The mud-slicked trails snaked through the wilderness like veins pulsing with forgotten secrets, each twist and turn a reminder of how far SP had strayed from the familiar comforts of his own physical realm.
The ground beneath seemed alive with malice, shifting and sucking at the horse's hooves as if reluctant to let him pass, every rut a potential trap laid by the land itself. He urged his horse onward in a frantic gallop, the beast's flanks heaving with effort, its breath coming in ragged bursts that misted the thick air.
The hooves churned up sprays of filthy water and muck that arced through the heavy, oppressive atmosphere like fleeting curses cast by the earth itself, splattering against nearby trunks with wet slaps that echoed his growing frustration. The splatters landed on his worn leather boots and the hem of his cloak, cold and gritty, seeping through the fabric to chill his skin, leaving behind a clammy residue that made him shiver involuntarily, as if the world were marking him as its unwilling intruder.
Days had blurred into one another since his abrupt arrival—perhaps a week, though time felt elastic here, stretching endlessly during the long, weary hours of travel and snapping back in sharp, disorienting moments of awareness when danger loomed or pain spiked.
Upon arrival in this world, as with all seasoned astral travelers entering a new possibility realm, the very first act was the manifestation of a body—a vessel essential for prolonged stability within the local frequency band and for evading the attention of any potent Observers that might be watching. Without form, he would be little more than a ripple—noticeable, anomalous, and vulnerable.
He'd found himself in the wilderness, the fresh but heavy summer air rushing into his newly formed lungs—sharp, wet, and too warm—leaving him nauseous and dazed. The foreign soil clung to his hands like an accusation.
Now, every inhale felt like swallowing shards of glass—jagged, intrusive, utterly wrong, as if the very molecules of this place were laced with barbs designed to scrape at his lungs. The atmosphere clung to him like a possessive lover: damp, sticky, and unrelenting, infused with the perpetual rot of mildew that seeped into his pores. It mingled with the earthy tang of decay from fallen leaves rotting underfoot, the faint bitterness of wet bark peeling from ancient trees, and distant, acrid smoke from unseen fires that hinted at hidden camps or smoldering ruins.
It was as if the world itself exhaled a sigh of resentment, unwilling to share its breath with an outsider like him—forcing him to fight for every lungful, each gasp a small victory against the suffocating embrace that threatened to drown his senses.
Trees loomed on either side, their gnarled branches reaching out like skeletal fingers, brushing against his cloak with a scratchy whisper that sent chills down his spine, as if they were trying to snag him and pull him into the undergrowth. The rustle of leaves overhead sounded almost like hushed voices plotting in the shadows, murmuring indecipherable warnings or mocking his futile progress. The canopy filtered the sunlight into dappled patterns that danced mockingly on the ground, highlighting the treacherous pits and ruts that could swallow a rider whole, their edges camouflaged by overgrown vines and deceptive puddles reflecting the fractured sky. One wrong step, and the wet slime would seep through boots and into bones, a slow invasion that left you shivering long after you'd pulled free, the chill burrowing deep like a parasite seeking warmth. SP had learned that the hard way on his first day, when a hidden sinkhole had nearly claimed his leg, the mud sucking at him like a living thing hungry for warmth, its grip so tenacious that he'd had to claw his way out, heart pounding with a mix of shock and embarrassment—not at the danger, but at the ragged, clawing way he'd proven his resilience.
From the few people he'd passed along the road, eyes had tracked him—dark and probing—from behind trees or over low stone walls, sizing him up as either prey or threat. Their gazes were heavy with untold hardships, etched deep into faces carved by a life scraped raw against the bones of this unforgiving land.
And the mosquitoes… gods, the mosquitoes. The swarms descended like a curse unearthed from some ancient, vengeful tomb, their high-pitched whine a tormenting chorus that frayed his nerves to threads, drilling into his thoughts with such relentless buzzing that it drowned out even his inner monologue.
This world was too raw, too untamed, too exhausting in its primal fury, a far cry from the polished elegance of the realms he'd known, where paths were smooth as silk and air carried the sweet perfume of blooming civilization. SP wasn't built for such grit; his essence craved the cozy sofa of his study, enjoy a nice book, rather than this mud-caked drudgery that ground him down with every mile, stripping away layers of his composure until he felt exposed, raw as the landscape around him.
His thighs burned from the endless chafing against the saddle, a fiery ache that radiated into his numb backside, heavy as if hammered by an invisible forge, each jolt sending sparks of pain up his spine and making him gasp involuntarily. He could feel the blisters forming, raw and weeping under his trousers, the friction a constant companion that made him shift uncomfortably, seeking relief that never came, his muscles knotting in protest against the unyielding rhythm.
He gritted his teeth, tasting the salt of sweat on his lips mingled with the metallic tang of bitten frustration, the flavor a bitter reminder of his growing desperation. Finally, he reined in the horse, forcing a slower trot that allowed the beast to catch its breath, its sides slick with lather that gleamed dully in the filtered light. He paused for a moment, dismounting with a wince, his legs wobbling as they adjusted to solid ground, the muscles protesting with sharp twinges that shot through his calves and up into his hips.
From the moment he'd materialized here, a profound dissonance had vibrated through his core, unlike any possibility realm he'd traversed before.
In the past, he had arranged his crossings with meticulous care. Those transitions had been smooth and anticipated—a gentle slide and dive from one possibility to the next, where the air shimmered with invitation and the ground rose to meet his feet like an old friend.
These realms were accordant possibilities, harmonized by shared consensus among vast Observers. They had welcomed him then, their ethereal fabrics yielding to imagination and mind-power with eager pliancy, feeding back energy in cascading waves that amplified his abilities—turning whispers of intent into symphonies of power that danced at his command.
But this time, his mentor's coordinates had thrust him in blindly—a reckless dispatch that felt less like guidance and more like a shove into the unknown.
He couldn't shake the suspicion: was this one of the frequently traversed realms recognized and shared by his school's collective?
Or was this a fringe possibility, anchored solely by his mentor's personal act of observation—untested, unstable, and unwelcoming?
In those initial moments, SP had extended his senses outward, probing the ambient structure like a blind man feeling for walls in an unfamiliar room, his breath shallow as he awaited the familiar rush of response. But it came muted, restrained—a whisper where he expected a roar—forcing him to recalibrate his sensing parameters on the fly.
He had always gauged worlds by their feedback intensity, just like anyone trained in his school. In his native mortal realm, the natural environment responded to mental stimuli with a coefficient of about 1—a faint echo, barely more than silence—requiring exhaustive focus to elicit even a spark, like coaxing fire from damp tinder under relentless rain.
Living beings hovered around 3, owing to the principle that mental resonance increases among entities sharing overlapping perceptual frameworks—a concept well-established in cognitive runology.
But in fantasy realms—born from the dense consciousness fields of collective dreams and human longing, where castles floated on clouds and dragons whispered prophecies—nature's feedback soared above 30, a lavish gift that amplified every incantation, turning thoughts into tangible wonders that bloomed like springtime flowers. Biological responses could climb to 50 or more, sometimes shattering the hundred-mark barrier in legendary zones where narrative and reality bled into one.
Here, though?
His initial probes, conducted in those first disoriented hours, revealed a stingier truth: nature hovered at a reluctant 10—a murmur, not a roar—forcing him to layer intent with surgical precision just to draw a minimal response.
Biotic feedback scraped by at 20—functional, but miserly. Like a merchant haggling over every unit of power, it demanded he expend willpower in narrow, deliberate pulses, taxing his reserves far more than anticipated.
The spells still functioned. Not elegantly. Not powerfully. But for now—they functioned. And that would have to suffice.
As the trail dipped into a shadowed valley, the air growing thicker with the scent of impending rain—earthy and metallic, like the promise of a storm brewing in the heavens—SP's thoughts drifted inexorably to his destination, pulling him from the immediate discomforts of the road into a deeper contemplation of the path ahead. The rain's approach carried a chill that seeped through his cloak, mingling with the dampness already clinging to his skin, as if the sky itself were weeping for the secrets buried in this land. His destination was the sprawling domain of Báthory Erzsébet, the enigmatic lady whose name whispered through history like a forbidden spell, laced with tales of blood and eternal beauty that sent shivers down the spines of even the bravest souls.
Legends painted her as a figure both tragic and terrifying: a noblewoman born into immense power in the late 16th century, heiress to vast estates in the Kingdom of Hungary, married young to a count and wielding influence that rivaled kings. Yet her story darkened with accusations of unspeakable acts—torturing and slaying hundreds of young women, some said over 600, in pursuit of youth and vitality, bathing in their lifeblood under the cover of night to preserve her porcelain skin and raven hair.
He wasn't merely entering her lands; he'd been immersed in them for days, the boundaries blurred by the vastness that felt like an unnamed kingdom unto itself. This territory, vast and untamed, spanned regions from the Carpathian foothills to fertile plains, a legacy of her family's noble lineage, where loyalty was demanded and dissent vanished into the night.
But his mission required more than mere trespass; he needed a face-to-face encounter with the lady herself—the Countess Elizabeth Báthory de Ecsed, infamous in whispers for her alleged cruelties, her name evoking images of lavish chambers turned torture dens, where servants trembled and victims pleaded in vain. Thus, his traveling began.
A few days prior, he'd erred gravely, plunging headlong toward Čachtice Castle under the assumption it was her primary lair, drawn by the fragments his mentor provided before he entered this realm—a remote stronghold in what was once the Kingdom of Hungary, far from prying eyes, where she allegedly orchestrated her horrors in hidden chambers below, rooms said to echo with screams and the drip of blood on cold floors. Legends spoke of secret passages winding through the rock, lit by flickering torches that cast grotesque shadows, leading to lairs where young servant girls vanished, their fates woven into grisly folklore of iron maidens and baths of vitae.
That day, as SP dismounted, a muffled groan escaped his lips, a sharp twinge of pain rippling through his muscles like an inner alarm, the saddle's toll flaring anew the moment his feet met the uneven ground, sending a jolt straight up his legs that nearly drew a curse from his clenched teeth.
Casting his detection spell, he uncovered that the servants were no ordinary folk—their loyalty bordered on fanaticism, far beyond what reason might explain. One woman in particular stood out—a sturdy figure with eyes gleaming like polished flint in the dim light—as he claimed to be a messenger from another lord, her gaze fixed on him with piercing suspicion, to ease the tension, SP offered his bribe: a small vial of glittering glass beads, shimmering byproducts from a hasty alchemical transmutation he'd whipped up along the way.
To bolster his persuasion, he layered on a few different charm spells, weaving them to heighten goodwill and build trust, each one a subtle nudge in this world's stingy flows. "She's not here," the servant finally muttered, her voice a gravelly rasp laced with reluctance, as if uttering the words betrayed some sacred oath.
"In summer, she heads to Sárvár Castle—easier for handling matters." Her loyalty remained ironclad, unbent. SP felt a quiet respect for her unyielding resolve, even though the information was hardly a secret; at least now he had a direction, a thread to follow in the tangled web of his quest.
Now, redirected toward Sárvár, his backside ached relentlessly, a dull fire that mirrored his sour mood, spreading upward like embers catching on dry tinder, the saddle's leather worn and unforgiving against his scholar's frame, chafing skin unused to such prolonged hardship, each shift in the seat a fresh spark of discomfort that made him wince inwardly.
If he's in a fantasy realm, flight would have been a simple choice, a graceful ascension that slashed travel time and seized tactical advantage—evading foes from on high, slipping free from ground-bound risks at a moment's notice.
Instead, he was stuck grinding forward like this, his backside chafed raw, thighs numb from the endless rub, clinging to a horse that barely responded to his cues, crawling through mud and the ceaseless drone of insects.
It was inefficient to the extreme, a pure grind of endurance.
Regrettably, this world didn't permit such luxuries. Technically, it did—he could attempt to fly, but only by fully transforming into a bird. In a place where natural selection reigned unchecked by civilization, merely "getting airborne" fell far short of survival in the skies.
He'd have to become a raptor—an eagle, falcon, or owl—to battle fierce winds, dodge beasts, and outwit predators in a sky teeming with threats. Ordinary birds? They were bottom-feeders in the food chain, easy meals for snakes and hawks.
Yet his mental state faltered under the strain, a fragile edifice cracking under the weight of accumulated weariness, his thoughts scattering like leaves in a gale as he contemplated the sheer audacity of such a shift. In this real, transformation wasn't a simple switch, a mere flick of will that toggled forms like changing garments; it was a cognitive overhaul, a ritualistic experiment in self-reconstruction that demanded he dismantle his very sense of self and rebuild it anew, piece by painstaking piece, in the image of something wild and untethered. The physical pain of bodily reshaping—bones lengthening with agonizing cracks that echoed through his frame like breaking branches, feathers sprouting in prickling waves that itched and burned as they pierced skin, organs shifting with a nauseating squelch, compressing and realigning in ways that left him breathless and disoriented—was secondary to the true challenge, a mere prelude to the mental maelstrom that followed.
He had to remap his mind entirely, forging neural pathways in the forge of pure intent, coordinating wing muscle groups for lift—those broad, powerful sweeps that propelled upward against gravity's insistent pull, each fiber contracting in perfect harmony to generate the thrust needed for takeoff. Dynamically adjusting tail feathers for stability became an art of instinct, fanning them like a rudder in turbulent seas, tilting and twisting to counterbalance gusts that could send him spiraling. Sliding centers of gravity with intuitive precision meant sensing the body's new equilibrium, a fluid dance where weight shifted forward for dives or backward for climbs, all while judging airflow like a born flier—reading the invisible currents, the updraughts warm and rising like welcoming hands, the downdrafts cold and treacherous as hidden pitfalls—all from scratch, as if learning to walk anew on legs that were no longer his, stumbling through the basics of existence in a form alien and unforgiving. It was exhilarating in theory, terrifying in practice, a plunge into the unknown where one wrong synapse could mean catastrophe.
Even his "horse" mocked his plight in its silent, steadfast way, a construct born of necessity rather than grandeur, its form a makeshift testament to his ingenuity amid desperation, yet a constant reminder of the compromises this realm forced upon him. Not a true steed, bred from noble bloodlines and trained for loyalty; upon arrival, penniless and marked as foreign by his unfamiliar garb, horses were regulated commodities in this world, guarded like treasures against outsiders, doled out only to those with coin or connections he lacked, leaving him to improvise with exsiting materals around him.
He'd woven this white horse from dried grass and branches scavenged from the forest floor, brittle twigs snapping under his fingers as he bound them with strips of vine, shaping a symbolic effigy that borrowed the world's collective "horse" concept—a useful ritual practice if you know the logic behind it.
In fantasy realms, such mounts were enchanted marvels that bordered on the divine: tireless travelers capable of day-long sprints across rugged terrain without a falter, their muscles rippling with arcane vigor, automatically adjusting to the rider's posture with empathetic precision—shifting weight distribution to cradle the body like a cloud, eliminating physiological burdens so that hours felt like moments, even self-healing minor damages with glowing arcane flows that mended tears in hide or fractures in bone as effortlessly as breathing.
Riders in those realms spoke of bonds like kinship, the steed anticipating needs before they arose, a partnership forged in magic's generous embrace.
Here, with the low feedback coefficient stifling such wonders, it was merely a mimic—a near-perfect replica of local warhorses in form and function, sturdy flanks and flowing mane crafted with deceptive realism, intelligent beyond mundane beasts, possessing a rudimentary understanding that allowed it to follow commands with loyalty, its eyes—fashioned from polished stones—gleaming with a spark of simulated awareness that responded to his voice or touch.
But it lacked the adaptive "regulations" of true magic; no proactive comfort woven into its essence, no ethereal buffers to soften the ride, leaving the saddle's bite as raw and unrelenting as any mortal beast's. SP, no equestrian but a scholar versed in quills that danced across parchment with elegant flourishes, tomes heavy with lores, and the delicate art of incantation where words shaped reality like clay under a potter's hands, couldn't bridge the gap with skill alone—his body unused to the sway and jolt, his instincts honed for libraries rather than trails, fumbling where others might flow.
Spells for riding mastery existed—evocations for communion with animals, drawing from druidic circles to enhance balance and intuition, forging a mental link that synchronized rider and mount in seamless harmony—but his current prowess fell short, a limitation of his own making, the knowledge there but the execution lacking the finesse this world demanded, echoing the old salesman's quip with biting irony: the "flaw" lay not in the product, but in the buyer's capacity.
It was torment for both rider and mount, a shared trial etched into every jarring step along the uneven trail. SP clamped his legs awkwardly against the saddle, his muscles straining with the effort to hold himself in place, nailing himself to the construct like a reluctant nail driven into unyielding wood, each movement a clumsy error that sent jolts of discomfort through his frame and into the horse's rigid form.
The beast endured with stoic silence, its constructed essence—born of woven grass and branches—preventing any hint of rebellion or bucking, its loyalty absolute despite the strain of his ineptitude. Yet SP swore he sensed a flicker of exasperation in its steady gaze, those polished-stone eyes glinting with a quiet intelligence that seemed to judge his fumbling attempts, as if the horse understood the absurdity of their plight better than he did.
He even began to suspect the beast knew the path better than he did, its hooves finding firmer ground instinctively where his eyes failed, skirting hidden ruts and slick patches with a sureness that mocked his reliance on frayed maps and faltering instincts. Each time it adjusted its stride to avoid a snag, SP felt a pang of gratitude tinged with self-doubt, wondering if this creation of his own making was somehow more attuned to this world than he, the scholar who had summoned it, ever could be.
Straightening in the saddle despite the ache, he pressed his heels gently against the horse's flanks, urging it forward with a murmured word of encouragement, the beast responding with a steady step that felt like a shared resolve.
The journey demanded heart as much as magic, a courage forged not in the grand gestures of epic tales, but in the small, stubborn choice to keep moving, just like a healthy relationship, one hoofbeat at a time toward the shadowed promise of Sárvár.