[SP][F02] - Whispers in the Wood

[Jae 0]

 

 

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The world of Aincrad, so meticulously crafted, held its pockets of chaos and order. Floor 2 was no exception, its rugged terrain and sparse settlements offering as much peril as it did refuge. And on its outer fringes, Marome Village nestled itself like a forgotten seed in the shadow of towering mountains, its moated fortress looming over the rolling fields like a weary guardian.

Jaelynn’s “home” lay beyond the reach of civilization's warmth. It wasn’t a house by any definition—a makeshift canopy of weathered cloth stretched taut over a sturdy pine branch, a refuge hidden high within the embrace of a tree. The ground below was uneven, littered with knotted roots and pine needles, but it held an undeniable advantage: isolation. If player killers roamed, they would find her perch as elusive as smoke, their weapons and malice nullified by her cleverness. The dawn light, filtered through the dense canopy of pines, splintered into soft amber shards that painted the forest floor below. Jaelynn stirred, her breath curling in the crisp morning air. The makeshift cot beneath her creaked as she swung her legs over the side, dropping silently to the earth. Her movements were fluid, precise, echoes of a childhood spent shadowing bounty hunters who lived by the creed that noise could be fatal. She did not linger in sleep's embrace; she had no such luxury here.

The first task of the day was survival—gathering wood for the fire that would ward off the chill creeping into her bones come nightfall. Her axe, its handle worn smooth by repetition, was both a tool and a tether to the mundane. Each swing bit into the trunk with a satisfying thunk, the vibrations traveling up her arms and grounding her in the moment. She imagined her parents as she worked, their presence flickering at the edges of her thoughts like ghosts. They had taught her to see the world in layers: the visible and the hidden, the tangible and the ephemeral. Even in this virtual realm, those lessons held weight.

By the time the sun kissed the highest peaks, Jaelynn’s pile of logs had grown, and the skin of her palms tingled from the exertion. She set the axe aside and brushed sawdust from her fingers, gazing out at the expanse of her solitude. The mountains stood like sentinels, their silence heavy but not unwelcome. In Marome Village, she was just another shadow slipping through the edges of notice—a far cry from the clamor of Urbus, where wealthier players jostled for recognition and advantage.Her journey into the village itself was a matter of necessity. Straw was cheap, and she could barter her labor for it, pocketing her precious Col for tools and materials that could not be earned through sweat alone. The trek from her tree-bound sanctuary to the fortress settlement was measured, deliberate. Her black cloak, its edges frayed and weathered, billowed slightly with each step, a stark contrast against the muted greens and browns of the forest.

The streets of Marome were an exercise in dissonance. NPCs bustled about their business, their faces carved with simple purpose. Farmers carried bundles of hay, their movements slow and deliberate. Children ran barefoot through the dirt paths, their laughter cutting through the stillness like birdsong. Jaelynn moved among them like a ghost, her presence barely rippling the surface of their well-worn routines. She bartered with the straw merchant, her words clipped and economical, exchanging her labor for bundles of the golden material.

The return journey was quieter still, the straw bundled tightly under one arm as her thoughts wandered. Her mother’s voice echoed faintly, recounting the many masks a bounty hunter must wear: one for negotiation, one for intimidation, and another for silence. Jaelynn had inherited the latter most naturally. It was her armor, her barrier against the prying eyes of the world. Once back in her secluded grove, Jaelynn turned her attention to practice. A row of crude dummies awaited her, straw-stuffed effigies she had fashioned with the care of a hunter laying traps. They stood in defiance of her skill, taunting her with their stillness. She unfastened the sword from its place across her back and ran a thumb along the edge of its blade—a personal ritual, as though seeking some unspoken assurance from the steel. The first strike was a whisper, a perfect arc that sliced clean through the dummy’s midsection. Her movements were precise, her focus honed to a razor’s edge. The world around her faded into a blur of muted greens and browns as she lost herself in the rhythm of her training. Sweat beaded on her brow, and her fingers grew raw against the hilt of her sword, but she pushed on.

 

_{an echo, a memory she wished to unhear.}

 

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Her movements, though precise, felt hollow—an instinct honed not by nurture but by necessity. The father’s voice would resurface in flashes, brusque commands that offered no warmth, only critique. “Steady hands, sharp focus. Never falter.” Not lessons for wielding a blade, but for stalking prey, for understanding how to make the first strike the last.

 

Her mother’s laugh was more cutting than kind, a soft, cruel melody that still lingered. “Don’t get attached, Jae. Attachment gets you killed.” Her grace in the field had been captivating, a dancer weaving through danger, but at home, her affection was as fleeting as a shadow in torchlight.

Jaelynn's blade carved through the straw effigy, its guts spilling in a mockery of life. She didn’t flinch; she never did. Yet her chest tightened, a dull ache that made her press harder into the rhythm of her training. Each motion pushed back the memories—her father’s indifference, her mother’s sharp-edged lessons, the unspoken truth that she had always been an afterthought to their purpose.

Hours Passed
_{By the time the sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the grove, her arms trembled from exhaustion, and her calloused fingers felt numb.}

 

She sank to the ground, leaning against the trunk of a pine, her chest heaving with exertion. The dummies stood in ruin around her, their straw guts spilling onto the forest floor like the remnants of some forgotten battlefield. Jaelynn’s gaze turned upward, toward the dappled light filtering through the canopy, her mind a swirl of conflicting thoughts. Preparation was her creed, her anchor in a world of uncertainty. But as she stared into the sky, she could not shake the nagging thought that all this effort—the chopping, the bartering, the endless drills—might mean nothing in the end. If she could not seize control when the time came, then what was it all for?

Her hands curled into fists, dirt embedding itself under her nails. The answer, she knew, lay in persistence. It was a lesson her parents had lived by: the hunt was not won in the first strike, but in the refusal to abandon it. As the light waned, Jaelynn rose, brushing dirt and pine needles from her cloak. The forest grew colder, the shadows deepening with every passing moment, but she did not linger. Tonight, she would mend her dummies, sharpen her blade, and rest.

Tomorrow, the cycle would begin anew.

 

Quote

 

***

[Jae] | HP: 20/20 | EN: 20/20 | DMG: 1

Skills: N/A
Battle Equipment:
Woodcutting Axe (Vanity Item | No Benefit)
(3) Starter Healing Potions (Heals 50 HP)
Black Cloak w/ Hood (Vanity Item | No Benefit)

 

 

Edited Thursday at 08:11 PM by Jae

[Jae 0]

 

The morning light spilled over the horizon like spilled ink, dark but bright with promise. Dawn’s first rays threaded through the canopy above, caressing her face with soft fingers of warmth, reminding her of the world beyond. For a moment, the stillness held her—no demands, no questions—just the wind whispering through the trees, the quiet hum of the earth beneath, and the steady beat of her own heart. A slow, deep breath filled her lungs, cool and untouched by the bustle of cities or the noise of others. The world beyond her small shelter could wait. She had learned long ago that peace was found not in the absence of sound, but in the spaces between it, where the world felt distant and her thoughts, quieted, were soft echoes fading into the background. This solitude, built of necessity, had become her anchor.

Stretching her limbs, she rose from the nest of rough blankets. Her shelter, a simple hollow in the trees, was no more than a shelter in name, fashioned from twisted branches and thick vines, offering little more than an illusion of security. Her humble abode, if it could be called that, was woven from nature itself—an embrace of trees that had no desire to escape the rhythm of their own existence. It wasn’t warmth, but it was protection, and for now, that was enough.

Getting dressed, the sword on her back felt heavier in the stillness, the weight of the hilt pressing against her spine like a reminder of the life she had left behind. Silver strands of hair caught the first light of day, glistening like shards of a shattered star. With every movement, she felt the pull of a world that no longer had space for her. She didn’t dwell on it. There were more pressing things to do. Her day would begin as it always did. She gathered her hatchet and rope with practiced ease, the sound of the tools being readied familiar and comforting. The morning air, thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, was hers to move through. It had always been this way—solitary, deliberate. She didn’t need anything more than what the forest offered.

The trees stretched tall and patient before her as she moved deeper into the woods, her movements soft, barely stirring the air. She felt the sharp, satisfying bite of her hatchet as it sank into the wood with every strike. The rhythmic thud of it reverberated through her, each swing grounding her further in the present. The tree, steadfast and unyielding, offered its resistance. She matched it with unflinching precision. The fatigue would come later. Now, only the wood mattered. The swing, the impact, the rhythm—these were the only constants she could control.

Each tree she felled marked another step forward, another movement in the dance she had learned to keep with the forest. As she climbed higher into the branches, her body moved with a fluidity that matched the trees themselves—each ascent a quiet, almost instinctual climb toward something unknown. The vines she gathered were a simple tool for the day’s work, yet in her hands they became something more, something necessary. The raw material, the labor of her hands, was all she could afford. Yet it was enough. Enough to sustain her in this game, in this world.

Time stretched without meaning as she worked. She did not check the sun, nor did she need to. The rhythm of the task, the pulse of her hands as they worked, was enough. There was no need for more. The swing of the axe, the scrape of her boots against bark—it all blurred together in a seamless rhythm.

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When the work was done, she returned to the ground with the same silence, the same fluidity that defined her movements. Her feet landed lightly, barely disturbing the earth beneath her. The sword on her back became her focus as she reached for it, her hands finding its familiar hilt. The weight of it, though constant, felt right. She would practice, as always. Each movement, a challenge, a meditation. Her body responded as it had been trained—without hesitation. The first strike cut through the air like a whispered command. The motion was slow, measured, but powerful. Each slash became a reflection of the inner discord she held at bay, a quiet battle fought within. The sword became an extension of herself, moving with purpose, cutting through the air with a precision that mirrored her thoughts. There was no rush. The day was hers, and she would take it one strike at a time.

Every movement, no matter how small, was another step toward something she couldn’t quite define. The motions blurred as fatigue began to set in—her fingers, raw from gripping the hilt, the familiar ache in her arms. But still, she didn’t stop. The sword remained steady in her hands, a constant reminder that even in this world, the next fight, the next strike, was always waiting. As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the grove, the air grew heavy, and her movements slowed. She was alone, as she always had been, and yet, for some reason, the solitude felt less burdensome today. The forest had accepted her again, and in its quiet, there was a subtle understanding between them. She wasn’t just surviving. She was moving, learning, adapting.

With a final swing, the sword paused in midair, as if waiting for something more—an answer, a conclusion, something that might never come. The world held its breath with her. And when the moment passed, she lowered the blade, its weight still a quiet companion against her back. Another day was over.

Tomorrow, she would rise again. And the rhythm would continue.

Edited Thursday at 08:14 PM by Jae

[Jae 0]

Dawn filtered through the towering pines, painting the grove in amber and gold. The first breath of morning was brisk, sharp against her lungs, yet invigorating—a reminder that, even here in Aincrad, there was no reprieve from life’s demands. Jaelynn rose with the sun, her body already moving before her mind had a chance to settle, as though still tethered to the routines that had once defined her fragmented existence. Beneath the canopy of trees, she set to work. The world around her was quiet, save for the rustle of branches and the occasional call of distant birds, but her focus dulled all distractions. The uneven terrain served as her personal gym, an unforgiving stage for her relentless drive. She began with push-ups, palms pressing into the cool, damp earth. Her form was precise, each motion deliberate, as though sculpting herself from the inside out. The strain in her arms burned, a fire stoked by her refusal to yield.

It wasn’t about strength alone—it was control. Every push was a rebellion against the fragility of existence. She had watched others falter, their bodies mere vessels for fear and desperation. That wouldn’t be her. Here, in the artificial wilderness, she would forge herself into something unyielding. The ache in her muscles was proof of her defiance, a small victory over the invisible forces that sought to diminish her. Next came the sprints. She marked a path between two ancient pines, their gnarled roots forming natural hurdles. Barefoot, she dashed across the forest floor, her movements sharp and explosive. Her breath came in ragged bursts, each exhale mingling with the cold morning air. The repetition was brutal: sprint, stop, sprint again. The ground beneath her feet was uneven, roots and rocks threatening to trip her, but she adapted, her steps becoming lighter, more calculated. It was an exercise in precision and endurance, her own version of survival training. She imagined herself fleeing unseen predators, her life dependent on each perfectly timed stride.

When her legs threatened to buckle, she climbed. Low-hanging branches invited her upward, their sturdy arms stretching toward the sky. Her calloused fingers gripped the rough bark, and she hauled herself higher, one branch at a time. The muscles in her back and shoulders protested, but she ignored the pain. The trees were her sanctuary and her challenge, a blend of stability and risk. She reached a plateau of sorts, where a broad branch stretched outward like a bridge. Standing precariously on the narrow beam, she balanced on one foot, her arms outstretched to steady herself. Below, the ground seemed impossibly far, but the fear of falling barely registered. Instead, there was focus, pure and unwavering. The balance was an exercise in stillness, a reminder that control wasn’t just about movement but about knowing when to hold firm. Later, she fashioned makeshift weights from stones and sturdy vines. The rocks were uneven and cumbersome, their jagged edges biting into her palms. She performed squats and lifts, the improvised tools adding a layer of unpredictability to the exercise. The strain on her body was immense, her muscles trembling with the effort, but she welcomed the discomfort. Pain was a constant companion, a shadow she had grown accustomed to. In some twisted way, it reassured her. The artificiality of Aincrad—its coded skies and synthetic winds—couldn’t dull the raw, visceral connection she felt to her own body.

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Pain was real. It anchored her.

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Her workout ended with planks and holds, her core trembling as she held herself aloft above the forest floor. Sweat dripped from her brow, mingling with the dirt and grime that clung to her skin. Time blurred, each second stretching endlessly, but she endured. The stillness demanded more of her than movement ever could, forcing her to confront the whispers of doubt that lingered in the back of her mind. Was this enough? Would it ever be enough? She trained like this because she had no other choice. The nature of the game, of survival itself, demanded readiness. Complacency was the first step toward failure, and failure in this world wasn’t just a loss—it was an ending. But deeper than that, the routine gave her purpose. In a world stripped of meaning, where the rules were as arbitrary as they were unforgiving, her regimen was a constant. It was something she could control, something no system or player could take from her.

As the sun climbed higher, warming the grove, she collapsed against the base of a tree, her chest heaving. The world swayed around her, the fatigue setting in like a heavy fog, but there was a satisfaction in it. She’d pushed herself to the brink, tested her limits, and come out the other side. The soreness in her limbs, the rawness in her hands, were badges of honor, proof of her resilience. For Jaelynn, this wasn’t just training. It was an act of defiance. The system may have trapped her, may have tried to reduce her to another cog in its merciless machine, but she wouldn’t yield. Every drop of sweat, every strained muscle, was a declaration: she was still here. Still fighting. Still alive.

She lingered there for a moment, the rhythm of her heartbeat slowing, her breathing evening out. As the twilight descended, its deep hues weaving through the grove, exhaustion claimed her. Jaelynn climbed higher into the branches of an old pine, her movements slower now, yet steady. Nestling herself on a broad limb, she leaned against the trunk, its rough bark a strange comfort against her back. Above her, the stars began to wink into existence, distant and unreachable, yet steady in their constancy. Sleep came quickly, wrapping her in a cocoon of dreams beneath the artificial sky. The world below faded into silence, and for a time, the relentless drive and pain gave way to an unguarded stillness. Here, cradled by the arms of the tree, Jaelynn found a brief reprieve—not in safety, but in the quiet acceptance of her unyielding spirit.

Edited Thursday at 08:29 PM by Jae
Had more inspiration to type!