Umbral Rune (Rough Draft)

Umbral Rune: Chapter 1 - From Death

"How does it feel? Being dead, I mean," the freckled boy clarified.

A tactless question, but I didn't take it to heart. Maybe because I didn't have one. "That's hard to answer," I said uneasily. "I guess it feels... hollow?"

"Really?" his eyes widened.

Maybe I was being dramatic. Or maybe not. Half an hour wasn't long enough to fully adjust to death, but it hadn't been pleasant so far. I momentarily removed my gloves - glancing at my hands. They bore no skin, nails, or muscle.

The rest of my body was no different.

We hiked alongside a clear creek, and within it a skeleton met my gaze. As far as corpses go, I was nondescript: no cracks, no decomposition, and every bone was present and, presumably, where it belonged.

What was notable, however, was the outfit I couldn't remember donning: a set of plain black clothes complete with similarly colored gloves and a hooded cloak. That, and my "eyes", which housed a dim purple glow. Odds were, it was these lights that let me see in the first place.

Honestly, being here felt... wrong. We found ourselves in an enchanting forest, dotted with skinny birch trees bearing orange leaves. A soft breeze carried these leaves from their lanky homes to the ground below, descending around us. The creek containing our reflection also contained others: brightly-scaled fish, turtles traveling in groups, and strange bugs unaware of the prowling frog on the riverbank. Such a vibrant place, yet there I stood in its center - a contradiction of life itself; a monster that probably tainted this place by just being in its presen-

"Sir? Are you okay?" asked the boy, rousing me from my thoughts.

"Y-yeah," I absent-mindedly swatted a leaf off my shoulder, "I'm just trying to come to terms with... everything. I wasn't even lucky enough to have any memories of who I am - or was, I guess. Right now, I'm not even sure what I'm doing."

The kid stopped abruptly, causing me to nearly crash into him. As he turned around, I looked him in the eye for the first time since he found me mindlessly wandering the woods. In hindsight, calling him a kid was disingenuous. He had the round face and scratchy voice of one, sure, but he was almost my height and carried some muscle on his thin arms. If I had to guess, he was around fifteen.

He clearly enjoyed hunting, carrying a bow on his back and a knife at his side. To help blend in with the autumn forest - I suspected - he also wore an orange tunic and brown trousers. Accompanying these were leather gloves and boots, apparently fashioned out of one of his furry victims.

More important than his clothes, however, was the odd expression he wore: a mix of fear and pity. "...Sir," he tensed, peering hesitantly at my skinless face, "I'm sorry. I reckon it must be awful, being so," he carefully chose his next word, "different. B-but maybe we can fix you! Let's keep going. My home - Sienna Village - is just a stone's throw away, now."

I didn't know how to respond. The first thing I'd imagine someone would do when confronted with a "living" corpse is run away screaming or ensure the death actually stuck this time, not console them.

An awkward pause followed, after which the teenager turned back the way we headed. He feared me - that much was obvious. And yet, he still accompanied me, still noticed how I felt and still tried to cheer me up. Confusion, horror, worry, and a million other emotions still plagued me, but his words, even if just that, helped me push those feelings aside for the moment.

"Say, what's your name, anyway?" I caught up to his side.

"Oliver. What's yours'? Do you at least remember that?"