The Long Stairs

Day One

Where was the goddamn cave? 

Stringer stood there, bewildered by the twisted reality that surrounded him. One moment it was there, beckoning him with its elusive promise, and the next, it vanished into thin air. But he knew deep down that it wasn't some cheap trick of the mind. No, out here in the heart of the Gloom, where evil lurked in every shadow, anything was possible. 

He could feel it, creeping into his thoughts like a fog, smothering his senses, twisting his perceptions. This place played cruel games, fucking with your mind, toying with your sanity, and seducing your very soul. Time slipped away as he stood there, lost in the haze of confusion. 

How long had he been standing here? Hours? Days? It was impossible to tell. 

And then, as abruptly as it had descended upon him, the fog lifted. Stringer found himself back in the moment, his surroundings still and eerie. The trail stretched ahead, its sinuous path twisting and ascending, while an oppressive silence settled like a heavy shroud.

The cave had to be close now, he thought, his determination fueling his weary limbs. A suffocating silence enveloped everything, a heavy blanket of quiet that smothered any semblance of life. No birds chirped, no leaves rustled under his footsteps. It was as if the world had conspired to mute its own existence, leaving him adrift in a sea of oppressive stillness. He was a castaway, desperately wading through an ocean of mist, searching for an elusive island of hope. But all he found was this suffocating conspiracy of silence, wrapping him tightly in its unnatural shroud. 

What of the others? The desolate ache within him whispered of their imminent doom. Unlucky bastards, destined for a grim fate. But was it true?

Stringer was no stranger to the unknown, even at his young age. He had ventured into uncharted territories before, surviving against the odds. The mark of B1 on the map bore witness to his triumph, a testament to his resilience. Once, he had been counted among the best, among the so-called "Stringers." But those better days were now nothing more than faded memories, slipping away into the abyss of time. At least he had savored the taste of success, if only for a stretch or two. 

As he continued his ascent, Stringer's realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He had been climbing for some time now, lost in the misty malaise and oblivious to the physical strain. Without even a conscious thought, he leaned forward and secured a strip of blood-red fabric to a lifeless branch, a feeble attempt to leave a trace of his existence in this maddening labyrinth. But the thorny claws of the branch reached out to torment him, and he recoiled, his fingers tingling with a mix of pain and unease. 

The rocky path stretched ahead, its uneven terrain causing his feet to slip in the loose soil as he descended into a deep depression. This was a treacherous stretch, a trap for the unwary. The mist sunk to the wet ground and the trees transformed into elusive specters.These spots bred complacency, hiding treacherous crevices capable of snapping an ankle. He proceeded with caution, his every step measured, aware of the dangers lurking in the shadows. His head nodded, fatigue gnawing at his bones. He reached out, seeking support from the damp walls that surrounded him. 

Finally, he reached the bottom, and the trail veered south. The fog thickened again, engulfing him in its opaque embrace. He waded through ankle-deep pools of stagnant water, his body drenched to the bone. The cold gnawed at him, seeping into his very core, while his body betrayed him by producing sweat that stung his eyes with salty determination. There were no layers of fat to shield him, his gaunt frame a stark reminder of the unforgiving environment he inhabited. Each breath drew attention to his protruding ribs, a skeletal testament to his destitution.

Stringer's appearance mirrored the desolation of his surroundings. His hair, a disheveled mess resembling a mop dipped in shit, as if cut with a haphazard blade. Brown eyes and pallid skin rendered him as ordinary as the rest, as though they were all cut from the same threadbare cloth. Running a hand over his face, he tried to clear his vision, his fingers tracing the grooves of his skin. Youthful glow had long abandoned him, leaving behind a grotesque roadmap of pock scars. But it was these very imperfections that set him apart from the faceless surveyors of Folly. For better or worse, he was a marked man.