Damp soil clung to Leslie's worn leather boots as he pressed deeper into the ancient treeline. He kept his hood pulled low, shadows masking the sharp, defensive angle of his jaw and the guarded expression in his eyes. He didn't want to be seen, not by the villagers who called him a freak, and certainly not by any traveler. Solitude was a shield he had spent years perfecting, a cold barrier between his fragile heart and a hostile world.
Leaves whispered secrets above him, but he forced himself to tune them out. For a man who could understand the language of the wild, the forest was never truly quiet. Every rustle of a squirrel, every warning chirp of a sparrow echoed in his mind like a physical touch. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the mental noise that constantly threatened to overwhelm his senses.
Walking here always reminded him of what he had lost, dragging up memories he preferred to keep buried. Ten years ago, the woods had swallowed his family whole, leaving him entirely alone in a world that feared his gift. The villagers of Oakhaven didn't see a boy grieving; they saw a child who muttered to crows and stared too long at the wolves. They abandoned him to his own devices, and he had quickly learned to return the favor by wearing a mask of utter indifference.
People in Oakhaven had always been quick to cast stones. When his parents vanished, the elders hadn't offered him comfort or shelter. Instead, they had whispered behind closed doors, pointing at the odd child who claimed he could hear the forest weeping. They called his gift a curse, a sign of demonic possession, and locked their doors whenever he walked down the dusty village streets.
"Stay back, strange walker," a tiny, panicked squeak sounded from a nearby briar patch.
Bitter memories like these were why Leslie preferred the company of beasts. Animals didn't lie, nor did they abandon those who cared for them out of fear or malice. They operated on pure instinct, a simple truth that Leslie found infinitely more comforting than the complex cruelty of human society. He kept his emotional distance, but he never ignored a creature in genuine need.
Crouching low, Leslie glanced toward the thicket, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the thorns. A field mouse stared back at him, its whiskers trembling with pure terror. It wasn't looking at him with the usual wariness of a prey animal avoiding a hunter. It was terrified of something else entirely, its tiny chest heaving under its brown fur.
"What is it?" Leslie whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp from hours of complete silence. He kept his posture relaxed, hiding the sudden spike of tension that tightened the muscles in his neck. "What frightened you, little one?"
"Bad breath," the mouse squeaked, scurrying deeper into the tangled thorns. "The rot-wind. It touches. It changes. Run, walker, run before it bites your mind too."
Fear pricked at Leslie's neck, but he pushed it down behind his usual wall of cold indifference. He couldn't let himself care too much about the warnings of a tiny rodent. Caring led to attachment, and attachment always ended in abandonment and pain. He tightened his grip on his simple ashwood hunting bow and forced his legs to move forward.
Village elders always warned about the deep woods, but they didn't know the half of it. They thought the forest was just full of hungry predators and treacherous terrain. Leslie knew better; he knew there was a living pulse to this place, a magic that was currently shivering like a feverish child.
Strange, cloying odors began to drift through the damp air as he advanced. It wasn't the rich scent of decaying autumn leaves or the sharp tang of pine. It was a chemical, suffocating stench, like burnt copper mixed with stagnant swamp water. It made the back of his throat burn and his stomach churn with unease.
Sickness seemed to cling to the very air, growing heavier with every yard he traveled. He noticed a patch of wild berries that should have been ripe and sweet, but were instead swollen with a milky, foul-smelling slime. A trail of dead insects lay scattered across a rotting log, their tiny bodies curled inward as if they had died in sudden, excruciating pain. The scale of this blight was far greater than anything he had imagined.
Stepping over a fallen birch trunk, Leslie noticed the moss beneath his feet was wrong. Instead of its usual vibrant, spongy green, it was blackened and shriveled into ugly scabs. It crumbled to ash under his boots, releasing a tiny puff of grey dust. A cold knot formed in his stomach, heavy and tight.
"Turn back," a bluejay scolded from a high branch, its feathers ruffled and dull, lacking their usual brilliant luster. "The air is poisoned. The water is sick. Turn back, flesh-walker!"
Leslie ignored the warning, though his heart hammered violently against his ribs. He felt a strange, unwelcome pull, a desperate tug of curiosity mixed with a lingering sense of duty he hated to admit he possessed. If the forest died, his quiet sanctuary died with it, and he would be forced back toward the humans. He would rather face a monster than their sneers and judging eyes.
Rain began to fall, cold and relentless, slicking his dark hair and running down the collar of his tunic. The grey light of late afternoon was fading fast, casting long, twisted shadows across the forest floor. He had to find what was causing this disturbance before nightfall swallowed the trails.
Ahead, a sudden, violent thrashing broke the silence of the dying woods. It wasn't the sound of an animal foraging or playing. It was the frantic, desperate struggle of a creature caught in a vice grip of agony.
Mud splashed against Leslie's shins as he broke into a jog, his bow slung over his shoulder. He ducked under a low-hanging pine branch, his eyes scanning the dense underbrush. The sounds grew louder—wet, heavy thuds of flesh slamming against root and stone, accompanied by wet, rattling gasps.
Dropping to his knees, he slid through the damp ferns, ignoring the sharp thorns tearing at his sleeves. He parted a thick screen of brambles and froze. His breath caught in his throat, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ached.
There, huddled in the damp forest underbrush, a magnificent stag was thrashing in unseen agony. Its powerful legs kicked uselessly, tearing up the dark earth and shattering rotten branches. Foam bubbled from its mouth, thick and laced with a strange, dark fluid.
"No," Leslie breathed, the word slipping past his lips before his mind could stop it.
Horror seized him as he looked closer at the dying beast. The stag's eyes, normally a soft, placid brown, were glazed with a frantic, corrupted green glow. It wasn't a natural color, but a sickly, glowing hue that pulsed like a dying ember in a sick fire. It radiated a cold, unnatural heat that made Leslie's skin crawl.
Crawling forward on his belly, Leslie abandoned all caution and all his rules about staying detached. He forgot the cold facade he wore like armor to keep the world away. The sheer agony radiating from the animal pierced straight through his defenses, hitting his core wound with the force of a physical blow.
"Easy, brother," Leslie whispered, his voice trembling as he slid closer. "I'm here. I'm here. Let me help."
Violent tremors wracked the stag's massive body, its muscles bulging unnaturally. It didn't seem to hear him at first. Its head thrashed from side to side, its antlers gouging deep tracks into the muddy ground. A high, whistling wheeze escaped its throat with every desperate breath.
"Hurts... burns..." a broken, chaotic voice flooded Leslie's mind, nearly knocking him sideways. It wasn't a voice of words, but of raw, unadulterated sensation—the feeling of liquid fire in the veins, of a dark oil drowning the lungs, of a heavy, choking weight pressing down on the brain.
Tears pricked Leslie's eyes, but he blinked them away, forcing his hands to remain steady. He reached out, his fingers hovering inches above the stag's sweat-slicked neck. He could feel the heat radiating from the beast, a fever so intense it felt like it would scorch his skin.
Slowly, with agonizing caution, he pressed his palm flat against the stag's trembling shoulder.
A jolt of pure static shocked his system, making him gasp as his vision blurred. The animal's agony rushed into him, a torrent of dark, creeping slime spreading through the root systems of the ancient trees. He felt the corruption eating away at the stag's heart, twisting its peaceful nature into something feral and mad.
"Shh, please," Leslie pleaded, leaning over the thrashing beast to shield it from the wind. He used his free hand to gently cup the side of its head, trying to steer it away from the sharp rocks. "Listen to my voice. Focus on me. Don't let it take you."
Green light flared brighter behind the stag's eyes, pulsing with a sudden, vicious energy. The corrupt glow seemed to feed on Leslie's touch, absorbing his strength. The stag stiffened, its muscles locking up like iron bands.
"It calls... it calls..." the stag's mind-voice whimpered, growing fainter, swallowed by a rising tide of static. "The dark water... the deep roots... we must run... we must bite..."
Desperately, Leslie tried to channel his own calm energy into the beast, the way he had done years ago with wounded birds. But this wasn't a simple wound or a broken wing. This was a poison that felt alive, a malicious entity that actively fought back against his intrusion.
Pain flared up Leslie's arm, sharp and icy cold, making him cry out. Yet, he refused to let go. He couldn't abandon this creature to the dark. If he let go now, it would die in absolute terror, entirely alone, and that was a fate he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy.
Thick, black veins began to bulge beneath the stag's skin, webbing outward from its eyes. The green glow began to bleed into the air, a faint, sickly mist rising from the animal's pores. The smell of copper and rot grew overwhelming, choking Leslie.
"Stay with me!" Leslie screamed over the sound of the wind howling through the canopy. "Fight it! You are the king of this ridge! Fight it!"
For a single, fleeting second, the frantic thrashing stopped. The stag's legs went limp, and its head rested heavily in the mud. The corrupted green light in its eyes flickered, dimming just enough for a flash of the gentle, placid brown to show through.
"Thank... you... small... speaker..." the stag whispered in Leslie's mind, a fragile, beautiful spark of its true self.
Then, the corruption struck back with the force of a tidal wave.
Suddenly, the stag's body convulsed with terrifying violence. It reared its head back, nearly striking Leslie in the chin. The green glow exploded back into its eyes, brighter and more chaotic than before, completely erasing any trace of the gentle beast.
Cold dread filled Leslie, heavier and deeper than any fear he had ever known. He realized then, with absolute certainty, that there was no saving this animal. The plague had already hollowed it out, leaving nothing but a physical shell for the corruption to control.
Blood, dark and almost black, began to seep from the stag's eyes, nose, and mouth. It mixed with the rain and mud, staining the forest floor. The creature's muscles bunched one last time, freezing in a grotesque, twisted arch.
As the deer’s final, guttural cry echoes, a chilling whisper slithers through the trees, a voice not of wind, but of something ancient and hungry, directly into Leslie's mind: 'Join... us...'