The Untamed Wood

Riven emerged, nearly stumbling, through the shimmering, energy-dispersing barrier that marked the western edge of the Mycelian Enclave.

The forceful transition left him reeling; an electric, painful static discharge crackled along his skin and frayed the delicate nerves beneath his tunic, while his Marks went numb—as if overwhelmed by the surge.

"Damned energy… it burns like a curse," Riven muttered to himself as he sank onto the rough surface of a colossal tree with blackened bark—a living monument to the wild that surrounded him.

He coughed, struggling for breath.

Huff... Huff...

Every inhalation carried the heavy tang of untamed air: wild, thick with the aroma of primal decay and the ferocity of rampant growth—a stark contrast to the filtered, regulated atmosphere of the Enclave heartwood in the east.

This new territory was none other than the Outer Umbralwood—the raw, unbridled borderlands where nature reigned free from the strict order of civilization. Standing amidst ancient trunks and twisting vines, Riven's thoughts drifted eastward, toward the domain he had fled. There, the Enclave heartwood sprawled in meticulous order, a land governed by the Elders with its carefully cultivated zones, nurseries, and the oppressive confines of the Deep Observation Cell—his former prison.

Far to the north, beyond any clear view but forever etched on his maps and recorded during the Crags mission, lay the Sky-Fall Crags. Their unpredictable energies, perhaps still echoing from recent resonance events, served as a silent reminder of nature's ceaseless turmoil.

Southward, eventually, this forest would thin, giving way to the struggling human settlements like Oakhaven and the faded authority of the Azure Barony.But here, at the western frontier near the lonely Western Flow Terminus, the wood stretched deeper into territories that older Enclave maps had labelled simply "Uncharted" or "Primal Growth."

Rumours whispered that it bordered the vast, treacherous expanse known as the Gray Wastes far beyond—a domain seldom patrolled by Wardens and rarely ventured into by Tenders due to its erratic, disconnected nature.

The environment reflected this wildness. The trees here were not the well-kept specimens of the Enclave heartwood; they were ancient giants whose tangled canopies wove a near-impenetrable barrier against the shattered remnants of the sky. The limited light that filtered through broke into eerie, fractured patterns—swirling shades of violet intermingled with bruised greens dancing precariously over the forest floor.

The familiar softness of moss was replaced by a deep, damp carpet of decaying leaves, winding roots, and strange, pale fungi that pulsed intermittently with a faint, cold glow—a meagre illumination for treacherous terrain.

Riven's ears caught the heavy stillness of the air, punctuated only by the distant drip of water and the occasional, ominous rustle in the undergrowth. Deep, resonant noises hinted at a large presence moving silently among the shadows.

"Keep your wits," he told himself.

The absence of smaller, bustling creatures only sharpened his alertness; apex predators were likely lurking, watching from the dark corners of nature's labyrinth.

The mana field here was drastically different too. Wild, thick, almost viscous, yet lacking the harmonized structure of the Enclave. It felt ancient, raw, like untamed Essence bleeding directly from the earth and the oldest trees, barely influenced by the distant Great Root consciousness.

Riven recalled his studies: the Great Root did extend into these wild borders, though here it manifested differently. Instead of a dense, interwoven network for communication and control, the Root appeared as slow, vast subterranean rivers of awareness. These currents, subtle and sprawling, demanded immense concentration just to sense their murmurs.

"I can barely grasp their whispers," he grumbled.

This fragmented state offered one small advantage—it rendered him nearly invisible to the passive tracking of the Enclave through the Root. Yet, it also meant he was utterly isolated, deprived of the ambient stability and guidance that had once cushioned him within the Enclave.

Adrift in an ocean of raw, primal energy, Riven felt the disquieting "song" of the sky Resonance. Though slightly less intense than the Crags', it now rang with a disconcerting clarity, as if the regulated field no longer muffled that ceaseless, unsettling whisper at the edge of his awareness.

Struggling to shake off the disorientation, Riven forced himself from the ancient tree. He battled the surge of fear and uncertainty that threatened to overwhelm him.

His first thought was clear: he must put as much distance between himself and the Enclave as possible. Even if his escape had been subtle, the breach at the Western Flow Terminus would soon trigger a response. Wardens—and possibly Locus Heart trackers—would be dispatched, tracking his every step.

"I can't let them catch up. I have to cover my tracks," he resolved quietly.

He paused to consider his route. North led towards the Sky Fall Crags, an area still fraught with danger and unstable energies. South offered a path to human lands, but those settlements brought their own perils and unpredictable intrigues. East was back towards the Enclave—a fate he could not accept.

The logical choice lay to the west, deeper into uncharted wilds. Even if that route skirted the foreboding Gray Wastes, it promised fewer immediate encounters with the well-established patrols more likely to search near known territories.

Taking a resolute breath, Riven ventured into the depths of the forest. Adopting the stealth techniques Elmsa had once taught him, he moved deliberately—placing his feet on soft moss patches to avoid snapping brittle twigs and using the gnarled, massive trunks and deep shadows for concealment.

His Marks, still dormant from the earlier surge, posed a double-edged dilemma: they provided no power now, but their quiet state prevented chaotic surges that might betray his presence. Yet, the depleted internal mana, drained by both the escape and the unsupportive ambient energy of this wild place, left him vulnerable—a stark reminder that he was stripped of the Enclave's protective shield, reliant solely on his unreliable, volatile power.

"I must not falter now," he whispered under his breath, determination sharpening his inner resolve. "Every moment here counts."

Practical needs soon asserted themselves with the raw force of instinct. Riven's eyes scanned the twisted undergrowth for signs of game trails, for the subtle markers of predators, and—crucially—for sources of clean water.

In this domain, many pools stagnated or were contaminated by bizarre minerals or errant energy residues, turning nature into a double-edged mistress.

After minutes of cautious searching, his efforts were rewarded: a small trickle of water seeped from moss-covered rocks. Hesitantly, he cupped his hand and tasted the cool, earthy liquid. It bore the natural chill of unspoiled water, devoid of any harsh tang that might hint at poison or volatile Mana. He drank deeply, refilling the small waterskin he'd managed to grab before leaving the cell.

As dusk deepened—a change marked not by a setting sun but by the intensification of bioluminescent fungi's glow—Riven understood that shelter was imperative.

Pushing through a dense thicket of thorny vines with dark, almost inky leaves, he stumbled upon a small clearing. Dominating this glade was the massive, overturned root ball of a fallen giant tree. Beneath its twisting, exposed roots lay a natural hollow—a dark, relatively dry, and defensible refuge providing some measure of protection from above.

'This hollow looks perfect for a hiding spot for tonight,' he mused, already mentally preparing hdefencesses.

Without delay, Riven began gathering fallen leaves, clumps of moss, and other natural debris to fashion a rough bed inside the hollow. His actions were automatic—driven by deep-seated survival instincts perhaps passed down from his human heritage or forged during his harsh training in the Enclave.

As he worked, fragments of teaching flickered through his mind: 'Never let my guard down. Every sound could be an enemy.'

When his makeshift bedding was complete, he took a moment to survey the area for any sign of intruders before finally settling in. Draping his worn cloak tightly around him to ward off the encroaching chill, he exhaled slowly, fighting the rising anxiety.

In the muted darkness, with only the soft glow of fungi to outline his surroundings, Riven reached into his pocket and retrieved the ironwood charm. He clutched it with an almost reverential intensity. In this savage wilderness—so far from the ever-watchful sensors of the Enclave and the scrutinizing eyes of Elmsa—the charm's simple, steadfast form resonated with a significance he could scarcely comprehend. It was his only tangible link to a past shrouded in mystery and, inexplicably, the only key he'd ever found to the volatile power locked within his Marks.

"Is this all I have left?" he wondered aloud in a hushed tone, questioning the charm's true worth. "Can it unlock the strength I so desperately need?" But even as these doubts mingled with hope, he acknowledged that the conditions were too exposed and his power too depleted to risk any practice until he was certain of his safety.

Around him, the forest's nocturnal symphony gathered force. Occasional, strange chirps—akin to a distant "kree-ik?"—pierced the silence, followed by the ominous, low howls of unseen creatures. At intervals, the heavy crunch and snap of twigs betrayed the presence of something immense moving among the shadows.

Though an icy dread began to coil in his stomach, Riven suppressed the rising fear with a hard, determined resolve.

'I escaped a cage; I will survive this wild,' he told himself firmly. "This is only the beginning of my freedom."

As the night deepened, Riven remained alert in his temporary shelter. Rather than giving in to sleep, he closed his eyes to better listen—to the murmuring forest, to the soft sigh of ancient trees, and to the persistent, low song of the sky Resonance that weaved through the dark canopy.

In those quiet moments before dawn, his thoughts turned introspective. Memories of the oppressive Mycelian Enclave—the relentless strictness, the isolating confinement of the Deep Observation Cell, and countless hours under the gaze of the Elders throughout those years—flashed through his mind. Each recollection of that static discharge that had numbed his Marks was nothing more than a painful reminder of his past and a spark that ignited his determination.

'Every shock, every chain, every whispered command… they've all driven me to this point,' Riven thought bitterly.

"No longer shall I be bound by their rules."

As he lay huddled beneath the exposed roots, the ambient Mana swirled around him like slow, ancient rivers—a stark contrast to the measured flow he had known inside the Enclave. In that raw, undomesticated energy, he sensed secrets of an older time when nature was both fierce and forgiving. Despite his vulnerability, a small spark of hope began to kindle within him.

"Perhaps, I can find strength; a power that is truly mine," he whispered to the silent dark, almost as if challenging the very wild to yield its secrets.

In the coming hours, he planned to leave the relative safety of his shelter and venture deeper into the wild unknown. Westward beckoned—a path into uncharted territory where ancient trees and unpredictable Mana reigned supreme, every step taking him farther from the oppressive confines of the Enclave and closer to the freedom his heart craved.