The call of the mountain

The mountain calls to the rider, just as it calls to the mount. In the shadow of the red stained mountain, with attention starved children of thick trees, pushing and vying for the approval of the distracted parent; the rider taps its Sky-Walker, the pull of home upon his lips.   The bleeding mountain looms in the distance, and to the north, the new demon camp. "Fly" needs to get home, to camp and his grandfather "Spider". His pack is laden with gifts for his family from his journeys south, trading goods and picking up trinkets as he takes their little iron workings, and pulsing demon tech throughout the Kingdom in an effort to spread goodwill and gather the supplies the growing camp will need to flourish into the first demon city on Levis.   Fly smiles, reaching into the pack to stroke a little pod-doll, blinking eyes on a grown body filling him with wonder and hopefully sending joy into the heart of his favourite nephew. The boy will be a fighter, unlike his uncle - who has always craved the escape of travel, his iron hooves scuffed and muddy from places long since passed through.   He puts away the doll and loops the two fastenings closed, patting the practically vibrating body of the Djilarag, his rough hands causing it to bounce midair as both rider and mount ache to keep moving. For care he first pours some water down his throat, the touch of liquid just enough to meet his needs for the next week before drenching the face of the mount as its weird, wire-like tongue catches every drop it can that is not keeping it moist. The air around here is much drier than the mount is used to and Fly has gone through more bottles keeping the boy healthy than his ancestors ever saw in years back in Infernus.   Fly pulls himself up onto the fish-creature, feet hanging loose as he feels those wings rapidly beating behind him. HOME. As one rider and mount move now, the trees around them a blur, staying to the path to start, letting clearings and offshoots pass them by as Fly angles left and right to help his mount take the turns and offshoots cleaner, and with a growing speed. Even this close to the ground Fly misses the feel of soil in his hooves, the leech of iron a soothing balm, but speed is on his mind and the good boy taking him home is the quickest way.   Warm air pools into cool air and a shiver runs the demon's spine, and mount and rider have to stop as Fly is forced to pull a cloak from his pack and drape it carefully over his iron lanced self and a touch over his mount - caution taken to not interfere with those wings. The Djilarag's vent tubes billow under the cloak, blowing warm air around his body as the pair take off again, as their path drifts closer to the ever looming mountain.   The sky-walker spins uselessly in the pack here, the path of the celestial wind that would point home a mess here, ducking and weaving over the forest below the mountain and Fly knows that they just have to get a little more north before it can be used again to get them home. Soon trees pack too close, with those grass-trees pushing up between the eucalyptus to scrape the soft scales of the mount and cause Fly to pull away and deeper towards the mountain.   Legends warn against the mountain, claim whole towns were eaten by its ruddy complextion, though that doesn't phase Fly, the red reminding him of the peaks of his people and the iron winds that would take them. He has not been there yet, but the pilgrimage back to at least see the pass and meet generations older than him often sends him on wistful memories. He is lost in these memories when he is brought back with the sharp whine of the Djilarag. The way ahead is blocked.   He slowly turns the steed in a wide circle, dense trees on all sides and a pesky vine covering that obscures the ground floor. Soil lost, and the mountain less looming now and more beckoning, with a good angle far enough up that Fly reckons he might be able to see a way out, if he can get the buzzing boy up there. He checks to see if the vine cover is deep or moss clutch before stepping off the mount, patting the creature to calm it as he moves through languidly undulating vine, power walking towards a part of the trees that seem wider, though also choked with the vines that curl around and squeeze at his hooves.   Stepping over the vines his muscles bend and squeeze as he pulls away the vines from lacing through the trees, hearing his steed whine in fear and frustration and giving this annoyance a sense of urgency that Fly thinks is completely overblown. He notes the weird looking rusted pickaxe head, even as it falls from the nest of vines and clatters to the ground. The locals barely touch metals, only collecting the gifts from his people that look decidedly demonic, and completely different from the style of pickaxe head he sees here.   He leans down to touch the head, careful not to break the rust as his magic runs through the piece, a rune on a metal token on his belt glowing as he feels in his bones the sheer old-ness of the relic in his hands. He shivers in discomfort and crushes the iron and rust into a pouch on his belt, to feed him and his family when he gets home. Vines have curled his hooves while he procrastinates and he kicks them off, the weakness of fretting and stillness getting to him as at last he makes an open path.   He has to trudge back through the vines, feeling them at lower calf height as his mount must have drifted to a deeper spot in the clearing. He has to vault to get himself aboard again, though the whines of the good boy beneath him have quietened, to be replaced with just the gentle buzz of those 6 overlarge wings. Slow going is the journey now, forced to almost idle the way through the thick trees laden with those dissettling vines, and to watch the dark green carpet slowly pulse in its living laziness.   The path is disorientating and seems to make idle turns and sways, matching the lazy motion of the vines and the sleepy trees around them, only that rust-bleeding mountain keeping him grounded as the lethargic threat of the green and the cold slowly settle into his aching iron bones. The reaching fingers of the forest trees inch in on him as he makes his path towards the comfort of the bleeding mountain, the blood of his people throbbing as the magic of the sky swirls the atmosphere with a confusing purple that stains vines and trees and air.   He doubles back as the way ahead grows block and a growl of tired frustration leaves his throat as the mountain is tantalisingly in reach. A clearing returns to his vision and it slowly dawns on him that he's made one giant loop when the discarded mass of vines enters his vision. His vision is swimming now even as the carpet of vines is surely taller now, deeper and much more likely to come up higher than he would like were he to step off his mount. It is not even like the djilarag is hovering higher, no, the vines are resting that much closer to the belly of the fish-flyer; causing his mount to almost skitter through the air, as if trying to buck off plant life that has not yet reached it.   Fly is more aware of sounds in this moment and the swaying of trees has a sinister creak to it as beneath that comes the curling rasp of leaf on leaf as Fly becomes aware of the ever slight movement of the ground covering beneath him. Legs tighten on the mount to keep it safe and steady, even as his own breath comes shorter, a gnawing dread sliding along his bones. He sees a gap and guns it, trying now to just go the way he came, he will skirt the edge of the forest home next time even if it takes longer.   Branches rush by faster in his panic, vines looping more and more as the sky-watcher in his pocket is whirling in confused terror. There's a snap and a lurch and then Fly is sprawled on the ground. His mount struggles in the air, vines pulled around its neck and squeezing; even as sprawled, Fly's blurred vision views it all. Pain lances him once then in overwhelmed, a broken iron horn laced with blood the least of his injuries. With a leg that won't move and an arm that seems at wrong angles Fly is forced to stop and see it now, crawling even in futile gesture.   Leaves sigh all around him as his vision fades in and out of focus, tiny red flowers opening up as the world swims into vibrant danger. The mountain wakes in lethargic hunger, vines sliding over busted limbs and slowly pulling him away from the safety of the air and the warming comfort of the mountain and Fly remembers the warning of the locals - stay away from the mountain, it hungers for the peoples of this land. Maybe not the mountain, but the forest certainly does.