So marched forth the assemblage of native naysayers to the commencement of the dismal, Cimmerian forest ahead—a forest no man or woman or child walked about willingly. For it is there in that forest that yields nonstandard auras and supernatural deities worshipped by village sons and daughters ostracized from the very village with which they came. These tall, leafless oaks, once ever-plenty with colored vibrancy, suffered witness to horrors of unspeakable fathoms—horrors mythicized by the devil’s namesake and banished from the lips of local denizens. It is what the villagers refer to as The Forest of the Forsaken. The billowing smoke of brightly lit wooden stakes held an orangish glow amongst the threatening landscape of marching commoners—forming a brash temperament of rage and fury in the moonlit firmament in which their God marked eternal. Countrymen of all sorts brandished weapons of their choosing—farmers hoisted sharpened pitchforks, housewives their carved-to-a-point broomstick handles, localite teenage children restrained growling, foamy-mouthed canines. Freshly accrued patrons flocked to the outer breadth of the mob, spanning the mass far and wide. Onlookers shouted high from shutter-opened apertures, uttering chants of unholy filth and detestation. Others flooded the stone-laden streets, beating drums and reciting religious melodies as they trailed behind the orb of fire and outrage. Priests from local and neighboring sanctuaries aired wooden crucifixes, summoning preservation from the Devil’s workings. The line dividing country and forest did not terminate their heedless haste after all. So entered the monstrosity of the mob, for each bellow and stride led them deeper into The Forest of the Forsaken. Each all and knowing that a hanging was looming—a witch was in the midst. Droves of merciless heathens trenched through the life-stricken forest with sounds of snapping twigs beneath their feet and utter hatred in their hearts. Chants of righteous fellowship evoking unity and cohesion filtered through the haze as the mass of integration bound themselves unbroken. Those who led the charge did so heedlessly as if possessed by the will and testament of their Almighty Creator. Hundreds marched with malicious intent toward the vacant patch of whittled forest ahead—where the moonlight rays met the bald, earthen floor of demon land. This patch of circular proportion was believed to hold true the secrets of blasphemy in which they hastily neared. As the mob entered the boundary of desolate landscape, the fires with which they held began to flutter with frail uncertainty. The air, it would later be told, was thin and hostile—the aura unworldly, almost alien—not quite natural. In the midst of the somnolent clearing staged no man nor woman, no witch or demented spirit, no brazen sinner or foul-natured deity. All who bore witness to events that evening perceived what was an ill-settled stump, uprooted to its side, upon arrival of the hollowed region. The eyes of hundreds met gaze of this unexceptionally dull conclusion that was the flanking, sidelong column of timber. Upon its thick, unearthed roots was the focus of unknown wonderment, and as brows raised steadfast amongst the crowd, few scaled forward to observe such perplexity. A boy, not yet seven, overmastered by his elders, was jostled onward with a dimly lit stake. Told to advance upon the rooted stump, the boy fought back worriment and exhibited no apprehension or qualm. Ever slowly, the boy wandered nearer and nearer, assuming his errand toward the glimpse of discovery. A bewildered hush cast itself firmly over the crowd of onlookers and naysayers; skepticism turned to impatience, alarm turning to hunger and thirst. Overcome with a new-found silence, the boy hinged his head to the onlookers from behind, who ushered him onward upon his journey. He continued forward. Upon close inspection, the boy found nothing unordinary about the wooden centerpiece—only that the roots were outstretched and unbending in their horizontal appearance. They extended out as to seem rigidified and frightened of reaching downward toward the earthly terrain. Left there on a singular root was no person or being, but a slumped, rubberlike exuviation, resembling that of a reptile. Except this unusual shedding of epidermis had the astonishing likeness of a common man or woman, completely free of organs and insides. The skin of the specimen hung and folded onto itself—the long and withstanding root acting as a clothesline or hanger. The boy’s flame was lengthened outward and shown for all to see. The gasp overtaking the mob was enormously formidable, inspiring disturbing inquiries beyond the volunteering rabble. Turning once more toward the new-found flesh, the boy’s observation turned to somber amusement as he took two steps near. The thin integument overhanging the petrified root bared a radiance of glimmer as shown in the light. Upon further notice, the boy leaned in with wonderment, only to unveil a network of veins and arteries pulsing throughout the transparency of floaty skin. Those stricken with curiosity and fearlessness made their way to the forefront of the gathering—flame in hand, abandonment in mind. Ever close, the boy gazed upon the sea of uncovered life that was this transparent exfoliation—so close he could note the pungent aroma of his otherworldly demise. The brave boy, compelled to speak of what he’s witnessed, begins his departure from which he meticulously resolved—only to be greeted by fate’s final emplacement. What happened next was neither myth nor legend according to those who swore testimony to events that evening. Some say the very nature of the boy was consumed—devoured by the very demon they prayed against; others will say the boy was helplessly sacrificed—continuing on soullessly in the fiery depths of Hell. Although, in the midst of grand climactic events, the bystanders seem to agree on one certainty—the boy was, indeed, preyed upon by the inhuman orifice so draped over the lingering fixture of wooded roots—for what reason? One can only ponder said path as unholy protest. To this very day, while scores of days, months and years pass, the denizens of the once sacred land hibernate mindfully amidst their slumbers—wholeheartedly wary of the vile incubus set forth within The Forest of the Forsaken.