The man raised both of his fists in parallel, then spread his arms grandly as he opened his hands to the area surrounding them. They were in it.
A man near the fire yawned loudly, making a statement that he wasn’t worried about the situation. The old man chuckled eerily as he fished a ladle out of his rucksack.
“Oh,” said the young man after a realization of sorts. “You think that’s funny old man?” The young guy seemed to believe he was being teased, though Dakkon wasn’t as certain—his last group had mentioned some tribe being dangerous, and Damak seemed to acknowledge the same only a moment ago.
The older man only shrugged in response to the challenge, as he returned to his meal preparations. Then, after only about five minutes, the old man was offering fully-cooked stew to men who hadn’t had the foresight to bring along their own bowls. Dakkon didn’t know much about cooking, but he was fairly certain stew should take considerably longer to prepare—hours even.
Dakkon saw Damak heading back from alerting the remaining camps to the situation, and went to talk with him. Cline followed his companion.
“You look a little on edge, despite the dull light,” said Damak with a grin. “That’s probably good, but—despite what I said—I doubt we’ll be attacked tonight. We certainly aren’t welcome here, but my understanding is that the Tribe will try and warn us away on the first night. They probably won’t have the numbers to fight us in earnest.”
“With sounds like growling?” asked Dakkon.
“No healthy animal local to these woods would come anywhere near this many people setting fires and making noise. If you hear something coming from the woods, you can bet it’s the Tribe.”
The certainty in Damak’s voice took away some of the irrational dread that had begun pooling in Dakkon’s stomach. Dakkon had never been camping, he didn’t study wildlife, and he wasn’t familiar with the area. The unknown origin of the predatory noises had been somehow more unnerving to Dakkon than certain knowledge that an age-old tribe of man-hating shapeshifters was lurking mere meters away. He nodded to Damak.
“Why didn’t you mention the Tribe earlier—when people were signing up and before they left?” asked Cline, unnerved.
Damak looked at Cline appraisingly then answered with snark. “The job is to travel to and subdue a big, angry, long-dead wolf. Did you expect we’d bring a coalition if the trip was risk-free?”
Cline was visibly upset, but before he was given the chance to unleash his anger, Damak spoke up once again.
“Look, had you been a local or asked around, then you’d know all about the Tribe. Their existence is no secret. And, with our numbers we shouldn’t have any trouble—just don’t stray too far off from the others and don’t go follow any little old men.” Damak shook his head as he walked off towards the military camp. Dakkon could tell he was trying to calm Cline down, but his method left something to be desired.
Dakkon, feeling much more at ease himself, placed a calming hand on Cline’s shoulder. “Nothing to worry about. Let’s just find ourselves some strong, like-minded allies who we can count on when the shit hits the proverbial fan.” Then, after a look around at the rapidly-darkening forest, he added, “First thing in the morning, when we’re less likely to get picked off walking from camp to camp.” Dakkon removed his hand from Cline’s shoulder, having realized that his additional comment probably helped his friend’s mental state even less than Damak had.
The two returned to their campfire and conversed through the night with the others, except for the old stew chef who had gone to sleep on his bedroll. Occasionally throughout the night, barking, growling, gnashing, and a few noises too exotic for Dakkon to place—but no less threatening—drew the attention of the camp. After hours without an attack, however, they were growing more confident with their position.
Just before dawn, in an act of bravado surely intended to display his manliness, the young man of around 18 years chased one particularly close noise behind a nearby cluster of trees and brush before anyone could stop him. An explosion of movement could be heard as the young man was set upon. He let out a cry of pain and surprise loud enough to be heard by the whole expeditionary force. Afterwards, the woods were silent, save for the heavy, husky breathing of several animals where the boy had been ambushed. No one followed after him until day broke and any sound of those lying in wait had vanished. Then, there was no sign of a scuffle and no remains save for the large, varied tracks of unknown creatures.
On the second day’s march, there was a sense of unrest amongst the ranks. NPCs appeared to be lacking in rest while players had been forced to stay huddled near a fire all night, to try to sleep, or to log out for just the right amount of time to re-enter as the anguished scream of a young man’s end demanded recognition. The experience was unlike any Dakkon had experienced before from playing other games. He felt drained despite not needing to rest. The atmosphere was one where any of them could be hunted down at any moment. It was far from pleasant, but no one would grow bored of marching.
For a half day, the procession continued onward, unabated. Dakkon was able to show off his thermomancy skills as he practiced to Cline who, in turn, happily demonstrated his remarkable accuracy with a bow. Things were beginning to normalize. Then, a scant few minutes into the march’s break for a mid-day meal, chaos descended.
It all started when a small, feeble-looking and hairless old man walked casually out of the forest toward one bulging side of the mostly-seated force. The short man was nude save for a flesh-colored sash which covered his loins. His stride was agile and smooth, in stark contrast to the folded, sagging skin that hung in pockets from his body.
The sight of the man might have been somewhat comical in other circumstances, but here, in the woods, everyone was tense as they watched the delegate of a hostile faction walking into their midst. Damak and the military group as well as a smattering of other players rose to arms, but they were not near the tribesman who had just appeared from the surrounding forest. The old man stopped about four meters back from a group of seated players, raised both hands, palms open, and made a combined swiping motion as two mangled, humanoid forms leapt from a tall, nearby tree clawing and rending the group caught without their defenses raised.
The group of four were dead within seconds. One of the two flesh-colored beasts had long, ear-like protrusions poking from the top of his head, two short legs, and a mesh of pulled-taut skin which stretched wing-like to his deformed hands. His nose was offset forward and his mouth enlarged, like the face of some horrific combination of man and bat. The other’s monstrous form stood on all four limbs—his legs and joints rearranged to somewhat mirror one another. His coccyx had elongated beyond human proportions and his face deranged to give him the threatening maw of a large, predatory cat.
The expeditionary force erupted into action, each member dropping and forgetting about their lunches or frantically scarfing down a handful for their desired regenerative effects.
As the groups of people arranged themselves in rough combat formations, the first—and untransformed—tribesman again raised both hands palm-upward above his head. The light-blue spiritual apparition of a frog leapt into his palms from the thin air beside him. As soon as the frog spirit had landed, the tribesman widened his stance, cupped his hands around the spirit, and shoved it into his chest. A pale blue light briefly outlined the tribesman and his eyes glowed brightly. His frame began to bulge and widen as his slack skin pulled tighter. As his legs elongated and deformed, it sounded as though bones were snapping. The tribesman’s form continued to mutate until he had reached a bold girth, powerful legs, and a horrific face resembling human skin stretched to look like a frog’s, save for the eyes which remained the same, smaller size.