First adventure

The descent was an act of defiance against everything his instincts demanded, each movement an argument against fear. Óttarr's feet found purchase on the uneven, moss-slick bark, his fingers gripping every nook and crevice with desperate precision. The rain was relentless, its cold bite numbing his hands and clouding his vision, but he forced himself to focus. One slip, and the forest below would claim him.

The hollow faded into the canopy above, its eerie glow swallowed by the dense network of vines and leaves. Óttarr's heart raced as he reached a lower branch, crouching there for a moment to catch his breath. The storm carried strange sounds—low, resonant groans that could have been the wind or the calls of creatures far below.

He wiped the rain from his face, his fingers trembling as he looked down. The ground was still a dizzying distance away, a blur of shifting mist and faint lights. From this vantage point, he could see more of the forest floor—a carpet of glowing fungi, sprawling roots, and streams that shimmered with an otherworldly hue. The sight was hauntingly beautiful, but there was no time to marvel. He had to move.

Óttarr dropped lower, his movements becoming more deliberate as he adjusted to the slick surface. The bark here felt alive beneath his hands, pulsating faintly as though echoing the hum he'd felt in the hollow. He pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on his footing.

At last, his boots hit solid ground—a root so massive it could have been a road, twisting and gnarled beneath the canopy. He crouched low, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The storm was quieter here, the dense foliage above muffling the rain to a steady patter.

The hum was louder now, more distinct, and it wasn't just in the air—it was in the ground, in the roots, in every surface he touched. Óttarr tried to block it out, but it seemed to resonate inside him, a vibration he couldn't escape.

He stayed low, scanning his surroundings. The bioluminescent fungi cast an eerie glow, illuminating the strange, alien landscape. Vines coiled like serpents around the roots, their surfaces slick with rain and dotted with tiny, pulsating spores. Small creatures darted in and out of the undergrowth, their glowing eyes tracking him from the shadows.

Óttarr's thoughts returned to the Raincaller. Was it still watching him? Was this hum its doing? He couldn't shake the feeling that the forest itself was a part of the creature, that it was everywhere and nowhere at once. He clenched his fists, willing himself to focus.

"Keep moving," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Don't stop."

He stepped off the root onto the spongy ground below, his boots sinking slightly into the mossy surface. The air was thicker here, humid and heavy with the scent of earth and decay. Every step felt like a gamble, the ground shifting beneath him as though it were alive.

Ahead, the forest opened into a clearing, the rain forming a shimmering curtain between the trees. A faint light pulsed in the distance, too steady to be natural. Óttarr hesitated, his instincts warring with his curiosity. Whatever lay ahead could be a sanctuary—or a trap.

But staying put wasn't an option. He adjusted his sodden jacket, tightened his grip on the makeshift knife he'd fashioned from a shard of bark, and pushed forward.

The clearing came into view slowly, the mist parting to reveal a pool of water that glowed with an ethereal blue light. The surface was impossibly still, reflecting the towering trees and faintly glowing sky above. Strange, spindly plants grew along the edges, their translucent leaves quivering as though responding to an unseen breeze.

Óttarr approached cautiously, his steps muffled by the mossy ground. The hum was almost deafening here, resonating through his bones. He crouched at the water's edge, peering into the depths. The glow seemed to emanate from below, from something hidden within. Shapes moved beneath the surface—fluid, indistinct, but undeniably alive.

A sound behind him made him freeze. A low, guttural growl, followed by the crunch of wet foliage. Óttarr spun around, his makeshift knife raised, his pulse hammering in his ears.

A figure emerged from the shadows—large, quadrupedal, its body covered in glistening fur and strange, fungal growths. Its eyes glowed faintly, reflecting the eerie light of the pool. It wasn't the Raincaller, but it was no less otherworldly.

The creature tilted its head, its glowing eyes locking onto Óttarr. For a moment, neither moved, the storm fading into the background. Then it took a step closer, its growl rumbling low in its throat.

Óttarr tightened his grip on the knife, his mind racing. He could run, but the creature would likely catch him. He could fight, but his odds weren't good.

The hum in the air seemed to shift, a new tone threading through it—low, resonant, almost like a voice. The creature paused, its ears flicking back as though listening. Óttarr felt the vibration in his chest, the tone resonating with something deep inside him.

The creature growled again, but this time it backed away, its glowing eyes narrowing. It watched him for a moment longer before retreating into the shadows, its massive form melting into the mist.

Óttarr exhaled shakily, his heart pounding. Whatever had just happened, he wasn't going to question it. He turned back to the pool, its glow casting long shadows on his rain-soaked face.

The hum persisted, but it felt different now—less oppressive, more… welcoming.

For the first time since entering the forest, Óttarr felt a flicker of hop.