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Description

There is a tale that is shared in hushed whispers and shivering voices, of a town lost in a sea of insidious fog. It is not a well known one, but those who have heard it once never forget it for the rest of their lives. A story of a Great Hart, and a greedy lumber Baron who sought to slay a legend. When him and his cruel hunting party violated the sacred beast, its death cursed the entire town. It bore a noxious fog that swallowed the village and trapped all sinners in its foul clutches. Those who ravaged the Great Heart in such a way were doomed to never know peace or rest, as the horrid mist prevented all. For many, the story stops there, as the Baron and the families who worked for him remain eternally trapped in a never ending nightmare. But there are those who say that the story is not yet done, that the torment of these sinners is not quite over. There are many questions on whether what they say is true, as many ponder the hows and whys. It doesn't matter in the end, as when the storyteller speaks, all lean in and listen to hear of what lurks within that endless fog.

For how long the Baron remained tormented by the ceaseless shroud of fog, no one can truly know. The pungent mist blotted out the sun and stars, the churning clouds of gray even dispelling the dark blanket of night. To him, it had been centuries, or perhaps only minutes, he couldn't tell anymore. There truly wasn't much he could tell from this horrid fog, as it had long since leaked into his manor and filled every room. For a while he fought it in vain, trying to seal doors and plug up holes in hopes of creating a single sanctuary safe from the mist's terrible presence. But no matter how hard he tried, it followed him everywhere, always at his heels like loyal hound. There was no reprieve from it, or the things that walked within it. There were times he swore he saw figures lurking within the fog, caught only by the corner of his eye. But when he spoke there was no answer and when he charged after them in a desperate rage his fists found nothing. He knew his manor to be empty, as his servants had long since fled into the gray nothingness, never to be seen again. The only souls he knew to be around hid within homes around town, trapped in the same hell as he. He hadn't seen his fellow hunters or their families for what seemed like ages, and he had no intention of changing that. From the haunting howls and screams that occasionally rose from the swallowed homes, he knew nothing could be found out there but madness and hate. He was alone in this castle of his, yet he never felt the peace of solitude.

Time crawled on as exhaustion ate away at his body and mind, creating shadows of madness that lurked behind every corner and door. At a point he no longer knew fear from these ethereal visitors, as he simply didn't have the strength to be afraid. There was now a hope that perhaps one of these shadowy figures would come forth and end his misery, as the fog had long robbed him of the authority over his own life. Perhaps their claws would finally let him die, maybe their vengeance would at last mean peace. But the figures never pounced, they only stared. At times when he could muster his feeble voice, he begged them for mercy or even death, but they gave nothing in return. All he could do was lay listlessly in his favorite chair, staring uselessly at the mounted hart horns in his study. In a time before, he may have had the mind to tear them from the wall and destroy them; flinging them into the fireplace or smashing them to dust, but that time has long passed. This cursed trophy had now become the last hope, perhaps the only way to communicate with whatever cruel spirit held him and his men in this nightmare. Some days he would scream at them, others would find him a sobbing mess, blubbering for any kind of answer or mercy. Sometimes when he looked at them, looming in the choking fog, he would swear they were wings of an angel, but of salvation or punishment, he didn't know. All he could do was sit and wait, hoping that one day this torment would end.

The smashing of wood and holler of voices snapped him from his mindless routine one day, and he thought that at last help had arrived. Perhaps a rescue team had successfully navigated the impossible shroud, determined to save those trapped within. He mustered his strength and hurried to the door, but he only found familiar haunted faces. It was the men who aided him in his killing of the Great Hart, having ripped through his front door in a savage state. Them and their families had been afflicted with this curse too, unable to escape from the mist that severed their ghostly village from reality. The crowd that poured through his door was all those trapped in this hell, and their gaunt bodies and crazed eyes told of their misery. It only took one look at their maddened state to know their intent, but the Baron had long lost the will to fight them. They set upon him like a mindless horde, seizing him in their groping arms and wrapping a noose around his neck. They dragged him from his manor and to the center of town, where their desperate ritual would take place. They strung him up on a lamppost, dangling him as a sacrifice to whatever monstrosity was responsible. Though the rope bit his neck and stole his breath, he didn't die. He didn't even pass out, as the fog once again fought off the sweet darkness. Though he kicked and squirmed on the end of the rope, the townsfolk simply stared, waiting for death or another horrid spirit to bring this ritual to an end. But for hours he hung from that noose and no phantom came to claim him. The townsfolk raged and despaired at this outcome, furious that they were not free from this horror. So instead they set upon his manor once again, leaving him to dangle and choke. They tore through his home and took everything they could use as supplies. Food, clothes, blankets and every useful scrap was plundered and prepared. If the cruel gods would not release them, then they would find a way out themselves. They had failed before, as the mist always spat them back out into the cursed town, but their maddened minds would not be swayed. With all the supplies they could muster, they vanished into the endless fog, leaving the Baron to hang from this crude gallows.

His cursed fellows never reappeared as he swung from that rope, as if this savage offering truly bought them freedom. He dangled uselessly from the lamppost, choking but never dying. He waited for either his men to return or for the reaper to finally come for him, but no one came. There were times he saw figures, with twisted antlers and impossible limbs, but all they did was stare and vanish into the nothingness. There was a wonder if he would spend eternity up here, struggling for worthless breath, but an odd thing happened. After who knows how long, the rope snapped and he plummeted to the cobblestone below. Though free from the rope, he had no desire to rise to his feet. He just lay there in a useless heap and wept. His sorrow and misery was endless, until he felt a presence before him. Though his eyes were to the ground, he knew something was watching him. He weakly raised his head to behold a bestial figure in the fog. It brought to mind the Great Hart, but this silhouette was too warped and mangled to be such earthly creature. But yet this beast did not fade or vanish, it continued to stand and stare at him. With the hope that this would at last be his moment of salvation, he shakily rose to his feet. Once up, the shadowy hart turned and strolled back into the mist. Desperate not to lose his chance at answers, he gave chase. He scrambled after it, but found nothing there. Instead, his flight brought him back to his manor. Once again lost, he stumbled back into his ransacked home, unfeeling to the destruction and emptiness around him. Before all this, he would be furious at the robbed goods and his violated castle, but now such material things were worthless. He walked aimlessly in his home, until he reached his study, where he planned to continue his endless rot. But when he glimpsed within this room, a sudden jolt raised him from this stupor.

The shadowy hart stood there, for just a moment, before it dissolved back into the fog. When it vanished, all that remained was his trophy, but it was no longer on the wall. The antler mount had fallen off and broken upon the floor, perhaps done during the looting. The antlers had not snapped, but further inspection showed that one was missing. Had the crazed villagers taken one with them? For what reason? He didn't know, but he felt that this lone antler was beckoning to him. The last fragment of the Great Hart, calling to the man who slew it. He took the once prized antler into his arms, and then felt that presence once more. He turned to find the mangled silhouette standing in the doorway, before walking out of view. Before all this, he had thought he had gone mad, purely imagining just another phantom, but now it seemed real. This was no illusion of a rotting mind, this was the spirit speaking to him, leading him to somewhere or something. For the first time in what felt like centuries, there was a hope, or at least something to follow. He took the antler with him and pursued the bestial phantom. All he caught were glimpses and flickers of movement, but it was enough to lead him to the backdoor of the manor. There he watched the ethereal hart pause at the edge of the swirling gray then walk into its maw. His body screamed at him to follow, but he paused in this action. The billowing fog had a bitter cold to it, and his emaciated body shivered at its touch. For the first time in a while, he felt that chill down to his bones, and he wondered if he could even survive such a journey. The villagers had taken blankets and furs with them to ward off the fog's cruel bite, so perhaps he should do the same. He didn't expect to find anything of use in his ransacked home, but luck smiled upon him with furs that the thieves had missed. So he bundled himself up the best he could and set off into the all consuming gray. At first he walked with new found vigor, given hope from this spirit. The world around him vanished into ceaseless fog, as if everything melted away and he was left alone in this miserable cloud. All he had to guide him was the faint shadow of the hart, always just out of reach. It beckoned him and he followed.

What started with hope was eventually turned back to desperation and misery, as his journey seemed to be one without end. Even though he kept following, the hart kept moving. His confident stride was turning to exhausted stumbling, but he dare not stop. Pausing for a breath or quick rest was not allowed, as the hart wouldn't stop and wait. It would just keep trotting away, disappearing into the fog. Though he was exhausted, a new fear forced him to keep going. What if he were to wait too long and lose the trail? What if the hart abandoned him in this cold, miserable void? Though he welcomed death at this point, the idea of being trapped in this senseless freezing realm terrified him, so he followed. The journey just kept going and going, only being broken up by the occasional fallen log to climb over or gnarled trees to weave past. The Baron barely cleared these pathetic obstacles, as his momentary strength had long faded, but he still desired to keep going. There had to be an end to this madness, a purpose to this torture. Even when his knees grew too weak to carry him, he crawled after the hart with antler in tow. At last, the shadowy hart came to a stop, and he collapsed to the earth. When he gained his breath, he finally looked up to see where the phantom had led him. To his horror, he found himself upon a familiar sight: a hefty spear, with its bloodied tip buried in the earth. Though this weapon had been taken back to his home after the successful hunt, he knew what its presence here signified. This was the spot where the Great Hart perished, this was the site of his greatest sin. The blood upon it now was surely the hart's, piercing a heart that once lay here in its final moments. He looked to the horrid shadow that brought him on this grueling journey, but it still did not speak. Instead it looked only to the antler in his hand.

His eyes followed the phantom's, wondering if this last piece of the beast was the key to solving this. Perhaps offering it to the spirit would appease the hart and let it move on from this world. Frantic, he held the antler to the shadow, holding it high with head bowed, hoping this bit of humility would earn him mercy. He felt the antler quiver in his hand, as if it was becoming alive. Then it was plucked free from his grip, springing upwards into the fog. Surprised, he dared himself to look up, to see if this was indeed his final test. When he turned his face to the heavens, he found only pain. Like an ivory bolt, the antler shot down and embedded itself into his head. The sawed stump burrowed in like a parasite, fusing to skin and bone. The agony blinded him, and it was only the insidious influence of the choking fog that kept him from passing out. When he regained his senses, the antler was now a part of him, erupting from his skull like a horrid growth. He whimpered before the uncaring hart, that still only stared. He quivered in pain and confusion, wondering what was the point of all this. Why torture him like this? Hadn't he suffered enough? Why did it bring him here? To mock him? To teach him a lesson? He didn't know and it drove his crumbling mind to madness. With what little strength he had, he got to his knees and screamed out to the terrible hart.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO!?" He shrieked at the top of his lungs, shredding his vocal cords in this one desperate plea. The guttural cry echoed through the mist, but the spirit of the Great Hart did not flinch. It seemed the Baron's cries fell on deaf ears, or at least the hart's. Though the phantom didn't react in the slightest, something responded from deep in the fog. A terrible sound, one you would hear from the darkness of your nightmare. It was like the growl of a tortured beast, a cry that can only come from a ravaged throat. It was the first sound he had heard in the entire eternity of this pointless journey, and it chilled him to the core. Then more came from the void, more horrible rumbles and barks, like the baying of rabid dogs. The hart stood still as a statue, as the first figure emerged from the fog. It took the Baron a moment to realize what he was looking at had once been human, as this beast was truly grotesque. The clothes and furs they had worn were shredded to ribbons, hanging off their skeletal frame like flaps of flayed skin. Beneath these torn garments was skin ravaged by scars and time, where old wounds had been healed and torn open again and again. The reason for this was seen in their gnarled hands, whose nails had grown to sickening lengths. Their face was barely visible from the tangled curtains of hair that spilled from their head. The only thing that could be seen was a pair of crazed eyes set above a gnashing maw of crooked, shattered teeth. The Baron fell back in fear, disgusted and terrified by the wretched creature before him. The hair of its head and hide made it look like some terrible animal, which was almost true when one looked into those bloodshot eyes. Humanity was long gone from this vile creature, replaced with the mania of a wounded starving beast. As he gaped in horror at the grunting, slavering abomination, more emerged from the fog. Each was coated in overgrown hair, erupting in clumps from head, chin, limbs and back. It nearly masked the torn clothing on their emaciated forms, but enough remained for the Baron to recognize pieces of it. These furs and coats had once been in his very own closet, until one violent raid. As the crowd of rabid man beasts grew, the Baron realized he was now faced with the hunters and their families, those who had strung him up and dared journey into the fog. Whatever they had found in that desperate journey had changed them, driving them to some bestial madness. They looked as if they had been lost for centuries, kept alive by this terrible noxious mist.

The Baron was horrified by the maddened beasts, and wondered of his own fate. When he met their mindless gaze, he knew exactly what was in their shattered minds. A rumble of sickening growls rose from these beasts, and vile quivering jaws dripped with saliva and rot. Their long nails clacked against each other, eager to taste flesh and blood. The Baron stumbled back, his feeble limbs failing him once more. He looked to the terrible form of the Great Hart, hoping that what was about to happen was merely an illusion. What he saw in those eyes was not mercy. For the first time throughout this entire horror show, the spirit spoke to him.

"Run."

The crowd of mindless man beasts let out a terrible shriek, and he ran. Though his legs were too weak to carry him, he still ran, galloping and stumbling on all fours to escape the horde of ravenous animals. They clawed after him, letting out guttural howls and obscene barks as they tore through the fog. He ran, even though his body screamed and burned. He ran because he could feel those nails rake against his furs and haunches whenever he slowed in the slightest. Though the coat suffocated his sweating, exhausted frame and the antler hung heavy like a leaden crown, he ran. There were times he screamed and begged for his former men to stop or for the hart to grant him mercy, but words could not escape from his lips. His vocal chords were damaged beyond repair, releasing only frightened bleats and shrieks of a tortured animal. His voice found no ears or reason, so he ran. He ran because that was all he could do...

This is where the storytellers grow silent, claiming this is the end of the tale. If this is the true end of the Baron and his fellow men, there is no way to tell. The town continues to be nameless and lost, forever swallowed by the noxious mist. The tortured souls of this tale are nowhere to be found, so one cannot ask them. The only way one can ever know the truth is to somehow discover that ghostly village and see for yourself. But none hope for such a thing, because once you enter, you can never leave. Entering the fog is entering a realm of unending gray, where rest and death cannot find you. Where the choking mist violates your very essence, and unyielding clouds steal away your senses. It is a fate that makes everyone shudder when they see the morning mist, or the eerie fog of a darkened forest. It makes one wonder if they have stumbled upon this cursed place and have set foot into a terrible reeking hell. Most who hear this tale are quick to flee from these simple clouds, convinced that they will whisk them away to this horrible fate. It sounds like a silly thing, but these folk swear to it. They claim to catch a whiff of that pungent odor, of that chilling bite of the fog. And as they flee they swear they hear those terrible sounds, ones that will haunt them for the rest of their lives. Those guttural barks and howls of hunting dogs, and the tortured cry of desperate fleeing hart....

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A long time ago I posted the Spirit of Hartshorn, which spoke of a town shrouded in foul mist, brought on by a greedy Baron. There was a continuation planned for it, but obviously I have taken my sweet time posting it. TheGuardianofLight gave me the boost to finally finish the tale! Hope you enjoy!

Description

There is a tale that is shared in hushed whispers and shivering voices, of a town lost in a sea of insidious fog. It is not a well known one, but those who have heard it once never forget it for the rest of their lives. A story of a Great Hart, and a greedy lumber Baron who sought to slay a legend. When him and his cruel hunting party violated the sacred beast, its death cursed the entire town. It bore a noxious fog that swallowed the village and trapped all sinners in its foul clutches. Those who ravaged the Great Heart in such a way were doomed to never know peace or rest, as the horrid mist prevented all. For many, the story stops there, as the Baron and the families who worked for him remain eternally trapped in a never ending nightmare. But there are those who say that the story is not yet done, that the torment of these sinners is not quite over. There are many questions on whether what they say is true, as many ponder the hows and whys. It doesn't matter in the end, as when the storyteller speaks, all lean in and listen to hear of what lurks within that endless fog.

For how long the Baron remained tormented by the ceaseless shroud of fog, no one can truly know. The pungent mist blotted out the sun and stars, the churning clouds of gray even dispelling the dark blanket of night. To him, it had been centuries, or perhaps only minutes, he couldn't tell anymore. There truly wasn't much he could tell from this horrid fog, as it had long since leaked into his manor and filled every room. For a while he fought it in vain, trying to seal doors and plug up holes in hopes of creating a single sanctuary safe from the mist's terrible presence. But no matter how hard he tried, it followed him everywhere, always at his heels like loyal hound. There was no reprieve from it, or the things that walked within it. There were times he swore he saw figures lurking within the fog, caught only by the corner of his eye. But when he spoke there was no answer and when he charged after them in a desperate rage his fists found nothing. He knew his manor to be empty, as his servants had long since fled into the gray nothingness, never to be seen again. The only souls he knew to be around hid within homes around town, trapped in the same hell as he. He hadn't seen his fellow hunters or their families for what seemed like ages, and he had no intention of changing that. From the haunting howls and screams that occasionally rose from the swallowed homes, he knew nothing could be found out there but madness and hate. He was alone in this castle of his, yet he never felt the peace of solitude.

Time crawled on as exhaustion ate away at his body and mind, creating shadows of madness that lurked behind every corner and door. At a point he no longer knew fear from these ethereal visitors, as he simply didn't have the strength to be afraid. There was now a hope that perhaps one of these shadowy figures would come forth and end his misery, as the fog had long robbed him of the authority over his own life. Perhaps their claws would finally let him die, maybe their vengeance would at last mean peace. But the figures never pounced, they only stared. At times when he could muster his feeble voice, he begged them for mercy or even death, but they gave nothing in return. All he could do was lay listlessly in his favorite chair, staring uselessly at the mounted hart horns in his study. In a time before, he may have had the mind to tear them from the wall and destroy them; flinging them into the fireplace or smashing them to dust, but that time has long passed. This cursed trophy had now become the last hope, perhaps the only way to communicate with whatever cruel spirit held him and his men in this nightmare. Some days he would scream at them, others would find him a sobbing mess, blubbering for any kind of answer or mercy. Sometimes when he looked at them, looming in the choking fog, he would swear they were wings of an angel, but of salvation or punishment, he didn't know. All he could do was sit and wait, hoping that one day this torment would end.

The smashing of wood and holler of voices snapped him from his mindless routine one day, and he thought that at last help had arrived. Perhaps a rescue team had successfully navigated the impossible shroud, determined to save those trapped within. He mustered his strength and hurried to the door, but he only found familiar haunted faces. It was the men who aided him in his killing of the Great Hart, having ripped through his front door in a savage state. Them and their families had been afflicted with this curse too, unable to escape from the mist that severed their ghostly village from reality. The crowd that poured through his door was all those trapped in this hell, and their gaunt bodies and crazed eyes told of their misery. It only took one look at their maddened state to know their intent, but the Baron had long lost the will to fight them. They set upon him like a mindless horde, seizing him in their groping arms and wrapping a noose around his neck. They dragged him from his manor and to the center of town, where their desperate ritual would take place. They strung him up on a lamppost, dangling him as a sacrifice to whatever monstrosity was responsible. Though the rope bit his neck and stole his breath, he didn't die. He didn't even pass out, as the fog once again fought off the sweet darkness. Though he kicked and squirmed on the end of the rope, the townsfolk simply stared, waiting for death or another horrid spirit to bring this ritual to an end. But for hours he hung from that noose and no phantom came to claim him. The townsfolk raged and despaired at this outcome, furious that they were not free from this horror. So instead they set upon his manor once again, leaving him to dangle and choke. They tore through his home and took everything they could use as supplies. Food, clothes, blankets and every useful scrap was plundered and prepared. If the cruel gods would not release them, then they would find a way out themselves. They had failed before, as the mist always spat them back out into the cursed town, but their maddened minds would not be swayed. With all the supplies they could muster, they vanished into the endless fog, leaving the Baron to hang from this crude gallows.

His cursed fellows never reappeared as he swung from that rope, as if this savage offering truly bought them freedom. He dangled uselessly from the lamppost, choking but never dying. He waited for either his men to return or for the reaper to finally come for him, but no one came. There were times he saw figures, with twisted antlers and impossible limbs, but all they did was stare and vanish into the nothingness. There was a wonder if he would spend eternity up here, struggling for worthless breath, but an odd thing happened. After who knows how long, the rope snapped and he plummeted to the cobblestone below. Though free from the rope, he had no desire to rise to his feet. He just lay there in a useless heap and wept. His sorrow and misery was endless, until he felt a presence before him. Though his eyes were to the ground, he knew something was watching him. He weakly raised his head to behold a bestial figure in the fog. It brought to mind the Great Hart, but this silhouette was too warped and mangled to be such earthly creature. But yet this beast did not fade or vanish, it continued to stand and stare at him. With the hope that this would at last be his moment of salvation, he shakily rose to his feet. Once up, the shadowy hart turned and strolled back into the mist. Desperate not to lose his chance at answers, he gave chase. He scrambled after it, but found nothing there. Instead, his flight brought him back to his manor. Once again lost, he stumbled back into his ransacked home, unfeeling to the destruction and emptiness around him. Before all this, he would be furious at the robbed goods and his violated castle, but now such material things were worthless. He walked aimlessly in his home, until he reached his study, where he planned to continue his endless rot. But when he glimpsed within this room, a sudden jolt raised him from this stupor.

The shadowy hart stood there, for just a moment, before it dissolved back into the fog. When it vanished, all that remained was his trophy, but it was no longer on the wall. The antler mount had fallen off and broken upon the floor, perhaps done during the looting. The antlers had not snapped, but further inspection showed that one was missing. Had the crazed villagers taken one with them? For what reason? He didn't know, but he felt that this lone antler was beckoning to him. The last fragment of the Great Hart, calling to the man who slew it. He took the once prized antler into his arms, and then felt that presence once more. He turned to find the mangled silhouette standing in the doorway, before walking out of view. Before all this, he had thought he had gone mad, purely imagining just another phantom, but now it seemed real. This was no illusion of a rotting mind, this was the spirit speaking to him, leading him to somewhere or something. For the first time in what felt like centuries, there was a hope, or at least something to follow. He took the antler with him and pursued the bestial phantom. All he caught were glimpses and flickers of movement, but it was enough to lead him to the backdoor of the manor. There he watched the ethereal hart pause at the edge of the swirling gray then walk into its maw. His body screamed at him to follow, but he paused in this action. The billowing fog had a bitter cold to it, and his emaciated body shivered at its touch. For the first time in a while, he felt that chill down to his bones, and he wondered if he could even survive such a journey. The villagers had taken blankets and furs with them to ward off the fog's cruel bite, so perhaps he should do the same. He didn't expect to find anything of use in his ransacked home, but luck smiled upon him with furs that the thieves had missed. So he bundled himself up the best he could and set off into the all consuming gray. At first he walked with new found vigor, given hope from this spirit. The world around him vanished into ceaseless fog, as if everything melted away and he was left alone in this miserable cloud. All he had to guide him was the faint shadow of the hart, always just out of reach. It beckoned him and he followed.

What started with hope was eventually turned back to desperation and misery, as his journey seemed to be one without end. Even though he kept following, the hart kept moving. His confident stride was turning to exhausted stumbling, but he dare not stop. Pausing for a breath or quick rest was not allowed, as the hart wouldn't stop and wait. It would just keep trotting away, disappearing into the fog. Though he was exhausted, a new fear forced him to keep going. What if he were to wait too long and lose the trail? What if the hart abandoned him in this cold, miserable void? Though he welcomed death at this point, the idea of being trapped in this senseless freezing realm terrified him, so he followed. The journey just kept going and going, only being broken up by the occasional fallen log to climb over or gnarled trees to weave past. The Baron barely cleared these pathetic obstacles, as his momentary strength had long faded, but he still desired to keep going. There had to be an end to this madness, a purpose to this torture. Even when his knees grew too weak to carry him, he crawled after the hart with antler in tow. At last, the shadowy hart came to a stop, and he collapsed to the earth. When he gained his breath, he finally looked up to see where the phantom had led him. To his horror, he found himself upon a familiar sight: a hefty spear, with its bloodied tip buried in the earth. Though this weapon had been taken back to his home after the successful hunt, he knew what its presence here signified. This was the spot where the Great Hart perished, this was the site of his greatest sin. The blood upon it now was surely the hart's, piercing a heart that once lay here in its final moments. He looked to the horrid shadow that brought him on this grueling journey, but it still did not speak. Instead it looked only to the antler in his hand.

His eyes followed the phantom's, wondering if this last piece of the beast was the key to solving this. Perhaps offering it to the spirit would appease the hart and let it move on from this world. Frantic, he held the antler to the shadow, holding it high with head bowed, hoping this bit of humility would earn him mercy. He felt the antler quiver in his hand, as if it was becoming alive. Then it was plucked free from his grip, springing upwards into the fog. Surprised, he dared himself to look up, to see if this was indeed his final test. When he turned his face to the heavens, he found only pain. Like an ivory bolt, the antler shot down and embedded itself into his head. The sawed stump burrowed in like a parasite, fusing to skin and bone. The agony blinded him, and it was only the insidious influence of the choking fog that kept him from passing out. When he regained his senses, the antler was now a part of him, erupting from his skull like a horrid growth. He whimpered before the uncaring hart, that still only stared. He quivered in pain and confusion, wondering what was the point of all this. Why torture him like this? Hadn't he suffered enough? Why did it bring him here? To mock him? To teach him a lesson? He didn't know and it drove his crumbling mind to madness. With what little strength he had, he got to his knees and screamed out to the terrible hart.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO!?" He shrieked at the top of his lungs, shredding his vocal cords in this one desperate plea. The guttural cry echoed through the mist, but the spirit of the Great Hart did not flinch. It seemed the Baron's cries fell on deaf ears, or at least the hart's. Though the phantom didn't react in the slightest, something responded from deep in the fog. A terrible sound, one you would hear from the darkness of your nightmare. It was like the growl of a tortured beast, a cry that can only come from a ravaged throat. It was the first sound he had heard in the entire eternity of this pointless journey, and it chilled him to the core. Then more came from the void, more horrible rumbles and barks, like the baying of rabid dogs. The hart stood still as a statue, as the first figure emerged from the fog. It took the Baron a moment to realize what he was looking at had once been human, as this beast was truly grotesque. The clothes and furs they had worn were shredded to ribbons, hanging off their skeletal frame like flaps of flayed skin. Beneath these torn garments was skin ravaged by scars and time, where old wounds had been healed and torn open again and again. The reason for this was seen in their gnarled hands, whose nails had grown to sickening lengths. Their face was barely visible from the tangled curtains of hair that spilled from their head. The only thing that could be seen was a pair of crazed eyes set above a gnashing maw of crooked, shattered teeth. The Baron fell back in fear, disgusted and terrified by the wretched creature before him. The hair of its head and hide made it look like some terrible animal, which was almost true when one looked into those bloodshot eyes. Humanity was long gone from this vile creature, replaced with the mania of a wounded starving beast. As he gaped in horror at the grunting, slavering abomination, more emerged from the fog. Each was coated in overgrown hair, erupting in clumps from head, chin, limbs and back. It nearly masked the torn clothing on their emaciated forms, but enough remained for the Baron to recognize pieces of it. These furs and coats had once been in his very own closet, until one violent raid. As the crowd of rabid man beasts grew, the Baron realized he was now faced with the hunters and their families, those who had strung him up and dared journey into the fog. Whatever they had found in that desperate journey had changed them, driving them to some bestial madness. They looked as if they had been lost for centuries, kept alive by this terrible noxious mist.

The Baron was horrified by the maddened beasts, and wondered of his own fate. When he met their mindless gaze, he knew exactly what was in their shattered minds. A rumble of sickening growls rose from these beasts, and vile quivering jaws dripped with saliva and rot. Their long nails clacked against each other, eager to taste flesh and blood. The Baron stumbled back, his feeble limbs failing him once more. He looked to the terrible form of the Great Hart, hoping that what was about to happen was merely an illusion. What he saw in those eyes was not mercy. For the first time throughout this entire horror show, the spirit spoke to him.

"Run."

The crowd of mindless man beasts let out a terrible shriek, and he ran. Though his legs were too weak to carry him, he still ran, galloping and stumbling on all fours to escape the horde of ravenous animals. They clawed after him, letting out guttural howls and obscene barks as they tore through the fog. He ran, even though his body screamed and burned. He ran because he could feel those nails rake against his furs and haunches whenever he slowed in the slightest. Though the coat suffocated his sweating, exhausted frame and the antler hung heavy like a leaden crown, he ran. There were times he screamed and begged for his former men to stop or for the hart to grant him mercy, but words could not escape from his lips. His vocal chords were damaged beyond repair, releasing only frightened bleats and shrieks of a tortured animal. His voice found no ears or reason, so he ran. He ran because that was all he could do...

This is where the storytellers grow silent, claiming this is the end of the tale. If this is the true end of the Baron and his fellow men, there is no way to tell. The town continues to be nameless and lost, forever swallowed by the noxious mist. The tortured souls of this tale are nowhere to be found, so one cannot ask them. The only way one can ever know the truth is to somehow discover that ghostly village and see for yourself. But none hope for such a thing, because once you enter, you can never leave. Entering the fog is entering a realm of unending gray, where rest and death cannot find you. Where the choking mist violates your very essence, and unyielding clouds steal away your senses. It is a fate that makes everyone shudder when they see the morning mist, or the eerie fog of a darkened forest. It makes one wonder if they have stumbled upon this cursed place and have set foot into a terrible reeking hell. Most who hear this tale are quick to flee from these simple clouds, convinced that they will whisk them away to this horrible fate. It sounds like a silly thing, but these folk swear to it. They claim to catch a whiff of that pungent odor, of that chilling bite of the fog. And as they flee they swear they hear those terrible sounds, ones that will haunt them for the rest of their lives. Those guttural barks and howls of hunting dogs, and the tortured cry of desperate fleeing hart....

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A long time ago I posted the Spirit of Hartshorn, which spoke of a town shrouded in foul mist, brought on by a greedy Baron. There was a continuation planned for it, but obviously I have taken my sweet time posting it. TheGuardianofLight gave me the boost to finally finish the tale! Hope you enjoy!