Artemis

You heard that, that whisper..
Something deep in the woods, a creature you dare not look at.

The sound of its song twists an innate fear, urging you to run.
It could be mistaken for a bird song or maybe a crashing tree?
Curiosity calls you in, it calls you in.

The wind carries a song, it has no words. Simply a message.
Follow it deep, find where it radiates.

Were you to stray from the path, what will you find?
The depths of the woods contain but fractions of light, gleaming eyes line the path.
Eyes twist and maneuver in impossible ways. The shadows dance in a flurry.

The source of the song, which felt like it was the forest itself converges to a point.
Here the light stops, what little light the trees dared to spare is no more.
Words forms from the obscure song, a tongue no longer spoken, if ever.


c̵͈͔̋o̸̱͇̹͐̑̈́̋m̸̯̜͙̓̄̿̔͂e̸̙͌̍̊͛̚ ̸̙̂͐̿͊̇̽n̸̨̧̼̖̣̭͆̚ȯ̶̙͎̬̤̲͗͌̋͂w̸̨͚͇̖̦̠̬̰̫͔̏̍̈́̚̚͠ ̵̰͋́f̸̛̪̰̿͊̓̈̂͑̕͠͝o̷̙̯̅̀̒̂̒̈́̉͝ļ̷̹͖͓̰̤͙̤͗͒ͅļ̷̝̠̖͎̭͖͊͒͊̏̂̇̏̀͘͝ö̷͖̘̦́͋̽̈͐̂w̸̼̟̮̦̺̖͊͆̋̆̒̑͠ ̷̦͙̝̯̘̭̰̫͑̀̎̉̀͘͝͝c̸̨̳̬̬̝̣͗̏̽͊̋̔̕͝ḽ̴̨̗̱̃o̸͎͎̼̲̲̬̘̜̞͐̀̐̕͜ṡ̶̻̈́̇̅̎͌̇̚ẽ̶̗̺̓̎͂̐̂͝ ̷̩͇͉͋̑͂̅̀͛̕h̵̛̤̲̏̐͑͛̈́̀͠e̷̟̜͂̈̐̎̀̀̽́̀ą̶̜͈͍͙̹̽́̂͑̍r̵͔̯̮̥̫̦͌̐̈́̉̓͘͠͠ͅ ̶͇̘͔̫̖͈͔͚͈͎̃͑͊m̸̡̰͚̤̠̣͇̃ͅẏ̴̿͌͑͛̌̀͜ ̴̩͎̲̪͙͂̍̆̈́̈́͝͝͠s̶̡̢̳̥͖͖͎̘̰̄̎͐́͆ͅǫ̶͔̣͇̱̬̗̍̀͌̓n̸̨͍̥̱̗̲̬̉̀̽̈̀g̷͇͔͕͐̈́́̍͛̄͆̚͝ ̵̧̛̪̠͍͓̗̱͎̪̘̈́͑͂́̅͠å̷̛̮͎͔̘̖̯͈͓͇͂́̑̈́̅͘̚n̸̙̦̺̩̤͙̑͋͂̌ḋ̶̖͎̥͖̤͓͌̓ͅ ̵̨̢̤̺̲͍̖̠̞̍̓͆̾̂̕͠ͅh̴̘̲̤͎͓͍̟́̓̌̔͊͘͝e̴͇͙̱̯̰̭̞͚͋̔̉̊̒̍͗̈́̐á̸̯̟̖̠͚̻͕̺͖̼r̷̛̭̔̕͜͝͝͝͠ ̷̡̛͈͋̉̀͠ḭ̸̗̪̮̑͑̄̊̉̀͛͋̐t̵̝̼̉̈́̂ ̵̢̛̦̬͕̼̳͙̪̹̅̈́̔̄͑͌͘͜w̵̧̡̳͚͕̲͒͗́̇̇̈́̃͊̚͜e̸̻͉̅̅̏̽̂̿̑͗l̵̺̠͇̜͖̟̄͒͆͌́̾̈́̀l̴̪̮̖̰̳̐̌͛͒̔͛̈̀͘̚͜ͅ


A deep part of your being knows, it can hear what it calls..
Come now.. Follow me...

An appendage reaches out opposite the gargling voice, a draping arm hangs limply. Moss drips down, thin dark-wooden branches hold the weight. Ridgid bones compose the fingers, cracking with each movement.


.̸̗̲̮̪̭͔̺̉̈́̄͒͒̉̆͒̚̕͜ ̵̼̮̏́̈̑̈̓ ̶̗̽ ̵̰̗̂͛͆́̓̿̀̕.̸̗̲̮̪̭͔̉̈́̄͒͒̉̆͒̚̕͜M̶̧̼͎͕̭͇̊̄̔̅͂́͒̑̂ͅì̷͎͙̮̪s̴̙̰̟͙̠̄̀̀͘͠ͅs̷̼̝͍̈́͑́͛̋̚̚͜͝͠i̴̩̦͓̇̔̌̀ń̷̲͓͕̲̯͇̭̖͋ĝ̶͈̹̬͕̫͌͐ ̸̧͓͉̭̟͐y̶̦̺͒̅̀͛̓o̵̘͕͙̪̦͗͑̉͘ų̷͓͚͕̹̟̣̾̎̑̊̈́̆͘͜͝͝r̴̡̛̮̱͕͑͗͌̏̔̀͘͝͠s̴̢̛̝̝̮̗̩̮͐̈́̎̆̅̏ͅȇ̶̡̨̧̡̥̥͙̣͂͗̃̐͑̂̇̕͝l̷̡̨̜͔͖̤̪̹̬͍̅͛̀͌f̷̤̞͚̋̔ ̸͚̣̺̲̻͙͕̠͖̃̄̊̏͛y̷̡̬̗̹̰̞͑̊͜o̸̧͖̬̱̖̊̀̽̈́͜ų̶̮̲̭̹̤̬̖͕͍͛̋̀͌͑̓̈ŕ̵̢͉̰͎̝̙̫͓͝ ̴͉̩͙̜̺̥̜̙͊̅͋̀̑̉͜͝p̶̡̢̰̭͉̖̪͍̈́̏̌̑̈u̴͎͖̯̳̳͍̘͎̎̿́̅͊͠͝ͅͅṛ̷̰̣͙̿̀̅̂͗̐̚p̴̠̤̫̠̠͉̳̳͖͋͛́̆̎͑̑o̸̲̎̓̐̄́̓ş̸̙̺̦̦̲͔̝̈̔̂͜͜ę̶̦̙̰͎͇͙̭̽͗̿̉͜ ą̶̜͈͍͙̹̽́̂͑̍r̵͔̯̮̥̫̦͌̐̈́̉̓͘͠͠ͅ ̶͇̘͔̫̖͈͔͚͈͎̃͑͊m̸̴̡̰͚̤̠̣͇̩͎̲̪͙̃͂̍̆̈́̈́͝͝͠ͅs̶̡̢̳̥͖͖͎̘̰̄̎͐́͆ͅǫ̶͔̣͇̱̬̗̍̀͌̓w̸̵̨̢̛͚͇̖̦̠̬̰̫͔̦̬͕̼̳͙̪̹̏̍̈́̅̈́̔̄͑͌̚̚͘͜͠w̵̧̡̳͚͕̲͒͗́̇̇̈́̃͊̚͜e̸̻͉̅̅̏̽̂̿̑͗ ̵̰͋́f̸̛̪̰̿͊̓̈̂͑̕͠͝o̷̙̯̅̀̒̂̒̈́̉͝ ̴̩͎̲̪͙͂̍̆̈́̈́͝͝͠ļ̷̹͖͓̰̤͙̤͗͒ͅļ̷̝̠̖͎̭͖͊͒͊̏̂̇̏̀͘͝ö̷͖̘̦́͋̽̈͐̂ẏ̴̿͌͑͛̌̀͜ ̴̩͎̲̪͙͂̍̆̈́̈́͝͝͠ w̵̧̡̳͚͕̲͒͗́̇̇̈́̃͊̚͜e̸̻͉̅̅̏̽̂̿̑͗á̸̯̟̖̠͚̻͕̺͖̼r̷̛̭̔̕͜͝͝͝͠ ̷̡̛͈͋̉̀͠ḭ̸̗̪̮̑͑̄̊̉̀͛͋̐t̵̝̼̉̈́̂ ̵̢̛̦̬͕̼̳͙̪̹̅̈́̔̄͑͌͘͜w̵̧̡̳͚͕̲͒͗́̇̇̈́̃͊̚͜l̵̺̠͇̜͖̟̄͒͆͌́̾̈́̀l̴̪̮̖̰̳̐̌͛͒̔͛̈̀͘̚͜ͅ L̸͕̗̬̍͘͝í̶̛̹é̷̙̎ͅ ̷̧̡̫̬͈̼̫͗̍̌ͅḓ̸̢̖́̔̅̊̂̓̓́̕͝o̴̞͚͓̰̜͓͎̣͑w̸̨͍͈̜̽̐̑̊͒̿̕̚͜n̵͖̼̮̜̝̓͒̍̄̓̈̃ ̵̛͉͕̦͕͙̞͚̺̒̈́͐͒̏́̎̚ȋ̸̛͙̦͇͙̰́̈ͅn̷̬̰͎̏̽̃̈́̀̀̆͂͂͝ͅ ̵̧͖̣̬͋̂͑̒͛͛͝t̸͇̆h̶̢͖͇̰̯̱͂̀̍͋͌̽̚͝͝ę̶͓̗͉̣̬̫̙̣͉̓̈́̉ ̷̡̢̳̹̻̺̝͕̬͐͒ṃ̷̳̗̈́̔͗̽̈́̏̑̽̈́͆ō̸̬̯̮̥̥̑̈́͑̈͂̿s̴̢̘̻̹̫͓͓̞̬̆͋͛s̷̥͔̞͈̺̎͊̊̐̂̾̒͝ͅ


It sings again;
Are you lost? Missing something? Grow with the moss. It is all you need.

The darkness curls in, holding you close. Time is no more, here only deterioration marks progression.
A haze fills any doubt or fear to flee.

You question briefly where you came from... Where you were going...
The song drowns it out, its whispers are so overwhelming...
Once more, motion, footsteps in time with its words.

You leave the dark. You know its song.
Others must know the beauty of moss and bone.