Campfire Cults and Creeping Fog: The Forest Wants You Dead

I went for a walk to clear my head.

I know. Hilarious.

Two miles past the bridge out of Savage Coast, there’s a barely-marked trail that slinks uphill into forest that isn’t on most maps. No trail markers. No signs. Just an opening in the trees and that little voice in your brain that says, “Go on. It’ll be fine.”

It was not fine.

I found the campfire around dusk — burned down to embers, still warm. Four stumps circled around it. No people. Just silence and the smell of old smoke.
There were bones nearby. Clean, arranged. Not animal bones.

They’d drawn something in the dirt. A ring of strange sigils with a five-sided shape in the centre. Some kind of rune that seemed to shift when I looked at it too long. I stepped back. I’m not stupid.

But the fog had come in. Thick, cold, fast. And that’s when I heard the voice.

It wasn’t behind me.
It was… under me.

I started walking back. I didn’t run — you don’t run in fog like that. You’ll turn around and the trees will be wrong.

I passed the fire again. It was cold. Ash scattered.
Like I’d imagined it. But my boots were still warm.

If you’re hiking near Blue Mountain, and you see a broken sign with a red handprint — turn back. I didn't, and I’ve had headaches ever since.
Not normal ones. I mean ones where I hear footsteps when I blink.

I don’t think they’re cultists out there.
I think they’re something older.

And I think they miss the fire.

Stay cautious,
— Jenna 🔥
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