Shadows cover my steps. I have traveled along the stream that flowed from that infected lagoon of putrefaction and magic. The liquid glows a little in the darkness the trees cast. There are no followers—no "humans" settled so deep in the forest. If what my masters told me is true, their last magic in these lands crammed the forbidden territories with magical objects. But I do not expect to find thousands of things as I advance. Two reasons prepare me not to be disappointed:
Since they left—and they still have not told me how long ago—thousands of adventurers from all over the circumference have ventured in to plunder these forests' treasures. City people pay much for any device that still works, and even for broken ones in the vain hope that someone will bring them back to life.
No matter how large the cities, they do not gather a fifth of the wild territory. Even if there were tens of thousands of magical objects, the spell sent more to the center—those that could store more power. So in these first kilometers, there should be nothing more than trinkets people failed to retain, and they are of no use to me.
As I go deeper, I discover that mutations not only affected those miserable children I saw at the entrance. Every trunk, the grass, even some typical animals of these places show some change not their own. Though most are limited to having a different color, scarce or nonexistent fur, oaks with the colors of withered palm trees tell me the journey will be quite depressing.
Three kilometers in, I locate one of the few soldier camps that patrol these zones. They mostly belong to some religious order—very strong by city standards. Yet their tattoos, their experiences, marks of ancient combats, eyes that reflect death from the past and from their brains—they are here for a prize that for others would be punishment. Discharged from the army for various reasons—from excessive violence in peacetime to homicide—they come to the final battle, the confrontation of the war against nature, protecting from invisible or unlikely attacks the people who gladly pay to keep them away from their "civilized" streets. Here they ended up—too violent and affected by war to live in city or outskirts, overqualified in experience to keep imprisoned (not to mention the danger of a revolt). They are the true human protection against the forest's dangers for the most novice adventurers, the drunks, and occasionally some person from the outskirts comes here—aside from the prostitutes they gladly pay. Others would consider this hell from wild animal attacks and solitude. For them, it is their world—their constant, conscious nightmare, waking hallucination. They never returned from the fight, but they are paid to remain in it.
I spent three days spying on their patrol patterns. There are thirty soldiers posted every two kilometers, each with sleeping bags, some barrels of liquor, little soap, much filth. But they are disciplined. They do their rounds around the outpost, going in groups of five, a mangy dog accompanying them. They are armed. To all, their appearance is fearsome: humans over one meter seventy, armed with swords and maces—perfect examples of militia gorillas. They use few long-range weapons beyond a couple of axes of cheap iron, but deadly like anything they carry. Bows and crossbows are not good tools for these killers from the past—how could they be, living in a state of drunkenness?
By day five, I am ready. Yesterday I began crafting an invisibility enchantment to move, but a gleam on their necks warned me in time. I knew none of them used magic, but whoever employed them knew very well how to protect them. A couple of runes on a piece of wood—the simplest instruction in magic, "Shine Hidden"—and when it receives any concealment magic field, it is caught by that piece of wood, lighting up and alerting everyone that someone is lurking. With no alternative, I waited one more day. When I heard them singing, I levitated about three centimeters and passed a hundred meters from the camp, following the path of putrefaction left by that stream.
When the lights of their campfires are a blurry shadow in the distance, I descend. It is not that levitating tires me, but I still carry a coffin. Besides being heavy, it contains many enchantments that suppress magic, so extra effort is needed to move it. Moreover, about two hundred meters ahead, the current has a small drop into the next circle of Dark Forest. But that does not worry me. I am interested in a small phosphorescent path emerging from the current. Curious to know what mutation caused the animal in question to glow—or if I am facing the first walking fish. I follow it about twenty meters. I am so concentrated I almost fail to see that it is not the only one advancing. A green, slightly solid substance, inside which I can see things decomposing little by little... an intelligent creature! Made of magic and garbage! I cannot believe what I see. The creature travels slowly, so I move ahead to see where it is going.
It seems to be heading to a plain about a hundred meters ahead. There is another garbage dump, but most is just trash. Over the piles, I count about forty of these amorphous masses. They feed on the waste and look content, glowing in the night. An orange light interrupts my musings. It is the light of burning matter, polluting the forest—torchlight. Judging by the laughter, some drunks from the outskirts. As they get closer, I confirm it. About four drunks armed with torches and pipes arrive laughing. Being close to these green beings, they begin to strike them. The creatures do not flinch. Even when they are split apart, the remaining things merely disperse. Behind them, these imbeciles begin to collect the half-digested pieces these gelatinous masses contained. It seems a good method for cleaning scrap and selling it, but attacking them would not be necessary. They do not seem capable of returning attack. They are not fully conscious—they only feed. Even though it bothers me, I think it is not so bad, as they can regroup as entities, so they are not so affected by the attackers. As I prepare to return to my path, I hear a scream—a shriek at a mental level that makes me spin around only to see them using their torches to burn the scattered pieces of the gelatins. They are conscious! They suffer! And they only laugh! This will not stand!