Those Who Dare: Book 1

Episode 7: Nights and Terrors

Omar awoke with a start, surrounded by the snoring mass of the People of the Road. The bonfire at the center remained ablaze if slightly starved of wood with everyone asleep. A cold sweat condensed on his arms and brow, the rest soaked up by his trousers and shirt. The sky was still that horridly bland twilight black, but there was a twist of sickly green at the edges of a few clouds. His heart pounded in his chest. Run. Run. He needed to run.

The tiefling leaped to his feet, then stopped. Don't wake them. You can't risk an alarm. Just run.

He frowned, somewhere between curious and offended. That wasn't his voice. The panic that built in his chest eased slightly as he stiffened his neck against it. He had to run – sort of. Still, he also had to play along. Can't give himself away now, could he?

Omar stretched and adopted a drunken stupor before he spun on his heels to the North treeline. A hum vibrated in his throat as he stumbled onward, and a few notes escaped as he tripped over the body of a drunken nomad.

The man grunted awake and sneezed out a shovel of dirt before he turned with bleary eyes and a stupid smile, both mirrored by the tiefling performer.

"Aaaayeeee," the man drawled loudly.

"Aaaayeee!" he laughed in response. Omar shuffled onto his rear and grasped the drunk's hand. With a bit more effort than Jethro would let on, or Uriah for that matter, he pulled himself and the man to their feet. "Now –" he slapped an unsteady hand on the drunk's back, "I need – to take a dump."

As he turned to leave, the drunk draped an arm around his shoulder. "I'll go with you," he declared.

"Oh, no." Omar drawled in half-tired laughter. He bowed to let the man's arm slide off as he turned. "No, my friend. I need to take a dump," and, with a mischievous glint in his eye, "and to see a friend."

"Oh?" The man smiled. "What kind of friend?"

"A special friend," he answered with a grin. It was almost painful as he laughed with the man. Gods above, his body odor was almost worse than their alcohol.

The drunk slapped a hand against his back. "Well, good luck to you, my friend!" he declared. "I – will go back – to bed."

Omar continued his drunken laughter as he smoothly guided the man back onto the ground. That was significantly easier than it was to lift him.

Run!

A brief moment of panic gripped the tiefling and returned what little sobriety he had. He stumbled back and ran into the treeline. The voice continued to scream in his mind: run! Run! RUN! Brambles tore through his shirt and bit into his flesh, and it was enough for him to realize what was happening. But he couldn't stop now. Not now. Not yet.

It was a few minutes before the strain on his lungs and the sourness in his muscles forced him to stop. He leaned against a great oak of some sort and overlooked the path ahead of him – which, in all honesty, was more of a shear drop than a path.

Beyond the ledge, Omar could see the withered trees and grass that were stubborn enough to grow tall, regardless of the environment. The clouds followed a lazy spiral and threatened rain, but he was certain there wouldn't be. Still, he searched.

The lace of green was gone, replaced by a soft roll of thunder. Or was it a growl? The tiefling looked around. No, it had to be thunder. There was nothing else there. Nothing he could see anyway.

Then, a sense of dread overtook him. He was alone. The others were still at the camp. When whatever will happen would happen, there will be no witnesses. No one but the trees. But, Bianca has spoken with them before. And Uriah knows how to track people. That's pretty much his trademark!

Something rustled in the trees below him. Omar hurriedly dug a paper out of his pocket and smacked it against the trunk if his tree. A brief panic rose in him as he realized he didn't have a pen, but that was an easy fix. He steeled himself as he bit and ripped off the tip of his finger. His dark blood would have to do as ink. Good thing he knew how to finger paint.

As his finger met the paper, a huff of warm, wet air kissed the back of his neck and he froze.

"Hello, Mister Omar."