Forest call

Óttarr moved through the forest cautiously, the clearing with the obsidian tree fading behind him. The weight of the ancient presence still clung to him, a quiet pressure against his thoughts. The images from the glowing pool haunted him—shapes that pulsed like veins, glowing creatures moving through a vast labyrinth beneath the earth. It wasn't just a vision, he realized; it was a piece of something greater. The forest wasn't merely alive—it was aware.

The hum of the forest crept back into his awareness, faint at first, then swelling until it became an almost tangible vibration. It wasn't chaotic but rhythmic, almost melodic, as though the forest had its own secret language. Óttarr stopped, leaning against a tree whose bark was smooth and faintly damp, its surface shimmering with trails of luminescent moss.

The markings on his hands pulsed softly, matching the cadence of the forest's hum. A faint warmth spread through his fingers, and for a moment, it was as if the forest was breathing with him, alive in his chest. He closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him, and strained to listen.

And then he heard it—a whisper.

Soft at first, so faint it could have been mistaken for the rustle of leaves in the wind. But it came again, clearer this time, carried on the hum of the forest itself.

"Óttarr."

His eyes snapped open, heart pounding. The whisper was unmistakable, and yet it seemed to come from everywhere at once—beneath the earth, above the canopy, within the very air. His name. The forest had spoken his name.

Óttarr turned in a slow circle, his gaze scanning the trees and undergrowth. There was no one. Only the endless sprawl of massive trunks, thick vines, and the faint shimmer of bioluminescent growths. The whisper wasn't coming from any one place; it was the forest itself calling to him.

A shiver ran down his spine. He'd always felt like an intruder here, an outsider wandering a place he couldn't hope to understand. But this moment shifted something. The forest wasn't just watching him—it was choosing him, pulling him deeper into its mysteries.

His hands clenched into fists as he fought the rising tide of unease. "Why me?" he muttered, the sound of his own voice harsh and jarring against the stillness. But the forest gave no answer, only the faint whisper of his name, weaving through the air like a thread pulling him forward.

Pushing down his questions, Óttarr pressed on, his senses alert. He couldn't afford to focus solely on the forest's strange summons—not when survival demanded his attention. The low-hanging branches above were strung with thick, coiling vines, some of them barbed with sharp thorns that glistened with faintly glowing sap. He pulled out his knife, cutting one down with care, avoiding the thorns and the sticky fluid that oozed from the vine. It was strong and flexible—perfect for fashioning into a whip or a snare.

Further ahead, he found a cluster of dark gray rocks embedded in the soil, their jagged edges glinting faintly in the scattered light. He struck two together, watching as tiny sparks leapt between them. He pocketed the stones, relieved to have a potential firestarter. Small victories, but they gave him a sense of control in this ever-shifting world.

The hum of the forest deepened suddenly, vibrating through the ground and into his chest. He froze, every muscle tensing as a shadow flickered at the edge of his vision. It was quick—too quick to follow—passing silently between the colossal trunks.

The air grew heavy, the forest's vibrant noises falling away until only the deep, resonant hum remained.

Then he heard it—a low, guttural rumble.

Óttarr's breath hitched as he turned slowly, scanning the undergrowth. The shadow appeared again, clearer now. It was massive, its form shifting and fluid, a blend of matte black fur and dark, reflective scales. The creature moved with an eerie grace, its body blending into the shadows even as it seemed to ripple with light.

Its eyes glowed faintly green, piercing through the dim light like twin beacons.

Óttarr's grip tightened on the thorned vine, his palms slick with sweat. He felt the weight of the creature's gaze as it studied him, its eyes narrowing with an intelligence that sent a chill down his spine.

It didn't charge. It didn't roar. It simply watched, its presence radiating a quiet menace.

The hum of the forest grew louder, thrumming in his ears and through his chest. The glow on his hands flared brighter, casting faint light over the forest floor. The predator flinched, its head tilting slightly as it seemed to register the glow.

Óttarr didn't move. His instincts screamed at him to run, but he knew better. Running would make him prey.

Slowly, he raised his glowing hands, palms out in a gesture of caution. The gaze sharpened, its rumble softening into something more curious than threatening. It tilted its head again, ears twitching as if listening to the forest's hum.

Óttarr took a single step backward, his movements slow and deliberate. His foot brushed against a fallen branch, the slight sound breaking the fragile stillness.

The Umbrathorn's muscles coiled, its body lowering in preparation to strike.

Óttarr's pulse quickened. His hands flared brighter, the light pulsing in time with the forest's rhythm. The predator froze, its glowing eyes locked on the light.

Another moment passed, tense and electric. Then, with a single fluid motion, the creature straightened. Its posture shifted, no longer that of a predator stalking prey but of something... considering.

It let out a final low rumble, almost a growl, before turning and vanishing into the shadows.

Óttarr stood motionless, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His hands trembled as the glow slowly faded, the forest's hum receding into the background.

The whisper came again, soft but insistent.

"Óttarr."

It wasn't a threat. It was a summons.

The Titanic Forest wasn't done with him yet.