It was far from over.

  An hour later, even more wolves came for him, baying for his blood like some kind of demented canine choir. Guess they didn't get the memo that I'm not on the menu tonight, Greg thought, his heart pounding as he heard their howls getting closer.

  He wasn't sure how wolves could suddenly communicate long-distance like they had fucking cellphones or something, but apparently, they didn't give a shit about his ignorance on the matter.

  He didn't have it in him to fight anymore, his body aching and his stamina running on fumes. So he did the only thing he could think of: he ran.

  And ran.

  And ran, with Ash clutched tight to his chest and his canvas bag thumping against his back, his sword safely stowed inside.

  This is fucking ridiculous, he thought as he pelted through the underbrush, branches whipping at his face and roots trying to trip him up. I'm being chased by a pack of goddamn super-wolves. What even is my life right now?

  After what felt like hours of playing the world's worst game of tag, with the wolves always just a hairsbreadth behind, Greg decided it was time for a change in tactics. Can't outrun 'em, so I'll have to out-climb 'em.

  His newly granted pool of magic came in handy, finally letting him tap into some of those rudimentary ninja skills he still had distant, fragmented memories of. Guess all those hours playing Menma games are finally paying off.

  Before, even attempting the rudimentary ninja skills would've had him passing out faster than a narcoleptic at a lullaby concert, the ninja magic draining his stamina like a leech on a hemophiliac.

  But now?

  Now he actually had a chance.

  Greg scrambled up the rough bark of the nearest tree, his gut warm and one of those little points inside his soul even warmer as he channeled chakra (or whatever the fuck it was called) into his feet, allowing him to stick to the trunk.

  Fuck yeah, ninja powers! He couldn't help the slightly manic grin that spread across his face as he leaped from branch to branch, barely avoiding another snapping set of jaws as a particularly ambitious wolf tried to jump after him.

  Not today, Balto, Greg thought, his lungs burning and his legs trembling as he hauled himself higher and higher. Below him, the wolves' howls faded into frustrated whimpers, their paws scrabbling uselessly against the base of the tree. Ha! Suck it, bitches.

  Up in his leafy hideout, Greg finally let himself breathe, the adrenaline slowly ebbing from his system and leaving him shaky and spent. "Great, just fuckin' great," he muttered, shifting Ash into a more comfortable position in his lap. "Wolves can't climb trees, right?"

  He glanced down at the bear cub, who seemed equally perturbed by their situation, his small brown eyes wide and possibly a little judgmental. Don't look at me like that, Greg thought, poking Ash gently on his fuzzy little nose. I didn't exactly put out a welcome mat for the local wildlife.

  Hours passed, the moon sinking lower and the sky lightening by degrees as Greg waited for the wolves to lose interest, to wander off in search of easier prey. Maybe a nice rabbit or something. Do wolves eat rabbits? They do in cartoons, but fuck if I know what's real anymore.

  By the time the sun was peeking over the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the treetops that felt completely at odds with Greg's chilly, sleep-deprived state, he thought he might finally be safe. Maybe I can catch a few Z's up here, he mused, his eyelids growing heavy as he nestled into a slightly less uncomfortable crook between branch and trunk. Embrace my inner koala or some shit.

  But of course, the universe (or at least the local wildlife) had other plans.

  No sooner had Greg let his eyes drift shut, his breath evening out into the first hints of a light doze, than a raucous cawing filled the air, jolting him back to wakefulness like a bucket of icy water to the face.

  "What the fuck?!" He yelped, nearly losing his balance as he flailed in surprise. A conspiracy of ravens (and yeah, he knew the proper term, thank you very much Animal Planet) had descended on his impromptu treehouse, their beady black eyes glinting with what Greg could only describe as malicious glee.

  "Oh, you have got to be shitting me," he groaned as one particularly bold bird swooped in close, its claws glinting like little obsidian knives in the early morning light.

  He swatted at the raven, trying to shoo it away, but it was like playing whack-a-mole with a swarm of angry, flying rats. For every bird he managed to deter, two more seemed to take its place, diving at his head and cawing loudly enough to wake the dead.

  This is karma, Greg thought miserably, ducking as a raven took a particularly close pass at his eyes. Karma for every time I laughed at those videos of people getting chased by geese. The universe is serving me a big ol' slice of humble pie, with a side of 'fuck you'.

  Defeated, harassed, and more than a little terrified of losing an eye to a kamikaze corvid, Greg finally admitted defeat. "Alright, alright, I'm going!" He yelled, fumbling his way down the tree trunk with Ash clinging to his chest like a fuzzy little barnacle. "You win, you glorified fucking pigeons. I hope you choke on a worm."

  His feet hit the ground with a jarring thud, the impact sending shockwaves of pain up his already aching legs. Well, at least the wolves are gone, he thought, looking around the eerily quiet forest with a mixture of relief and nerves.

  But Greg's relief was short-lived. He'd barely taken a moment to catch his breath, to let his sleep-deprived brain attempt to process the absurdity of the past few hours, when the next assault hit.

  This time, it wasn't wolves or ravens or bears.

  No, this time it was squirrels.

  Fucking squirrels.

  Greg couldn't believe it.

  He didn’t want to believe it.

  But there they were, dozens of them, perched on the branches above his head like a bunch of furry little gargoyles. They were all standing up on their hind legs, their front paws crossed over their chests like they were about to start lecturing him on the importance of gathering acorns for the winter.

  This can't be happening, Greg thought, blinking rapidly as if he could clear the scene before him like a particularly stubborn hallucination. I've finally cracked. Snapped like a fucking Kit-Kat bar. They're gonna find me out here, gibbering about ninja squirrels and wolf conspiracies, and lock me away in a padded cell for the rest of my natural life.

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  But no, the squirrels remained, chittering angrily at him.

  Alright, fine, he thought, too exhausted to even be properly terrified anymore. I can ignore them. I can be the bigger person. The bigger...primate. Whatever.

  He slumped against the trunk of the nearest tree, Ash still cradled protectively in his arms, and let his eyes slip shut. Just a quick nap, he told himself, feeling the sweet siren call of unconsciousness tugging at the edges of his mind. Just a few minutes of sweet, blissful...

  THUNK.

  Greg's eyes snapped open as something small and hard bounced off his forehead. What the...

  THUNK. THUNK. THUNKTHUNKTHUNK.

  A veritable hail of projectiles rained down on him, each impact a tiny, stinging burst of pain. It took Greg's sleep-addled brain a moment to process what he was seeing, to make sense of the small, brown objects pinging off his head and shoulders.

  They were nuts.

  Literal, actual, goddamn nuts, being hurled at him with alarming force and accuracy by the battalion of squirrels above.

  I'm being assaulted by squirrels, Greg thought, the realization hitting him like a freight train of absurdity. I'm in a magic forest in medieval fantasy land, being pelted with acorns by a bunch of furry little assholes with anger management issues.

  "Oh, come on!" He yelled, raising his arms to shield his face as he glared up at his arboreal assailants. "What the fuck did I ever do to you?"

  The squirrels, unsurprisingly, did not offer an answer. They just kept up their nutty barrage, their tiny faces screwed up in expressions of rodential rage.

  "This is nuts," Greg muttered, then let out a slightly hysterical giggle at his own unintentional pun and the lack of sleep both. "Fuckin' nuts. I'm being attacked by squirrels and I'm making puns. This is my life now."

  He ducked another volley of acorns, feeling them bounce off his shoulders and back as he tried to shield Ash from the worst of it. The bear cub, for his part, seemed more confused than anything, his little head swiveling back and forth as he tried to make sense of the chaos.

  "Wish I could explain it to you, buddy," Greg said, wincing as a particularly large nut glanced off his ear. "But I'm just as lost as you are. Maybe more."

  Another wave of projectiles rained down, this time accompanied by a hail of twigs and bits of bark. Oh, so we're escalating now? Greg thought indignantly, spitting out a leaf that had somehow found its way into his mouth. I'm sorry, I didn't realize I'd stumbled into the fucking Squirrel-Viet Cong.

  "Seriously," he yelled, glaring up at the furry little warriors with a mixture of anger, confusion, and sleep-deprived hysteria, "what the actual fuck?"

  Dodging acorns and grumbling under his breath, Greg trudged through the underbrush, hoping to put some distance between him and the small but fierce artillery. The squirrels’ aim was unnervingly good, though, and he felt a few thuds against his backpack. "Future reference: pissed-off squirrels have amazing aim."

  As he moved deeper into the woods, Greg's misadventures continued. A rather insistent badger took up the mantle of his harassment next, its teeth bared as it seemed to take personal offense at his passing through its territory. Greg had to jog to avoid its snapping jaws, his legs protesting every step. "Okay, maybe I'm in some twisted version of Snow White where all the animals hate me."

  Night brought no respite.

  Tired, Greg tried to hunker down in a new tree, a hopefully squirrel-free tree. Just as he was drifting off, a chilling noise shattered the silence of the forest. Not wolves this time, but owls, who apparently thought it was hilarious to dive-bomb the strange human in their woods.

  Their talons snagged at his clothes, tugging with an annoying persistence.

  Exhausted and on edge, Greg clung to his makeshift branch bed, pondering the absurdity of his situation. "What's next? Bunnies with bad attitudes?" he muttered to the night, half-expecting a rabbit to hop up with a mean right hook.

  Two days of this nonsense left Greg more exhausted than he’d ever been. Every attempt at rest was interrupted by some creature with a vendetta. He found himself desperate for just half an hour of uninterrupted peace, his body aching for sleep, eyes gritty and mind foggy. "All I want is a nap. Just a nap. That’s not too much to ask, right?"

  The constant running and lack of sleep was taking its toll, not just physically but mentally. "At this rate, I’m gonna start throwing acorns back," he muttered as he ducked under a low-hanging branch, narrowly avoiding another squirrel attack. The insanity of his situation wasn’t lost on him; if he wasn’t so tired, he might have laughed.

  Might have.

  Finally, as the sun began to set on the second day, Greg stumbled upon a small, secluded outcropping. It was barely more than two narrow-ish boulders leaning against each other, but it was sheltered from the wind and, hopefully, hidden from the wildlife. He crawled under it, dragging Ash with him, and collapsed on the cool stone floor.

  "Okay, new plan," he whispered to Ash, who seemed just as relieved to be out of the animal war zone. "We stay here tonight. No trees, no nuts, no birds. Just us and the rocks. Rocks don’t attack people."

  He paused, considering. "Right?"

  The question acted like a cue, Greg’s eyes going dull as his soul ballooned out again, searching, searching and searching for something, until it latched on tight and pulled him back to awareness. Greg gasped as memories filled his mind, fragmented and distant as they always were, of another life, another him.

  Or in this case, another her?

  He tried to hold onto it, tried to see—

  – o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

  —the only sounds were whispered prayers and the soft rustle of robes against marble floors.

  Greta Veder had been so young, kneeling in the chapel, her small hands clasped in prayer. Her knuckles were always white, her lips moving in silent recitation of words she barely understood. But obedience was everything, and she was taught to obey, to submit to the will of something greater. Discipline, she had been told, was the foundation of faith.

  The training came later. Harder.

  The weight of the mace in her hands had been foreign at first, her arms trembling as she swung, again and again, until her muscles burned. Her instructor was relentless, a figure draped in steel and shadow, barking orders with a cold detachment.

  “Only through pain shall we know forgiveness!”

  Failure wasn’t an option.

  Pain wasn’t a deterrent.

  Each bruise and blister was a lesson, each drop of sweat an offering.

  ”I relish my trials, I relish my wounds!”

  It wasn’t just about strength; it was about resilience, about pushing past her limits until they no longer existed, about showing her devotion to the Lord.

  Nights were always the worst.

  When the others slept, she prayed.

  When they rested, she trained.

  It wasn’t enough to be good. She had to be more—more disciplined, more faithful, more righteous. The weight of expectation pressed down on her, just as heavy as the armor she would one day don.

  Salvation wasn’t given freely, it had to be earned.

  And if she wasn’t enough, then no one could be saved.

  He saw the moments of doubt, too, the way her hands trembled in the quiet moments.The way she looked at the moon from her small, stone window, wondering if there was more beyond the walls of her duty. wondering if the Lord above even heard her prayers, or if they were just echoes, lost in the void.

  But she pushed those thoughts down, buried them under layers of discipline and duty.

  She had to.

  There was no room for doubt in her heart.

  Not if she wanted to survive against the dark.

  “Through suffering, I will know my faith!”

  – o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

  Yet, as fragmented and as distant as they were, the important parts always shone through.

  And shine it did.

  Greg sat up under the outcropping as the sun finally vanished and the sky went dark in the only way a Northern night really could. Eyes closed, he felt the Light in his soul and the confusing mote of light he received alongside his water affinity as they almost sang out. He clasped his palms together in front of his face as golden light began to shine around his body, filling the entire space.

  The deep clangorous sound of a church bell rang out from nowhere as he spoke out loud one word and one word only. “Sanctuary.”

  Wolf’s Bane - 100 GP

  Nature's Wrath - 150 GP

  Roll: Humanity [Dark Souls: War of the Ancients] {Source} (Free) - The Furtive Pygmy split his dark soul amongst those who would become known as humans and pygmies, of which you now count yourself amongst. In these ancient times, humanity was more intune with his dark nature, granting them the ability to see in the dark like they were under the midday sun, as well as having your power slowly grow in time.

  Roll: Sanctify [Darkest Dungeon] {Benevolence} (400) - “Gilded icons and dogmatic rituals… for some, a tonic against the bloodshed.” The healing power of miracles and the wielding of holy radiance to smite your enemies is but one verse in the book of the Light. Just as effective are the variety of blessings one attuned to its powers can bestow, as well as the warding rituals used to sanctify churches- which may also be used to ward an area for rest should you decide to take a break while exploring, preventing the forces of darkness from intruding on your temporary sanctum for a time. One can even heal the deepest of mortal wounds which would otherwise require more in-depth healing on the operating table. These powers are yours, though they’re best utilized when at rest due to the time they take. Also; you have the ability to bless water, allowing it to cleanse profane artifacts and ward against dark magic and other crippling forces in combat.

  Grimoire Points: 250