Watchers of the Northern Range

My journey led me northward.
The road seemed endless,
Winding ever higher
Through the mountains.

By the time I reached the range’s summit,
The sun had vanished
Behind a veil of grey clouds.

Thick mists swallowed the land below,
Erasing valleys,
Forests,
And distant horizons.

The world became a realm
Of stone and silence.

Yet I continued onward.
Then the trees appeared.
Not living trees,
But their skeletal remains,
Rising from the mist
Like black cracks
In a sea of white light.

Their twisted branches reached skyward,
As though clawing at unseen heavens.
And as I walked among them,
The mountain grew silent still.

Yet I was not alone.
At the edge of my vision,
Creatures loomed among the trunks and mist.

Tall.
Inhumanly thin.
Deathly white.

Their forms concealed by drifting vapours,
Their faces smooth and featureless,
Save for a single glossy black eye,
And a large gaping black mouth,
Set within each pale visage.

They swayed slowly,
Like trees moving in a distant wind.
At least twelve feet tall,
Their unnaturally long arms
Hung almost to the ground,
While black-stained fingers
Twitched like restless claws.

They appeared naked,
Genderless,
And ancient.

As I passed,
They made strange sounds amongst themselves.
A deep muffled hissing,
As though exchanging secrets
In a forgotten language.

Each Watcher observed me.
Then withdrew once more
Into the mist.

Eventually I reached the summit.
The air had grown bitterly cold.
The wind carried an arctic chill,
And the clouds parted around me.

I stood above the world.
Far below,
The continent stretched toward the horizon.
Beyond it lay the Ocean of Dreams.
And there,
Upon the distant peninsula,
The lighthouse still shone.

For a moment,
I forgot the mountain,
The mist,
And the creatures.
I stood transfixed by the view.

Behind me,
The hissing grew louder.
Rising together,
Voice upon voice,
Until it became a dreadful crescendo.

Lost in wonder,
I failed to hear
The soft approach of bare feet.

Only at the final moment
Did I turn.
To find myself face to face
With one of the Watchers.
Its black eye reflected my own terror.

It struck me with a large granite club,
The blow silenced my scream before it escaped.
Darkness came instantly.
Light vanished.
Pain vanished.
Everything vanished.

Then I found myself drifting above the scene.

Weightless.
Silent.
Below,

My broken body lay upon the mountain.
The Watchers gathered around it.
Methodically.
Patiently.
As though performing an ancient ritual.

I watched as they dismembered
And fed upon my remains.

And I awoke.
Far away from the mountain.
Back in the Land of the Waken.