelled from yonder, and another once magnificent tree burst up in flame.

“…Of course not. I couldn’t love a bad person, could I?”

“She’s a witch! Seize her before it’s too late!”

 “How in the Planes did you expect me to be able to keep that promise? Fool!”

The voices became louder and more frequent with each sentence, and soon the exile could no longer make out individual phrases amongst the cacophony of damning cries. She struggled in her natural restraints while the entire forest caught fire around her, burning like dried wood covered in oil. The air became foul with black smoke and myriad floating, swirling embers of glowing orange. The fire slowly crept towards the woman, its fiery roar mixed with the hateful and desperate thoughts of the past. Eventually, the flame carpet engulfed even her, reducing her bonds to ash, but leaving her skin strangely unmarred. She stood up, her body smeared with black dust, and looked about herself with a look of panic and fright on her tearful face. All directions looked the same, and so the castaway stumbled in a random direction, hoping to escape the deafening screams and the cleansing fire. Along the way, she found many dying creatures that were consumed by flame; animals of the forest big and small, from hares, rats and badgers, to wolves, bears, and even lohks and trolls. None were spared. She also found men, indistinguishable from one another as their bodies were little more than charred, humanoid silhouettes.

“Jillian,” one of the men called out, lying on his back. Wrapped around his burnt-out husk were the remains of a black robe, and even that was falling to pieces, tattered fragments falling off his extended, outwards reaching arm as it grasped for the exile. Just when her hand met his, glowing cracks erupted all over his dark brown flesh, and a mere blink of an eye later his form was torn apart by primal forces, exploding in fire and burning blood. The woman collapsed into the crater where once the man had lain, her fists hammering the scorched earth and her mouth torn open as if she were screaming, but no sound was heard from her; instead, an inhuman scream thundered from the bloodred skies above, which could now be seen as the once thick boughs of the forest had been burnt up. An enormous form of a winged quadruped plummeted from the bleeding heavens, its once green scaled hide blackened by fire not of this world. It crashed onto the earth not far from the fugitive, flattening the torched woodlands beneath its enormous body with a loud, sickening crunch. It lifted its head, weak but defiant of death, and opened its viciously toothed maw as if wanting to speak, but instead her jaws limply opened and closed while a few gurgling screeches came out shortly before the beast vomited a thick torrent of blood in front of itself. As it did so, its scales and skin receded, drying up, burning and evaporating in seconds until only a reddened skeleton remained. Only the blood remained, evenly spreading like a blanket across the ground from where the beast had died.

The exile, grasped by sheer horror, crawled backwards on her behind, staring madly at the decayed dragon. The expanding blood pool eventually caught up with her and washed past her body, so that her hands, feet and rear were all drenched utterly in the fluid that was strangely reflective, like a mirror. Trees snapped and broke behind her, as if a large creature were barreling through what was once a forest. Underneath the sound of cracking wood she recognized a deep, threatening breath, more fearsome even than the panting of a dragon. Her entire frame was shaking uncontrollably, and when she turned around she beheld a silhouette in the distance, impossibly large and bulky. Its colorless horns were crowned by the black clouds, and its eyes glimmered like the heart of a blacksmith’s furnace. With its massive, clawed paw it pointed at the woman, and unleashed a roar that caused the earth to shake and tremble even more fearsomely than her body did. The exile collapsed entirely onto the blood-soaked, slippery ground and curled up in a fetal position while the world around her too collapsed, decayed and died under the demonic titan’s scornful gaze.

---

While Jillian slept throughout the remainder of the battle of Anaxim, as well as the entirety of her flight across Rodoria, her body had been restless ever since Gerald had infused her with the forest’s natural energy. She would have constantly been moving an arm or a leg, changing sides, and occasionally letting out a woeful moan. When Elder Renold deposited her where their campsite was to be on the outskirts of Pelgaid City, her body was drenched in sweat, too much to have been due to the dragon’s internal heat. Even after having been laid down in the camp, she continued to sweat, much like she were suffering from a severe fever. A handful of hours had passed since Gerald and the dragon established their camp, and the sun was setting on the western horizon, casting its last rays of light in between the tall rocks that littered the lands surrounding the small lake and the campfire.

Jillian’s body rocked with a violent coughing attack that woke the witch from her nightmarish slumber. As she did, she rolled over onto her elbows, coughing towards the ground; mere moments after which she threw up what little sustenance she had had in her stomach. There wasn’t much, and her original upheaval was followed by a few dry heaves before she calmed down again, panting heavily. Exhausted, she dropped to her side again with a weary sigh, and the tips of her hair were dragged through the small puddle of vomit and dried blood next to her. Everything hurt; every square inch of skin that touched the blankets or whichever clothing remained on her body (if any?) felt as if it were being scraped with iron thorns. There was also the unnatural cold, causing her to shiver and feel even more miserable. She felt even weaker than usual; the mere thought of lifting her hand to remove the hair from her vision was a strain and felt like too much effort. In the end, she simply peered through the crimson veil, sluggishly trying to take in her surroundings. The first thing she spotted was the campfire, bright and warm nearby. Not far from it, a black silhouette was illuminated by the flame, a figure sitting on a rock, relatively motionless. It seemed familiar somehow, but she could not quite piece it all together so quickly.

“Vince?” she weakly murmured, squinting her eyes to see more sharply through the haze left by old, half-formed tears. After a handful of seconds, she realized her folly without even having to look Gerald in the face.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered, followed by another cough. Of course it wasn’t Vincent – Vincent was dead, and she knew bloody well why. Gerald was probably responsible for her life right now, and she didn’t even call him by his name, let alone thank him. Wasn’t that typical of her? Naturally it was! More than that, she could not even help but selfishly think about wanting to drink something. For some strange reason she felt incredibly thirsty, her tongue was all sticky inside her mouth, on top of tasting after her refuse from a few moments ago.

“Gerald,” she hissed, finding it exhausting just to speak, “you don’t know… don’t know how terrible I feel – right now.” That came out wrong, didn’t it? “I need something to – to drink.”

As her mind came back into gear, more and more questions rational began forming. What happened in Anaxim? Where were they right now? What of the defenders, of the dragons, of the crusaders? How long was she asleep?

She wanted to ask Gerald all of these things, but for the moment she could not. Her mouth was too dry, her senses still too much in a blur. All in due time. Jillian stayed motionless, lying sideways and curled up, staring at Gerald through her messy hair that lay across her entire face and stuck to it because of the sweat.