Mitchell's throat dried instantly, and he swallowed repeatedly to relieve his parched throat.

"What? You're kidding." He croaked, gripping the mane of his horse tensely as the two giant stone towers with light blue flags flapping like birds in the sky came into view.

Preston gave him a disbelieving look that said,

"Would I be kidding at a time like this?"

Blushing faintly in embarrassment, he opened his mouth again,

"There has to be another way..."

"Sadly, there isn't... You being a wanted assassin complicates things up... So, the only way is to go into Nightmare forest. The guards won't dare to chase us." He replied feverishly, slowly starting to steer his horse off the dirt road, to untouched green, grass.

"This is going to go so well. Perfect. Just what I wanted." Mitchell thought sarcastically, following suit, the thundering noise of guards on horses ringing behind him.

They rode off course, steadily approaching the shadowed forest, entering its dark depths.

~~~

The forest was cool and silent except the occasional chirp of crickets and other insects. Mitchell looked back nervously, desperately hoping the guards gave up. Unsurprisingly, they did, and were glaring daggers at the two escaped men through the thick leaves.

Preston threw off his hood that had miraculously stayed on his head, and the assassin shielded his eyes, hissing as a bright light illuminated the twilight-like environment.

"Heh, sorry..." The intensity of light decreased considerably, giving back his eyesight.

"Wha- why are you glowing?" Mitchell spluttered, eyes hooked on Preston's skin that glowed and flowed like molten lava, a redstone lamp in a dark room.

"Didn't I tell yo- oh yeah...you forgot." Preston rambled, seemingly talking to himself.

"Uhh, so are you gonna tell me or not?" He responded hesitantly, waving a frail hand in front of the zoned off hybrid.

Preston shook his head, his glow dimming a bit, and shook his horse reins, pushing it to a trot.

Mitchell tilted his head curiously, but wisely kept his mouth shut. The question still remained in his mind, however.

The forest was silent, and moisture hung thick in the air, and sunlight was foreign, the leaves blocked out all of it, a never-ending dark green canopy. No vegetation grew at the floor, except some mushrooms and fungi. The horses hoofs thudded against the semi dry mud, a layer of decomposing dead leaves muffling the sound. Like a funeral site, the forest conveyed the feeling of death and gloom. No one felt like speaking. Taut and tense like a rope being pulled, they rode cautiously, horses whining in worry every so often.

"Preston?" Mitchell's voice cut through the thick air and interrupting the horses hoof steps.

"Yea?"

"Where are we going again? And why?"

Preston sighed in exasperation, and said, pinching the bridge of his...glowing nose.

"Why is he so mad?"

"Hyoke. To get Lachlan."

"Why?"

"The prophecy. Now shush." Preston snapped, sending a withering glare towards him.

"What prophecy? What are you? Why must I follow?" Mitchell ignored his warning, bombarding the aggravated hybrid with questions, struggling with his own temper beginning to get lit aflame thanks to Preston's attitude.

Giving a shout of frustration, he whirled around to look at Mitch, his black fire imprinted cape whacking him in the face.

"Can you just shut up?!"

That was the last straw for both of them.

They jumped off their horses, and glared daggers at each other, circling, like wolves before a battle. Mitchell had gotten a dagger from the knapsack given by Preston, and was already wielding it, savoring the steady weight of a weapon in his hands once more.

A growl emitted from Preston, earning a barbaric snarl back. Like a dam holding back water breaking, they rushed towards each other.

A thrust, then retreat. And repeat.

After about two strokes and the two men being unscathed, a hissing noise from the leafy treetops froze them in their battle.

A giant crimson arachnid was right above their heads, eight eyes glaring at them.

Mitchell swore loudly, and ran towards his horse, the battle forgotten, Preston following, his hand wrapped in embers. The horses shrieked in fear, and reared, throwing them off, and taking off.

Cursing profusely, they looked up again, and to their dismay, the spider was slowly advancing towards them, legs slowly wrapping around the trunk of each tree. Pointing towards the gap where the horses ran off to, Preston ran ahead, a living lamp. Mitchell followed close after, his dagger professionally held in his hand.

They made it through the small gap, spiders of different sizes and colors on their tail. One swiped a hairy and clawed leg at Mitchell's ankle, cutting through, causing him to gasp in pain as thick hot blood ran down, but that didn't stop the assassin from his sprint.

"You okay?" Preston panted between breaths, his want for survival stronger than his want for the battle. Mitchell saved his valuable breath, giving a confirming nod, and they continued running away from the eight eyed monsters.

After what seemed like five minutes of sprinting, they slowly started to get winded, and their pace slowed down. The hissing and the sound of leaves getting trampled didn't help whatsoever, and they were panting like dogs in the nether.

Mitchell looked down at his injured ankle, and to his dismay, his veins were tainted a slimy green, and the color was slowly creeping up his thigh with every step he took. Suddenly, the world gave an alarming lurch and he tripped on his own feet, crashing down on Preston, who cried out in surprise, his bright flames of hope extinguished. The world started spinning like a top, and he could make out a glowing Preston desperately shaking his arm, looking around wildly as a hairy limb of a tinted green arachnid grasped his own.

Heart pounding wildly, he tried removing it, but to no avail. Sweat beaded his forehead and wet the musty leaves and dirt under him. Trashing like a bull, he attempted to crawl away feebly but his arms were captured as well. Darkness licked the sides of his vision and dimly, he heard Preston yell, and the sounds of damp scuffling. He saw death, crouching in a corner, like an awaiting lion approaching his prey.

Death pounced.

_writers note_.
Well. That happened.

What's next? It's kinda obvious, cuz imma cliché  person:3 and I'm proud to be one. If everyone wasn't cliche , then cliché isn't cliche any more, isn't it?

Baii