The Thing from the Jungle

The jungle had long spewed forth creatures of ill omen - some said the jungle itself was an ill omen, an ever-growing sign of the gods' abandonment of this world. The canopy of the jungle swallows the sky, and impenetrable darkness reigns beneath it. Few paths exist that can take anyone all the way through, and they demand a blood price, besides. The jungle presses against these few causeways, searching for a way to overtake them, as it has everything else. That there are any paths at all is a miracle of the gods, or something just as potent. After all, holding the jungle back, containing it, has proven an impossible task for even the most powerful of the Druidic order. For as long as the jungle has existed, it has crept ever-onward. And for just as long, there have been villages on its fringes, waiting to be devoured. It's settled into a familiar routine. Farmers near the jungle brave its extremeties to slow the unyielding advance; chopping trees, burning vines, and killing whatever monstrosities come from it. They buy a few weeks, maybe a few months, and then their crops rot. The vines of the jungle snake through the fields and choke out all other life. The field dies, becomes part of the jungle, and the cycle starts anew. Some say that the fallow fields overtaken by the jungle are birthing grounds for the monsters that endanger those just outside its borders; that in some sick sense, the fields never do lose their fertility, but that it's twisted towards a new purpose.   The man that came out of the jungle that day was not a man. He was no demon, no devil, no spirit, no elemental, none of the uncountable creatures stalking the unseen shadows of the outermost Planes. He was different. Painstakingly crafted for a purpose hitherto unknown to anyone besides his creator. Anyone could tell that something was wrong with this man who was not a man just by looking at him. It. Staring too long into the midnight black of its steed's coat would give a headache, and peering into the depths of its hooded face would serve you no better. The Thing from the jungle looked almost like a man, rode almost like a man, maybe even talked almost like a man, but It couldn't fool anyone. Not that It tried.   Sitting atop Its dark-coated warhorse, It gazed down at the sleepy village in the valley below. Dawn was just beginning to break; farmers tended their livestock, the town baker fired up his oven, and old Albert opened up shop. This village wouldn't have what It wanted. They never did. But it didn't matter, It would pay a visit all the same. It would meet Faaiq the Younger first, a farmer's son on his way to his father's field. "Gods be with you stranger! What brings you to our town?" He would do. It drew a small gemstone from deep within the folds of its robes, and placed it in the palm of Its hand. Slowly, It pushed Its hand forward and the crystal began to glow. The gemstone glowed brigther and brighter with each passing moment, until Faaiq couldn't stand to look at it anymore. He shielded his eyes. The glow faded away. Faaiq opened his eyes and saw himself, lying on the ground. A moment stretched into an eternity. It drew him back into the folds of Its robes. He screamed.