Into the Wilds

After the horrific events at the Museo de Arqueología y Antropología, the group gathers at Lyonell’s manor for a frank and necessary discussion. The weight of the day hangs over them as Lyonell and Eustis recount what they discovered below—Trinidad Rizo’s lifeless body, the grotesque wound at her neck, and the unnatural stillness of the scene. They describe the golden artifact found nearby, its intricate geometric markings and burned flesh fused to its surface, cold to the touch despite the damage. Eustis then shares the contents of the translated manuscript Trinidad had been working on—an account from the conquistador Gaspar Figueroa, hinting at something far older and more disturbing, including mention of the name Luis de Mendoza. As the pieces come together, the room grows quieter, the implications settling in with unsettling clarity.

The group splits up, each turning their attention to different areas of study in preparation for what lies ahead. Some focus on the terrain and possible routes to Lake Titicaca, mapping alternatives should their dealings with Larkin turn sour. Others dig into local wildlife and plant life, looking for anything that might pose a threat—or prove useful—in the highlands. It is quiet, methodical work, but necessary. Whatever path they choose, it is clear they intend to be ready.

In the morning, as Larkin directs the loading of the trucks, the early light catches across his shirt just enough for Black Jack and Alan to glimpse something beneath the fabric—a tattoo, partially obscured. It is there and gone in a moment, easy to dismiss. But Black Jack lingers on it, uncertain whether it’s the lingering haze from the night before or something else entirely—he could swear the markings shifted, swirling slightly, as if alive. He keeps it to himself.

The journey begins, and the first night—and the following day—pass without incident. The second day follows much the same, the rhythm of travel settling in. But as evening falls on the second night, something changes. The air grows heavier. The quiet feels watched.

And somewhere beyond the firelight…

something begins to stalk the camp. Rupert—ever the hunter—feels it before he sees it. That instinct, honed by years in the wild, settles in his bones. They are not alone. He quietly makes Mel aware—they are no longer travelers… they are prey. Just beyond the firelight, something moves. The night grows unnaturally still, the silence pressing in as a shape resolves in the darkness—a puma, low and patient, stalking the edge of the camp. Rupert signals to the drivers, keeping his voice low, controlled—but fear takes one of them. Panic sets in, and the man bolts for the truck. The puma reacts instantly, surging forward in a blur of muscle and shadow. Rupert raises his rifle and fires, the shot cracking through the night. It hits—true—but not enough. The beast does not fall.

The shot throws the camp into chaos. Voices rise, shadows scatter, and in the confusion Eustis emerges from the darkness, rifle already in hand. He doesn’t hesitate. Taking aim through the shifting firelight, he fires—once, clean and decisive. The puma drops before it can do lasting harm, its charge broken just short of the driver. The night falls still again, but not as it was before. Something has shifted—no longer just the wild pressing in, but the growing sense that this journey will not be without cost.

As the group arrives in Puno, the shift is immediate. Eyes follow them—quiet, watchful, lingering just a moment too long—as if their presence has disturbed something better left undisturbed. They are outsiders here, and it is felt. Larkin, unfazed, gathers them briefly, informing them the day is theirs to do with as they wish. Rooms have been arranged, and they depart at first light. The freedom is given easily—but beneath it lies the quiet understanding that whatever awaits them beyond Puno is already watching.

Jackson Elias—Jesse Hughes—pulls Alan aside, his tone quieter now, more deliberate. He mentions there is someone the group should meet—an old woman named Nayra, wise and reclusive, who has gone into hiding on a small island nearby. According to him, she knows things—things not easily explained, or perhaps better left unexplained. He doesn’t press the matter, but the weight in his voice suggests this meeting may prove just as important as anything waiting in the mountains ahead.

As the group makes their way to the docks to secure passage to Nayra’s island, they become aware of quiet attention following them. A man, a teenage boy, and an older woman watch from a distance, their gazes lingering just long enough to be noticed. There is no confrontation, no words exchanged—only the distinct feeling of being observed, as though they have stepped somewhere they were not meant to be. Still, the group thinks little of it. In a remote part of Peru, foreigners are bound to draw attention. And yet… the feeling does not entirely fade.

Nayra is small and stooped with age, wrapped in worn layers suited to the highlands, her weathered face marked by years of wind and sun. Thick white hair hangs loosely behind her, but it is her bright, sharp eyes that stand out most—quietly amused and unsettlingly observant. There is warmth in her smile, touched with mischief, though nothing about her feels naïve. That becomes clear when she offers Rupert and Black Jack what appears to be dried jerky, only to laugh softly as they realize they are chewing tree bark—a harmless trick, but a deliberate reminder that appearances here are not always to be trusted.

As the conversation settles, Nayra speaks of an old story: something hungry falling from the sky into the lake long ago, devouring everything it touched before the trickster spirit Ekeko lured it beneath the earth and sealed it there beneath gold. Her tone darkens further when she speaks of the kharisiri—“the carvers”—beings that take fat, life, and strength from the living. Once thought to be outsiders, she warns, they are no longer strangers passing through. Looking toward the lake, her expression hardens slightly. “They are changing.”

As goodbyes are exchanged outside Nayra’s hut, the party begins descending toward the shoreline, the fading light turning Lake Titicaca a dull sheet of gold beneath the sinking sun. The reeds whisper softly around them, the island shifting faintly underfoot as though nothing here is ever truly still. Behind them, Nayra watches in silence. Ahead waits the boat.

Then something moves.

Near the waterline, a fisherman turns sharply before a figure bursts from the reeds and slams into him, one hand crushing over his mouth as he is dragged violently into the mud. The sound dies almost instantly.

More figures rise from the lake.

Silent. Pale. Wrong.

Water drips from them as they spread through the reeds with eerie calm, slowly cutting off the path to the shore. One turns toward the group, head tilting with unsettling curiosity, a wet sheen glistening faintly around its mouth before it wipes it away. Behind it, the fisherman stops struggling.

The smell reaches them moments later—rot, rendered fat, and something chemical beneath it all.

The nearest figure steps forward slowly.

Not hunting.

Waiting.

The group springs into action almost instantly, weapons drawn as the shoreline erupts into chaos. Gunfire cracks across the lake, sharp and deafening against the suffocating stillness of the reeds. Shadows move. Figures stagger but keep advancing. Amid the confusion, Mel breaks from the safety of the group without hesitation, rushing directly toward the abominations as the others fire past her into the gathering dark.

The teenage boy is the first of the abominations to fall, dropping beneath the sudden eruption of gunfire. But there is no pause—no hesitation from the others. Mel is already in motion, closing the distance and throwing herself into the melee with the older woman as the middle-aged man suddenly breaks away, lunging toward Jesse Hughes—Jackson Elias—with terrifying speed.

As the fight descends into chaos, the rest of the group surges forward to support Mel—though she would never admit she needed it. Alan, Rupert, and Eustis close in around the struggle, weapons and fists alike turning the shoreline into a desperate blur of violence. Black Jack fires into the confusion, but one shot goes wide, grazing Mel in the chaos before striking harmlessly beyond her. Even wounded, she refuses to give ground.

The old woman abomination quickly collapses beneath the group’s combined assault, but not before the middle-aged man reaches Jesse Hughes—Jackson Elias—and tears into him with frightening violence. For a few desperate moments, only Lyonell stands between Elias and something far worse, holding the creature back long enough for the others to close the distance.

With only one foe remaining, the tide turns quickly. Surrounded and overwhelmed, the final abomination is driven into the dirt and put down for good. Silence follows—broken only by ragged breathing, the soft movement of the lake, and the distant rustling of reeds in the dark.

Nayra does what she can for the wounded, her rough hands steady as she tends injuries beside the shoreline. Nearby, the group gathers near the boat, shaken and bloodied, trying to make sense of what they have just survived. Ahead lies the return to Puno—and beyond that, Larkin’s expedition, which now feels less like an adventure and more like a path leading directly toward something ancient, hostile, and waiting.