Infusion: Lost Colony, #5

The Scream

Abone-chilling shriek , ragged and raw, ripped through the still night, shattering the fragile peace of Sedona. Elsa Arland bolted upright in bed, her heart hammering a frantic tattoo against her ribs. Brandon, beside her, stirred, but his eyes remained glued to the pulpy detective novel in his hand.

Did you hear that? Elsa's voice was a strained whisper, her gaze darting around the shadows of their bedroom.

Brandon grunted, not looking up. Another nightmare, El. Just go back to sleep.

But the scream wasn't from a dream. It echoed in the air, a tangible presence clawing at Elsa's sanity. This wasn't like the other screams, the distant, mournful cries she'd heard in the weeks since their arrival at Meadowlark Villa. This was close, perishing, and laced with a primal terror that sent shivers down her spine.

Another scream, this one closer, seemed to emanate from the very walls of the house. Elsa scrambled out of bed, her bare feet slapping against the cold wooden floor. Panic gnawed at her as she raced towards the balcony door.

Don't be ridiculous, Elsa, Brandon called after her, his voice muffled by the book. It's just the wind.

But Elsa knew it wasn't the wind. The wind whispered secrets in the desert canyons, not these desperate, inhuman shrieks. These screams were steeped in something darker, somewhat ancient, something that pulsed beneath the very foundation of their secluded Arizona home.

Meanwhile, miles away in the heart of Red Rock Park, two figures stood frozen in the moonlight, their faces lit by the eerie glow emanating from the jagged cliffs.

Mark, Agent Harry Bryton whispered, his accent a rough rasp in the stillness. Do you hear that?

Mark Miles, his partner, strained his ears. A low, rhythmic chanting, like the murmur of a thousand unseen voices, resonated from the depths of the rocks. It felt ancient, primal, a whisper of forgotten knowledge carried on the desert wind.

Hymns, Mark murmured, his utter tingling with a strange mix of fear and fascination. Prayers, maybe.

It's coming from...underneath us, Harry said, his eyes wide with wonder. Echoing from the earth itself.

The tall, lanky figure, Detective Mark Miles, stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the pulsating cliffs. No, he corrected. It's coming from the desert, beyond those hills. From the Mojave, the lost land of the Asepians.

Anya and Oliver, perched on the porch of the Meadowlark Villa, felt the tremor too, a ripple in the fabric of reality itself. Anya, her eyes fixed on the blood-red moon hanging in the velvet sky, spoke first. I hear a faint signal, it is unmistakable. From the depths of that desert labyrinth.

High atop the villa's porch, Anya and Oliver, Varna perched between them, watched the crimson moon bleed across the star-dusted sky. Varna, her silver hair shimmering like moonlight on water, closed her eyes.

A hazy frequency, Varna murmured, her voice a whisper against the desert wind. Emerging from the Mojave, beyond those mountains. From the Brightans... I can feel it... weak, but distinct.

Oliver scoffed. The Mojave? It's a labyrinth of dunes and dust storms, Varna. You need sharper focus, or we'll be chasing phantoms forever.

Anya, ever the pragmatist, interjected. What about your ancestors' sundial? In the tunnel of Legend Rocks in Owl Creek? Its holographic visions decoded half the mysteries of Asepium.

Varna shook her head, a glimmer of sadness in her eyes. The sundial speaks in riddles now. Flashes of cryptic symbols, tool images from the Brightans' tepees. It taunts me with echoes of the past, but reveals nothing concrete.

Varna's eyes widened. The sundial. It lay hidden in the depths of the basement, a silent sentinel guarding forgotten memories. But could it guide them through the treacherous maze of the Mojave, towards the source of the screams, the lost souls of Asepium?

The moon cast long, ominous shadows as the group huddled together, the desert wind whispering secrets in their ears. The scream had shattered the silence, igniting a spark of hope and fear in their hearts. They knew they had to act, to follow the whispers, even if it meant venturing into the unknown, into the heart of a lost world.

The night was young, and the scream hung heavy in the air, a chilling promise of the mysteries and dangers that awaited them in the Mojave.

Anya's phone blared, shattering the tranquil night. Mark's voice, usually calm and reassuring, crackled with urgency. Anya, we need you at Red Rock Park. The hymns... they're back. We’re picking them up... Ancient astral lannguage, echoing from the heart of the Mojave. It's faint, but distinct.

"Hymns. The word sent a shiver down Anya's spine. Whispers of a forgotten past, echoes of a civilization chased across the cosmos by pollution and war.

Anya's blood turned to ice. Hymns? Not the mournful wind whispers they'd grown accustomed to in Sedona, but something far older, something tied to the Asepians' shrouded past. Her gaze met Oliver's, his normally unflappable demeanor etched with concern. Varna, her eyes the color of primeval wisdom, simply nodded, her lips drawn into a thin line.

Oliver, her brother, materialized beside her, his eyes wide and restless. Varna, their primal guide, emerged from the shadows, her face etched with a familiar mix of worry and grim determination. Suddenly, a scream. Not the guttural shrieks that had plagued their nights, but a melody. A desperate, soaring melody ripped through the silence, tinged with the echo of a thousand lost souls. It pierced Anya's heart, twisting with both beauty and pain. Oliver gasped, clutching his headphones. The hymns... they're morphing, becoming clearer. It's... Brythonic! The old Celtic dialect from our Britany days.

Haste replaced contemplation. They piled into the Grand Cherokee, Anya gripping the wheel like a lifeline. Varna wrapped the magical sundial in her lap with both palms. The headlights speared the darkness, the vast desert sprawling before them like a star-dusted ocean. Every whisper of wind, every rumble of distant thunder, felt amplified, pregnant with unspoken terror.

The Grand Cherokee roared to life, its headlights cutting through the inky blackness as they sped towards the desert's heart.

Endless vastness of the Mojave stretched before them, a canvas of star-dusted sand and jagged shadows. Warm air vibrated with a low, rhythmic chant, unlike anything Anya had ever heard. It slithered under her skin, a haunting melody woven from ancient sorrow and desperate hope.

Another scream, primal and raw, tore through the night, closer this time, as if emanating from the very heart of the red rock labyrinth. Anya's grip tightened on the steering wheel, her knuckles white. This wasn't the mournful wailing they'd heard before. This was a cry of terror, a plea for help.

Reaching the park, they found Mark and Harry, the FBI agents, standing frozen under the eerie glow of the pulsating cliffs. The chanting seemed to emanate from the very stones, a spectral chorus resonating in their bones.

Oliver, his face pale under the moonlight, hunched over his phone, his fingers dancing across the screen. It's Old Brythonic, he muttered, his voice tight with awe. The language of Oxyllion, before the Great Exodus.

Anya's breath hitched. Oxyllion, their ancestral home, a paradise choked by pollution and ravaged by the Crannions, their ancient enemies. Could these hymns be a message from their lost brethren, echoes from across millennia? Or something more sinister, a weapon honed by the Crannions to haunt their descendants?

As Oliver delved deeper into the archaic language, the air crackled with unspoken tension. The screams echoed, a chorus of anguish rising from the desert's depths. The night was no longer a canvas of stars, but a tapestry woven with the threads of their forgotten past. And somewhere in that tapestry, a terrible truth awaited them, a truth that could rewrite their destiny.

The Grand Cherokee sat poised at the edge of the park, headlights probing the darkness like hungry eyes. Anya, Oliver, and Varna, their faces grim and determined, exchanged a silent pact. They would unravel the secrets of the hymns, even if it meant facing the ghosts of their ancestors and the Crannions' malevolent shadow. The desert wind whispered promises of danger and revelation, and they were ready to trail its call.

Whispers from the ancient rock, Mark murmured, his gaze fixed on the imposing Cathedral Rock. They originate from these very steeps.

And how do we reach this point of origin? Varna inquired.

Follow Oak Creek Road, Harry instructed, tracing the route on a map. From there, navigate the Templeton Trail until it merges with the Cathedral Rock Trail. That will lead you directly to the Vortex site.

The desert wind whipped around them as they reached the north bank of Oak Creek. The ancient sundial, a relic from their Britany days, pulsed with an ethereal light in Varna’s lap. Its holographic images, once clear and informative, now shimmered with cryptic symbols. Oliver, his brow furrowed in concentration, ran his fingers across his phone screen. The hymns... they hold the key to unlocking the sundial. They speak of... His voice trailed off, replaced by a gasp.

What is it? Anya demanded, her heart pounding like a drum.

Oxyllion, Oliver rasped. The hymns... they tell of a way back.

Varna stepped out of the Jeep and walked forward along the trail, her eyes gleaming with a deep wisdom. Not all of us, dear Oliver. Only those who truly understand the mistakes of the past, who choose the path of harmony over vengeance, can return. The rest... she paused, her gaze meeting Anya's, the rest are destined to wander this wasteland forever, the same destiny as the Ashenians who refused to learn.

Anya stood frozen, the melody echoing in her ears, now a desperate plea for redemption. The weight of their ancestors' mistakes, the burden of choosing the right path, pressed down on her. The fate of not just themselves, but perhaps the entire future, hung in the balance.

As they reached the jagged splatters of the crimson hills, the question burned in their hearts: Would the Asepians learn from their past, or would they be condemned to repeat the cycle, lost and wandering in the desert, forever chasing a mirage of salvation?

Beside her, Oliver squinted at the flickering display on his phone, deciphering the cryptic echoes of a forgotten language.

It's definitely Brythonic, he muttered, his voice taut with urgency. But it's warped... distorted. Like the words are struggling to break free from a cage.

Varna's heart hammered against her ribs. Brythonic, the language of their Asepians ancestors, a tongue lost to time since their exodus from the polluted world of Oxyllion. Why would it be echoing here, in this desolate heart of America?

A memory flashed across her mind. A whispered tale passed down among generations, a story of a bitter breakup within the Asepians. The Crannions, fierce warriors seeking to conquer pollution with force, clashed with the Ashenians, rootless nomads driven by insatiable greed. And somewhere in between, stood the Asepians, yearning for a peaceful communion with the globe.

The split climaxed in a fiery exodus, a desperate escape across the cosmos to a virgin world, Earth. But their arrival wasn't peaceful. The Crannions, with their iron fists and righteous anger, clashed with the Ashenians, their shadows twisting through the land, leaving blight in their wake. Finally, exhausted and fractured, the Asepians dispersed, seeking refuge in the corners of their new home.

Brittany, the whispers of the hymns confirmed. The Emerald Isle. Places where their ancestors hid, their voices fading into the murmurs of forgotten lore.

But now, the echoes were returning, distorted and desperate. Was it a plea for help? A warning of the Ashenians' return? Or something else entirely, a dark prophecy stirring from the ashes of the past?

As they trotted nearer, the air crackled with anticipation. The ancient sundial, a silent sentinel guarding secrets, gleamed with more colors and images. Oliver, his eyes ablaze with a mix of fear and fascination, stepped out.

The hymns... they're strongest here, he whispered, his hand hovering over the weathered stone. But...they're fragmented, incomplete. Like a puzzle missing pieces.

And as Oliver touched the sundial, the desert wind seemed to hold its breath. The setting moon cast long shadows, and for a fleeting moment, Anya could almost swear she saw figures stirring in the twilight, their whispers carried on the breeze.

The past and present collided in the heart of the Mojave, a tangled web of secrets and dangers waiting to be unraveled. And the Asepians, descendants of a fractured past, stood on the precipice, their future hanging in the balance of the distorted hymns and the mysteries they held.

Anya felt a jolt of excitement. The sundial within the tunnel, malfunctioning for weeks, had suddenly reactivated. Its holographic visions, once a glimpse into Asepium's lost city, now flickered with disturbing images: a polluted Oxyllion, choked by smog, and a brutal war between the Crannions, fierce protectors of the planet, and the Ashenians, shadowy nomads who thrived on chaos.

Memories flooded Anya's mind, passed down through generations like whispers in the wind. The exodus from Oxyllion, a desperate escape from Crannion spears and Ashenian greed. The landing in Britany, the struggle to build a new home, the conflict with the native Gauls. And then, Ireland, a refuge from the encroaching darkness.

But the past wasn't buried. The sundial's visions were stark warnings. The Crannions, it seemed, had found Earth. Their rigid methods, their belief in force, mirrored the echoes in the hymns. Were they here to repeat the mistakes of Oxyllion, to cleanse Earth with fire and steel?

And where were the Ashenians? Were they lurking in the shadows, waiting to feed on the chaos, and turn the conflict into their own twisted game?

As they reached the bluff foothill, the holographic images solidified. A figure appeared, robed and crowned, its voice resonating through the tunnel. Asepians, it boomed, the echoes of the past call. The Crannions walk among you, their wrath a poisoned wind. The Ashenians whisper in the shadows, their greed a lurking plague. Choose wisely, descendants of the Sundown Seas. Will you be the bridge or the chasm? Will you forge a new path, or succumb to the nightmares of old?

Anya, Oliver, and Varna emerged from the dusky labyrinth of the Cathedral Rock trail, the echoes of the ancient hymns still clinging to their ears like phantom melodies. The moon, a pearl suspended in the velvet sky, cast long, skeletal shades across the sculpted sandstone cliffs, their ochre hues softened to a gentle blush under the ethereal light. The desert air, crisp and cool, held the lingering scent of sage and creosote, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of fear that still tightened Anya's throat.

As they stumbled onto the familiar path, headlights lanced through the darkness, revealing Mark Miles and Harry Bryton pacing restlessly beside their jeep. Their faces were etched with worry under the moon's cold gaze. The sight of their worn concern was a balm to Anya's frayed nerves.

Mark, Harry, Anya's voice was a husky whisper, we have news. Big news.

Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. Mark's brow furrowed, his gaze flitting between Anya and the shadowed cliffs behind them. What did you find? he demanded, his voice a low rumble.

Anya exchanged a tense glance with Oliver and Varna. The weight of their discovery, the unsettling echoes of the past, pressed down on them like the colossal weight of the surrounding rocks.

The hymns, Oliver said, his voice tight, they're Brythonic, the ancient language of our ancestors. But...they're distorted, fragmented, like whispers from a forgotten tomb.

Varna stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with a mix of fear and ancient wisdom. They speak of Oxyllion, our lost home, she murmured, her voice echoing in the night, and of a... way back.

The air crackled with unspoken questions, with the weight of a revelation that could rewrite their very existence. Anya met Mark's gaze, the fear in his eyes mirrored in her own. But beneath it, a flicker of hope ignited. This wasn't just a mystery to unravel; it was a chance, a chance to connect with their forgotten past, and heal the wounds that had driven their ancestors from their paradise.

What do we do? Harry asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Anya looked at her brother, his face mirroring her own turmoil. Then, her gaze met Varna's, the ancient wisdom in her eyes offering a flicker of hope.

We unravel the mystery, Anya declared, her voice firming with resolve. First, we must find our lost people, the Asepians. Then, with them, we must understand Crannions and the Ashenians’ plans.

Huge moon cast its pale light on their faces, etching a tableau of uncertainty and anticipation. The desert wind, whispering through the canyons, seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the next chapter of their story to unfold. Vast starry sky vibrated with a lingering echo of the haunting hymns, sending shivers down their spines even under the soft, celestial glow. The ancient rock pulsed with an ethereal luminescence, its jagged teeth silhouetted against the velvet sky, where a crescent moon presided like a watchful eye.

A shared fear coiled in Anya's gut. The echoes of the past were becoming a siren song, drawing in danger, igniting a conflict destined to engulf their fragile new home. She met Oliver's worried gaze, a silent pact forming between them. They were Asepians, descendants of survivors, and it was time to face the ghosts of their ancestors, to ensure their past wouldn't become their present, and their future wouldn't be consumed by the flames of another cataclysm.

The Grand Cherokee hummed along the empty highway, its wheels folding the black asphalt beneath it behind the rear.  Anya gripped the steering wheel, the moonlit streets of Sedona blurring past like ghostly whispers. The Jeep’s headlights carved sharp tunnels through the inky darkness, casting fleeting glimpses of deserted storefronts and silent houses, each window a vacant eye staring back at them. The town, usually abuzz with tourist life, lay shrouded in an unnatural stillness, the only sound the rhythmic hum of the engine and the dry rustle of wind through unseen palms.

Resonating echo of the ancient hymns still thrummed in her ears, a haunting melody that wove through her thoughts like a phantom thread. Beside her, Oliver tapped away at his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration as he deciphered the fragmented Brythonic verses. Varna, perched in the back, sat with eyes closed, her face etched with a mix of worry and a wisdom born of centuries. 

An edge of unease settled in Anya’s stomach, a prickling beneath her skin that had nothing to do with the desert chill. The silence felt amplified, pregnant with unseen echoes of the ancient hymns that still resonated in her ears. Oliver, usually animated, sat beside her, his brow furrowed in a deep contemplative quietness. Varna, perched in the back, remained her stoic self, yet even her usual serenity seemed tinged with a flicker of unrest.

As they passed the rusted bell tower of the old chapel, a sudden movement on a fire escape sent Anya’s heart slamming against her ribs. A dark figure, a fleeting silhouette against the moonlit wall, vanished into the shadows before she could focus. Was it just a stray desert cat, or something far more sinister? Anya’s eyes darted nervously from shadow to shadow, her imagination conjuring phantoms in every corner. Were they being followed? Had word of their discovery at Cathedral Rock already spread?

Oliver, sensing her unease, glanced up from his phone. Did you see that? he muttered, his tone tight.

Anya nodded, her gaze fixed on the empty alleyway. Someone...something...was there.

Varna, her eyes now open and gleaming with a predatory light, spoke in a low, guttural voice. The whispers travel fast, children. They seek answers, just as we do.

The car glided past the flickering neon sign of a closed diner, its garish colors incongruously bright against the muted palette of the night. Inside, the jukebox played a forgotten Elvis tune, a melancholic melody that seemed to mourn the town’s sudden slumber. Was it connected to the screams, the hymns, the unsettling air that crackled around them?

A shiver ran down Anya’s spine. Maybe it was just the late hour, the eerie quiet, and the weight of their recent revelations. Or perhaps, just perhaps, the shadows held unseen eyes, the darkness pulsated with a hidden danger, and the echoes of a forgotten past were drawing them ever deeper into its labyrinthine heart.

They emerged from the town limits, the open desert stretching before them like a star-dusted ocean. The distant cries of coyotes hung in the air, their eerie howls blending with the unsettling melody of the Elvis song, and their lonely calls appeared to mock their unease. Anya tightened her grip on the wheel, the secrets of the night pressing down on her like a desert storm,