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Entry One:

This entry concerns we who eternally wander. Traveling from ruin to ruin, this world is old, this world is dead. Yet, here I am, writing this, and here you are reading it.

I suppose some wanders persevere through this barbaric wasteland.

We are called many things, 'children of clay' 'the sleeping ones' 'forever wanderers' However some do not understand us, these people destroy what they do not understand. They call us 'freaks of nature' 'hunger of the spirits' 'servants of monsters' there are more of such names. I do not recall them all.

Most call us Travelers. I personally prefer it, I have seen many in the ruins of this land. They have all called me by it.

We start with nothing. No belongings, no name, no memories and no knowledge.

Our time of incarceration left marks from our absence of life. We start off physically weak and unable to speak or think properly.

Undecent and alone we blindly stumble around the land until our senses return to us. Many are made swift meals to the demons that roam these lands with us.

Some say we grow from the scarce and sacred flowers that are here, or that we have emerged from streams and ponds. Others think we are from stone and clay chiseled and sculpted by how we appear.

I do not know how we came to be. The mystery means nothing to me. I simply try to survive each day, so one day I may rest.

Because I am a Traveler, I wander this land.

I wander this land, because I am a Traveler.

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It was the early morning, thought that meant quite little to the monsters that the Traveler could still hear. A particularly hungry one, sculk in the shade of shadows, covering most of its mass with the grand trees that lined the Traveler's encampment.

After a moment, the final creature gave up, slinked far enough away for the Traveler to reveal themself. They broke down the small encampment they made for the night.

Placing everything in their haversack. Swung it over there shoulder then heard an ear piercing scream.

It was long and drawn out. A scream that spelt certain doom to the one making it.

The Traveler stopped for a moment listening intensely. There was an abrupt end, silence filled the air, there were rarely any noises in the woods, there were never birds or bugs, there were never people.

There was one less now.

The Traveler watched their surroundings, massive trees lining the forest groves, a rocky hill at the moment too steep to climb. A path had been cut through the woods, pale alabaster pebbles dotted the way. The Traveler began to walk.

After not very long, they found what they had expected. It was a secluded part of the forest. A stream cut through and the watered down remains of a bonfire were present.

They discreetly moved their hand to their hip. A thin wooden handle greeted them, they did not want to expect hostility from the survivor. However, they did not expect kindness either.

They slowly, tentatively walked around the burnt wood of the bonfire. Its ashen soil and withered logs were all that was left.

Once they had made their second lap they saw the figure. Crouched gripping the trunk of a tree, on one of the high bristles staring down at them, it watched silently, cocking its head inquisitively to the side. The Traveler continued circling, pretending not to see the creature watching them.

They heard the movement behind them, felt the air fill with dread anticipation. They could smell the musky scent of wet clay, rotted meat and dried blood.

The Traveler turned to see the monster barreling towards them. They grabbed the wooden handle on their hip, planting their feet as the monster leapt.

The monster was made of stone—or clay. Its body was massive, its jaw lined with needle sharp fangs dripping with saliva, it resembled a Lycanthropy, a Werewolf.

"Please calm your fury," The Traveler whispered softly, only to the Lycanthropy so the figure couldn't hear. "Whatever you may be, Minor Spirit or Great Demon, please leave me in peace."

The Traveler sprung away from its massive claws. It either could not or didn't want to hear them, the Traveler gripped the wooden handle it seemingly leapt to their command, attached to it was a long metal chain, ending with a shape blade. The whip moved as if in water, it was disproportionately fast, faster then the monster. A wail ripped through the woods, unnatural and living. This was the scream of doom.

Its stone eyes narrowed, its snout having a deep gouge from where the blade cut. It growled one of full envy and rage of being hit first. The Traveler was indifferent, standing their ground as they spun the chain, whirling it around making a shill sound.

The stone Lycanthropy took a step back, then another, after the fourth fleeing entirely. As it wandered back into the thicket, it knew it would not be pursued—it was right. Things rarely fought back here.

The Traveler steadly stopped spinning the weapon, weakening its former pattern, the Traveler wrapped it around itself and reattached it to their hip. They turned their head staring blatantly up at the figure watching them. The shadow darted behind the truck, hiding well in the darkness. The Traveler could still see it. Dilating their pupils, watching as the shadows becames shallower the hues and shades disappearing completely.

The figure shifted, swaying on its heels as it stared blankly at the Traveler, they could not go back into the foliage with something watching them. It would be foolish and dangerous.

The figure tried to slink away, missing a branch and—as the Traveler watch silently on, the figure fall disjointedly to the...