Pip's Hellsborough Diary
Welcome to my journal. Here you will find diarised entries of my field notes and research when I spend time in Hellsborough. I write diary entries frequently, but if I haven't for a while, I'm either not in Hellsborough, my work in the off-world has had to take prescendence, or something tragic has happened.
Read more about The Dark Peak Calendar
Don't forget to subscribe so I can let you know when new publications are released. Want to read before you subscribe? Visit Postcards from The Dark Peak
Pinned Diary Entry Collections:
- Stranger in a Strange Land
- The Origin of Semagrams & the First Crossing of The Hinge
- The Seven Guardians of The Hinge
The Legend of Loxley Bottom (The Gabbleratchets of Sophie Hinchcliffe) Chapter seven: Nascenti.
The nascenti clicked and clacked. That is their mode of communication: Clicking and clacking.
If you're on the hivemind, you'll get a translation -- that's what the hivemind does, it converts the language of the insectoids, or in this case the langoustides, into a common language -- if you're not on the hivemind, then, forget it, you ain't going to understand what they're talking about.
The clicking and clacking was because the nascenti had observed -- or rather the organic network had observed, and tracked -- the dead body of Sophie Hinchcliffe sinking to the bottom of the Damflask, and her internal organs being devoured by the fish who called The Damflask home.
The nascenti had no need of Sophie's internal organs.
The nascenti were only interested in one part of her.
The nascenti needed Sophie's DNA.
The absence of brain, liver, lungs, kidneys, ovaries, that made no difference to the nascenti; the fish could do what they would with those. As long as a scrap of Sophie's skin or bone was retrieved from the Damflask, the nascenti would be happy with their haul.
The quiddity of Sophie was dredged from the dank depths, the mechanical arms of the nacenti machine juggling the slimy husk, a putrid lump of meat.
You wouldn't recognise as what was left of Sophie as human, just rags and tatters skin and gnawed bone. A wet soaked mass of protein.
But that protein, that flesh and bone, contained the DNA the nascenti needed to rebuild her.
Deep in their laboratories, they grew Sophie anew.
They started with a strand, they grew a pupa.
A new organism so small, it was invisible to the human eye -- but not to their advanced equipment.
They grew an embryo. An embryo that was a combination of human and nascenti: Of Sophie Hinchcliffe and the great lord B'enderclaw, a revered deity of the nascenti from many a year passed, whose own DNA had sat it wait for an occasion such as this.
The nascenti scientists had many attempts and many failures, often a little lifeform would last no longer than a few moments.
The nascenti scientists -- these bio-formers, these creators of new life -- were under great pressure of their own. The DNA of their former great leader had laid in wait for many generations, but was not in unlimited supply.
The controllers of the scientists -- the vegahorn -- as they are known, who the scientists worshipped as the nascenti embodiment of Dunlockslyn, kept a close control over the scientists successes (which were few) and failures (which were many).
A number of the scientists gave their lives to their research, as one after another of the tiny lifeforms withered in the nascenti equivalent of test tubes and petri dishes.
Gradually, painfully slowly, the nascenti scientists began to lean on the mycelium of their fungal "friends" to provide a framework for growth. They managed to culture -- and stabilise -- new life.
And so, the nascenti cultured a new Sophie. A new B'enderclaw.
They knew what hey had.
A new and special species. A precious new species. The infusion of human and nascenti. The ultimate species, they said.
The vegahorn didn't agree.
But, they allowed the scientists to continue their work.
The new Sophie grew quickly.
There are reasons for that: Not just the help of the fungal network, but the nascenti are as adept as any species in the The Dark Peak in the medicinal use of rockcrust.
And advanced quantanic technology, far beyond the understanding of anyone in the off-world.
From a foetus they grew her. They grew him. They grew them. This new species, forever now conjoined.
In looks, the new creature was a double of Sophie, but she was better than the Sophie that passed at the Loxley pond. Her brain was larger. Inside her, beat the many hearts of B'enderclaw.
Like B'enderclaw, she had larger lung capacity. Like B'enderclaw, she could regenerate.
In a few more days, Sophie was a fourteen year old "woman" again.
They had to teach her to breath. Out at the Damflask, the murk is heavy, and this embryonic new Sophie had to learn to deal with the murk, but of course, her DNA was now part nascenti, so she was able to breath the murk unaided, without the need of a psycmask, like the one those disgusting gabbleratchets had ripped from her face.
Outwardly, to anyone looking, she was human. Inside her body, and her head, she was nascenti through and through. Human on the outside. Nascenti on the inside: Nascenti blood coursed through Sophie's veins.
Her head was empty for now, that's to be understood. How wouldn't it be? The nascenti were just rebuilding her body, her mind would come later. A fully developed brain, waiting to be filled with facts, information, experiences, details. Eventually, she would be taught to speak Ing, like any human in Hellsborough or the netherlands, but that would come later.
But she would always think in the nascenti dialect of The Dark Peak language. She would dream nascenti dreams. Her indoctrination was nascenti.
An extra celebration today here in Hellsborough town. Today is 79.drizzle-flufftail.0.0 -- that's the first day of the new year, but not only that, the weather stem of the date system has restarted, which only happens once every ten years. The year's designation points to it being a good one for everyone -- drizzle is only the lightest of rains, and flufftail is one of the most docile and kindest creatures on the date system's bestial branch -- so everyone is hoping for a lenient and productive year that will multiply everyone's reserves of ¢hits and keep us all going through the harder times, which will inevitably follow. That's the hope anyway, the feeling is buoyant -- the feeling is jubilant. Read more about The Dark Peak calendar.
The Legend of Loxley Bottom (The Gabbleratchets of Sophie Hinchcliffe) Chapter six: Search.
Hellsborough is close to the wisewood, and to the North and West, it encroaches on the city landscape.
Often creatures from the wood lose their way in the murk, finding themselves wandering through the streets of Hellsborough, terrorising unsuspecting residents.
Many an over-intoxicated jellyhead has been found by the exacids at the bottom of a ginnel or on some lonely lane, half devoured with horror in his or her wide and starey eyes.
Naval wasn't scared, he had a mission -- he would find his girlfriend, wherever she was and whatever mess she had gotten herself into, and he would bring her home -- back to their home in Winn Gardens.
Despite the amount of drink he'd taken on, he felt sober, and he knew his feet would carry him forwards with purpose. His mind was set and his body was ready -- he was on edge, sure, but he was focused and knew what he needed to do.
The Loxley pond -- that is what one of the stragglers who'd left the last bar had said. It was but a few thousand paces away, and so that was where he headed. He knew where to go, he'd been there many a time -- but never when the murk was so thick or the dark was so black. He covered his face with a shroud; he knew his psycmask would allow his to breath freely, but the extra warmth of the snood gave him comfort -- and he needed some comfort from something at that moment.
As a child, he and friends had ignored their parents advice and headed out in the direction of the pond, messing around in the muck and mud and water, not worrying about what might lurk beneath its surface.
He had no fear then, none of them did. But when he thought back on those friends from those days -- few of them were still about. One, Ellen Gobsthwaite had made a name for herself -- she had become someone in the Farantees retail empire, but many other names that he remembered: Phil Turner, Ronnie Sykes, Jim Savage, Davey Hawley -- there were all long gone. Suffering some unexpected demise for some terrible, yet inexplicable reason.
It was always an inexplicable reason -- always a tragic accident -- always something that shouldn't have happened.
But they did happen. Those names were gone now. Laid to rest. Just gravestones in the grounds of Wadsley church or Wardsend cemetery.
Naval tried not to dwell on the gory details. He tried not to think about what might have happened to those old childhood friends.
He tried even harder not to think what might be happening to his Sophie, or might have already happened while he fumed and raged around the Middlewood bars.
All that he cared about now was finding her and rescuing her. His little love, his precious girl.
Got any ¢hits fella?
A beggar looked up from the filth, nestling a drainpipe that spewed filthy water onto the flagstones by the junction.
Naval's lip curled upwards -- what was a beggar doing on the streets of Hellsborough?
Surely the exacids wouldn't put up with this?
Yet here he was, this decrepit individual, asking for a hand-out.
Naval bit his tongue, not answering, just staring at the hobo.
#### HMM::OUT('Transfer 5 ¢hits to him')
ask:: Oakey, Naval // stat:: accept[ok]__ // src:: 2001:0db8:85a3:0000:0000:8a2e:037g:7334 [loc::hellsborough//middlewood_road//4259]__ // now:: 79.rain-rooter.13.15.0.22.49
HMM::IN('..5 ¢hits delivered to 2001:0db8:85a3:0000:0000:3492:fd31:abfe__')
Grateful fella, grateful! The beggar said, snoughing into his filthy lapel and clutching the drainpipe for support. I'll not forget thee fella. Tha is a diamond tha is!
Ten minutes later Naval was at the Loxley pond. Now, after midmurk, all was quiet. The flat surface of the pond reflected the murkmoon like a dirty mirror.
How does it feel to be on your own, baby? Naval knew Sophie was here or hereabouts, he felt her presence was here -- or at least had been. Something on the breeze, something in the air. He could smell her, he could sense her, she had been here.
But Naval knew he was by himself now. All was quiet on the pond. Even the quackers and the clownfeet were sleeping at this hour.
But he knew Sophie had been here.
He searched in the darkness for signs of her, stumbling along the edge of the pond -- that narrow runway that splits the pond and the Loxley river itself.
He picked a fragment of cloth from an ensnaring tree branch that grew into the pond.
It was hers, he was sure.
It could have been anything, it was filthy and wet, covered in grime and silt, but he knew it was hers, of her. He could feel her presence if that scrap of material.
When a lover walks out the door forever, the short-term pain is enormous. When Sophie walked out of their door on Winn Gardens this morning, it was with a kiss and a gleeful wave, the full shock of it all hadn't hit him yet.
As Naval followed that narrow tract of land, he saw more bits of stuff -- detritus, fragments of garments, scraps of this and that -- all he felt sure were evidence of Sophie's existence previously at the pond.
He had no choice now.
He was on the edge of the wisewood and the only way was forwards.
He couldn't turn back. Tha can't turn back now, he said to himself.
The hairs on the back of his neck began to stand erect, his fear palpable. His heart beginning to race. And, there's no such word as "can't" -- the words of his mother echoed through his confused thoughts.
Naval felt the presence of another. It wasn't Sophie. It was someone else.
Naval turned around, peering into the blackness and the murk.
There was a shape -- A shambling form behind him, maybe a hundred paces back, maybe less -- it was hard to tell in the lack of light.
Who's there? Shouted Naval.
There was no response, but a tell-tale snough was enough to inform Naval that the beggar from the crossroads had followed him.
What do you want? I know who you are.
Aye fella, tha knows who I am, I is just 'ere to 'elp.
Help? How can you help?
Sophie is deed, tha knows that reyt?
The beggar came closer, hobbling through the murk.
Dead? What do you mean dead?
You've seen the evidence fella, you've seen her bits and bobs strewn about -- ain't that evidence enough that tha Sophie is no longer in t'land of t'livin'?
She's alive! I'm searching for her now, I'm going to rescue her! I have provisions, I'm going to get her home safe!
She's gone fella. Them gabbleratchets took her and brought 'er 'ere. I saw 'em carry 'er off mesen from t'crossroads. And them things doant leave nowt much behind. Them scraps of cloth that thas 'olding close to tha chest, that's all that's left of 'er, believe me, I knows about these things.
You're wrong, my Sophie is still alive. I know them things have done her wrong, but she is stronger than that, she is stronger, she is stronger, I know she is, I know her, I'm gonna save her, I'm gonna take her home.
She's gone fella. Doant enter that wisewood -- that's all I 'as to say to thee.
I have to go in, that's where she's gone. I have to go in and get her back.
She'll come back fella, when she's good and ready. Tha doant need to go in there looking for her.
You're wrong. I have no choice. I need to go into the wisewood.
Do as tha pleases then. I 'as said me piece.
Wait, what? -- how do you know she'll come back?
I's milting fella, I maybe old, but I's seen all this an 'undred times before.
Milting? What's milting? Naval shouted into the darkness. Naval had never heard the word milting before.
But the beggar had turned his back and was gone, away from the wisewood, back towards the grime and filth of Hellsborough.
Indignant and annoyed, Naval ran down the towpath -- The only thought in his mind now: Finding his Sophie.
Up the steps by the weir, past the pumping station -- he and it running at full pelt in the torrential rain that slewed from the murky night.
Up above the pumping station, on that dirty and discarded track, lives the Gosava tree.
The Gosava tree eats meat. A rapacious predator, albeit one that is rooted to the ground; but one that extends its reach into all corners of this part of the wisewood, it's tangle of dark dripping branches blackening the canopy, cutting out what little light the murk allows to enter.
The Gosava tree is hungry. The Gosava tree is ravenous. It hasn't eaten for days, weeks maybe. As Windstrom turns to Bleak, pickings in the wisewood are few and far between -- there isn't much meat to be had here or hereabouts at this time of year.
It has extended its roots and rhizomes searching for nourishment -- clawing and climbing into every gap and fissure in its hungry search.
The gift of live human flesh doesn't come along very often. Maybe once a season, maybe less. Rarely at this time of year.
Ensnared by those tangling dendritic threads, the Gosava tree brought Naval down, encasing him in its spiralling web of tendons and branches.
Naval could no longer move, his legs gripped by the voracious plant. One of his arms was pinned to his side, his other grasped at a tender stem.
Behind him, Naval heard the most horrid of moans -- subsonic it was -- a deep, penetrating growl.
Naval has never felt fear like this before. The darkness, the murk, the sudden cold of the wisewood making his teeth chatter in his head. He pulled the sapling towards his mouth with his free hand and put it in his mouth, his teeth bouncing up and down on the springy twiglet.
In his mind he remembered the legend of Van Hallam, and he resisted biting on the twig.
He shouldn't have resisted; worse things happen by resisting.
The Gosava tree forced itself on him, into him. His remaining free arm captured, and his prone form splayed into a cruciform.
Dunlockslyn thanked Naval for his sacrifice to nourishment of The Dark Peak.
Being driven by money is a horrible way to live your life -- just stop and ask any jellyhead -- they all seem to hate their lives -- a bit like Van did back when he first entered the wisewood all those years ago.
My advice to them (whether they want it or not), is don’t focus on the money. Money is a paradox. Whatever society tells you about money is usually the opposite of the truth.
Forget about results, don't stress about the future. Since I've been here (in Hellsborough), I’ve forgotten about my career. I’ve lived in the moment. I have zero regrets.
I used to suffer from bad anxiety. I’d spend a silly amount of time living in some fantasy world. Now I live in the moment.
I let the future take care of itself.
You spend so much of our lives obsessed with the future, you forget about the here and now.
The future is impossible to control, just live for the moment, and get on with it -- The exacid might be knocking on the door tomorrow.
The Legend of Loxley Bottom (The Gabbleratchets of Sophie Hinchcliffe) Chapter five: End.
An animated body with no life force is a strange thing. It will shamble along seemingly forever. But, as we know, nothing can go on forever. Without fuel, a machine, an engine, a human body, will fail. Forget anything that you may have watched or read about those things in your world that are known as zombies -- they need live meat to survive, that is their fuel -- or so we are told in those old stories, sometimes they seem to survive on magic. But there is no magic in this world. And Sophie had no appetite for fresh meat -- if she had, she'd have attacked that slipperman -- but she didn't.
The relentless rain continued its ceaseless descent, as if nature sought to cleanse this most macabre of scenes. Sophie, a mere shell of her former self, devoid of life force, pressed on with an unsettling determination. The landscape, drenched and disorienting, mirrored the internal disarray of her vacant form.
She walked steadily along the banks of that Loxley river, it flowing downstream, her walking towards its source. That rain continued to sile down, the ditches and dykes and sykes filling with fresh water and rushing fast past her legs and feet, disorientating whatever inbuilt tracking mechanisms continued within her.
The water broke the banks of the sykes and the river, but did little to impede her relentless journey.
The water flowed this way and that, the Loxley draining away towards the Dun, but the dykes and sykes being sucked into the hungry mouth of the Damflask. The deluge overflowed the banks of the waterways, creating an environment that confused any remaining tracking mechanisms within her. The Loxley's currents swirled, joining the relentless flow away from the Damflask, a hungry reservoir awaiting its next offering.
The beating rain and the unforgiving murk blasted the body of the vacant form that used to be Sophie Hinchcliffe, driving her into the ground. With no fuel, that walking cadaver eventually failed and slumped, sliding into the mud and was washed in the flood into a syke. She was now near to the Damflask, and her body was sucked into that great body of water.
Her lifeless form, the semblance of existence that lingered within her expunged, collapsed into the mud. The Damflask, a voracious maw, welcomed her lifeless body into its depths. Now no longer moving, her prone form was pulled under the water. It floated on the surface for the briefest of moments, and then sank, dropping to the bottom of that stormy miniature ocean. The nutrients of Sophie Hinchcliffe would't be wasted. The water would break her down and she'd become protein for the feeding of the inhabitants of Hellsborough.
The silt and muck and the bones of a thousand dead fish at the bottom of the Damflask cushioned her naked frame as she sank into the depths. The mud ate into her every crevice. It coated her breasts, it seeped between her tiny cleavage, it entered the holes between her legs, it filled the gaps between her fingers and toes.
The storm persisted, a malevolent symphony of rain and hate, as Sophie's body sank into the reservoir's abyss. The mud and silt, mingling with the bones of countless fish, embraced her form, cushioning her descent. Naked and motionless, she became a part of the aquatic ecosystem. The silt invaded every inch of her, coating her body with the remnants of decay. Her descent into the Damflask became a gruesome ballet, with the water breaking down her remains, converting her into sustenance for the aquatic denizens below.
Sophie Hinchcliffe came to rest in the dark and haunted depths of the Damflask. D'divi protect her.
Above, the storm still raged, an unforgiving onslaught, torrents of water cascading down the hillsides like lava from a volcano -- a flowing miasma of putrid hate.
Slippers nudged about her mud clotted frame; the odd one had a nibble -- already they found nourishment coating her skin. Then a shoal of sticklebacks entered her eye sockets and began to nibble at her brain. The soft tissue sucked away in moments. Then other varieties of slipper began to enter her other orifices, following the paths that the mud and silt had previously laid.
There, these slippers found a veritable banquet. Whilst the gabbleratchets had had Sophie's eyes and mind, whilst they had raped and defiled her, they left so much more for the slippers of the Damflask.
Her internal organs, her heart, her lungs, kidneys and liver, ovaries; the eggs of her unborn children -- all were slowly and softly devoured.
Even the secretions the gabbleratchets left behind.
The slippers fed for hours, when they were finished, Sophie was nothing more than brittle skin encasing filth encrusted bone.
The organic network watched all of this activity, relaying a live stream to the nascenti headquarters which lay beneath the Damflask.
The motion detectors had sensed her body descend to the bottom of the reservoir, this macabre scene had not gone unnoticed.
The organic network, had tracked her long before that. They knew when the gabbleratchets discarded her at Loxley pond. They knew when her body had been violated of all worth. They had tracked her progress along the banks of the Loxley as she shumbled along, every detail had been monitored.
The nascenti, didn't know who she was, but they had been anticipating this opportunity.
The grotesque transformation into nutrient-rich filth beneath the stormy surface of the Damflask triggered a response.
The nascenti. Their moment had arrived.
The Legend of Loxley Bottom (The Gabbleratchets of Sophie Hinchcliffe) Chapter four: Rescue.
I've got to sit down, I need to relax, I'm too angry. Naval raged inside his own head.
Naval was pissed and off his head on rockcrust. His frame of mind wasn't the best, to say the least. He slumped himself down on the bench outside the bar and pulled on his vipe, trying to calm his anger with a little bit of bliss.
Empty. No pull to be had. He swore and violently through the vipe into the gutter. Shaking, he controlled himself and realised -- No matter, it was an easy thing to rectify.
#### HMM::OUT('Need juice. Get me juice for me vipe. Mandarin orange.')
`ask:: Oakey, Naval // stat:: accept[ok]__ // src:: 2001:0db8:85a3:0000:0000:8a2e:037g:7334 [loc::hellsborough//middlewood_road//4259]__ // now:: 79.rain-rooter.13.15.0.7.1`
`HMM::IN('..Order received, delivery 1m_`
`..50% Non-refundable deposit of 30¢hit taken__ Balance on delivery__')`
Naval didn't have to wait long, as promised. Thirty seconds later a clown ran into the park, palmed him his order and disappeared as quickly as he had arrived. Naval didn't even have time to say thank you, Piers -- as that was who he thought it was, but the clown apparition appeared and disappeared so quickly, he didn't have the chance.
Between them, the nascenti, the fungai and the clowns have delivery sorted. In this world -- or the off -- sure, you can go into a shop and buy what you want. You can get a deal on a street corner, if you're in the right place at the right time and know your man. You can get a package delivered next day, maybe even today if you're lucky.
But you ain't going to get what you order from a park bench in thirty seconds, I can guarantee that much. Maybe you will, one day, but in Hellsborough capitalism is so advanced and fine-tuned that you can get almost anything your heart desires mind-bogglingly fast.
You can hardly blame me for staying here when I get this level of service can you?
#### HMM::IN('Transaction complete. Total transaction value 60¢hit.')
`hits:: 1 // [this]2001:0db8:85a3:0000:0000:8a2e:037g:7334 [loc::hellsborough//middlewood_road//467]__ // now:: 79.rain-rooter.13.15.0.7.2`
And that's the other thing. For the level of service, things can be extremely good value. 60¢hit that's around £6 in your money today -- as I write it's December 2023 in your world, so it's not breaking the bank is it!?
That's capitalism for you: Fast delivery and a great price!
Naval plugged in his new cartridge and sucked on that vipe pipe long and hard.
It relaxed him. He felt a sense of bliss as the chill Windstrom breeze of the murknight closeted him in his own melancholy.
Something stirred deep inside him. Something inside him said he needed to act. Maybe it was that statement by one of the other customers at the end of the night before they left the bar, about the gabbleratchets being abroad. That struck a chord.
Something's not right, things are not how they should be and now he's worried and feels foolish for the way he has acted and behaved tonight.
He'd been to half a dozen bars, all of the closest ones to where Sophie worked. Everyone, in each of them, well most of the drinkers at least, knew Sophie. It would have been really out of character for her to go into S1. Someone would have said something if that was the case. No. Sophie stayed in S6. Always. That was what they did. This was where they lived, this was their home.
And she was never home late, not without leaving a message anyway.
This was unusual behaviour for Sophie.
Naval finally came to his senses and realised the obvious.
Obvious?
The thought finally entered Naval's head that Sophie hadn't gone on a drinking binge with her work colleagues, that she hadn't decided to go into town by herself, that she wasn't having some affair with her boss or another colleague, that she actually wasn't out partying with anyone at all on this D'divi-foresaken night.
The realisation was that she had been abducted.
Then Naval started to panic.
He needed supplies he realised. He needed to mount a rescue mission.
Where had the gabbleratchets taken her?
What had the gabbleratchets done to her?
Where was she now?
What was she feeling?
Could he get her back?
The questions raced through his mind, bombarding him with feelings of dread and guilt. His throat was dry as his anticipation grew with alarm, distaste and reluctance.
There was no time but the present.
Naval didn't need supplies, he just needed to get after Sophie. But something inside him said that it would still be a good idea to pick up some provisions -- He would still need to eat himself, and Sophie would be hungry.
The Corner News was still open, he went in and grabbed some food pouches, they would do fine. His mind raced, there was no need for anything fancy, this was about basics, this would do, nothing fancy, nothing fancy, cheap and cheerful, quick and easy.
There'd be time for something more substantial when he got her back home. And then he'd treat her to a meal out. They'd go to that nice little tapas place on Bradfield road, he'd spare no expense -- she could have whatever her heart desired. He'd even stretch to tiramisu for dessert.
Naval knew Van Hallam. Everyone knew Van Hallam. He had explored in The Dark Peak, and that was where Naval knew in his head that he had to go now.
There were three main routes through the wisewood. The Loxley, the Rivelin and the Dun. He felt sure that Sophie lay in one of those directions.
But which one?
The bars were emptying now.
Which route? He said out loud to someone at random.
Which one what, fella?
Where did they take her? Where did the gabbleratchets take Sophie?
The Loxley, said one guy who heard his plea.
Yeah, alway the Loxley. That's always the direction the gabbleratchets head, said another.
They don't ever go down the Dun, the skewerwings hunt there, and the banks of that Rivelin, they is too muddy -- tis always towards the Loxley pond that them gabbleratchets head, you should try there first.
Good luck young'en, tha's gonna need it on a neet like toneet.
Naval sucked on his vipe pipe, trying to regain his senses. The murk was suddenly thicker than it had been and the drizzle started again, getting heavier and heavier. Then the wind got up, blowing stuff about hither and thither; wailing through the streets like a mourning murk wraith.
Before long, Naval was soaked to the skin, his clothes sticking to his skinny frame like muck thrown at a window in a storm.
He had a destination -- he would go into the wisewood. He had to. It was his only choice. he knew that no-one entered the wisewood, but he wasn't scared.
Van Hallam had been through the wisewood. He had met demonspawn and D'divi knows what else, but he had survived.
Naval looked around, he looked within, he looked up.
He longed for a source of light, a sense of lightness, as he began to climb out of that well, thumb by painful thumb. But the rain just lashed down and the wind howled like a ripperthroat on the edge of madness.
It felt heavy, the air, the murk. But he remembered —- he remembered he was not alone in this brokenness. Not alone in this anger and angst and disappointment —- he had Sophie's spirit to help him through -- her pretty laugh, her sweet smile. The thought of her drew him forwards, pulled by her attraction. That was when he understood he had to do everything in his power to get her back, despite the risks of the wisewood.
The wisewood it can't be that bad? Can it? Surely not...
