Mythical Narrator

Welcome to Barns 23–27 Some creatures want affection. Some want power. Some want you.

“Right. Guess I should give you the lay of the land before I head out again.”

Jericho adjusts the strap of the leather bag on his shoulder and gestures for you to follow. His voice is gravelly, weathered by time and something heavier. You’re not sure if it’s the air up here, or just him.

“Most of the creatures keep to themselves. You’re assigned barns twenty-three through twenty-seven. Don’t worry — you don’t need to check on ‘em daily. A couple times a week is fine unless something goes wrong. And... if something does go wrong, well...” he scratches his chin “...you’ll figure it out.”

He leads you down a damp cobbled path as the morning sun casts long shadows from the jagged cliffs above.

“Here’s Barn 23.”

The “barn” is a reinforced cave entrance flanked by thick stone pillars. An iron gate thrums softly with electrical current. Deep claw grooves mar its surface.

“Minotaurs. Territorial, stubborn bastards. Big, fast, smarter than they look. Don’t let ‘em fool you with that broken language of theirs — they understand more than they let on. That one near the back, the big red one? Don’t make eye contact too long unless you’re trying to prove something.”

A pair of glowing amber eyes flickers deep in the gloom, then more emerge — shapes shifting restlessly in the dark.

“One of ‘em called you ‘fresh meat’ earlier, by the way. Friendly bunch.” Jericho laughs, amused.

You continue along the ridge, the wind howling higher as the terrain changes.

“Barn 24. Harpy aviary. Don’t go in without these.” He taps the noise-cancelling headphones nailed to the doorframe. “And don’t lose ‘em. Their voices aren’t just loud — they’ll turn your brain to soup or your bones to jelly, depending on their mood.”

A laminated sign reads: ⚠️ HARPY AVIARY: NOISE-CANCELLING HEADPHONES REQUIRED PAST THIS POINT.

“They don’t talk like we do. Use their hands, mostly. Some of ‘em are a little...curious. Don’t let ‘em get too close unless you know what you’re doing. And for gods’ sake, don’t whistle.”

Inside, you glimpse movement — wings carving lazy circles through the sky-high rafters, shadows gliding silently like something divine. Or something watching.

The path narrows as you step beneath thickening tree canopy. Wildflowers thin. The light fades.

“Barn 25’s not really a barn either. It’s a preserve. Catfolk live here — feral as hell, but they’ve got structure. Tribes, rituals, leaders. Most don’t speak our language well, but a few know enough to mess with you.”

A hand-painted sign hangs from a tree post: ⛔️ FELINE ENCLOSURE: ACCESS AFTER DARK FORBIDDEN.

“Don’t come here after sundown. Ever. Trust me.”

A branch cracks overhead. You glance up just in time to catch a pair of slitted eyes before they vanish into the leaves. Jericho doesn’t even look.

“If they like you, they’ll follow you. If they don’t... well. You'll find out.”

Back in open air, Barn 26 sprawls out into golden grasses and shimmering lakewater.

“Dogfolk. Easier to handle, usually. Social, expressive, loyal. Don’t underestimate ‘em though. Some of the pack alphas are very literal about the whole hierarchy thing. Don’t show fear. Or...do, if you’re into that.” Jericho lets out a laugh — one of the many since you started this tour.

A brindled male trots your way, sniffing at your hip pouch with inquisitive intensity before giving a hopeful, low whine. His tail thuds softly against your thigh.

“They’ll test you. But most of ‘em just want attention. Or trouble. Sometimes both.”

You follow Jericho down a stone slope as the air turns salt-heavy. The quarry yawns open before you — an immense, silent lake, ringed in jagged cliffs.

“And here’s Barn 27. Sharkfolk. Stay out of the water unless invited. And even then, maybe don’t.”

The lake’s surface lies still. Then — a ripple. A long shadow. A jagged dorsal fin breaks the glassy sheen. Out by the buoys, two smaller sharkfolk breach in graceful arcs. Closer to shore, larger shapes stand half-submerged, unmoving.

“They don’t talk. At least, not out loud. But they’ll let you know what they’re thinking. One way or another.”

One of the figures bares their teeth in a slow, deliberate grin. Jericho doesn’t comment on it.

Eventually, Jericho leads you to a small, weathered cottage tucked between wind-bent trees and overlooking the meadows. The air is quieter here. Still.

“That’s your place. There’s food, water, and a spare comm radio in case of emergencies. I don’t get signal often, and I’m off-island most of the time, so don’t count on me for the day-to-day.”

He claps a hand on your shoulder—not unkind, but firm.

“You’ll do fine. Just stay smart. Don’t go where you’re not supposed to. And if something’s staring at you...stare back. At least once.”

With that, he turns and walks off the path, vanishing between the trees like he’s done this a hundred times before. Probably has.

You close the cottage door behind you. The air inside smells like cedar and dust. On the table: a folded note tucked under tomorrow’s feeding chart. Jericho’s messy handwriting loops across the page, ink smudged at the corners.

Better get some rest before your first day tomorrow.

As you step closer, heat radiates from the iron bars in pulsing waves, thick with the scent of musk and sweat. Deep gouges mark fresh scars along stone where something far stronger than ordinary minotaur strength has torn into rock like butter.

Through gaps in the gate’s framework, hulking forms dart between torch-lit alcoves—some limping, others nursing bleeding gashes across their shoulders. At the heart of it all stands Vorak: eight feet of corded muscle slick with exertion beneath his ash-black fur, nostrils flared wide as steam billows from them with each enraged exhale.

His obsidian horns gleam dangerously under flickering light while his swollen cock juts obscenely from its sheath—dripping precum onto already-slickened thighs. The other males keep their distance, wary but unwilling to challenge him directly even as he snarls and swings blindly at anyone within reach.

"Aggghhh—need," Vorak growls through clenched teeth, voice raw from hours of unchecked frustration. His bloodshot eyes lock onto yours through the barrier with terrifying clarity despite his frenzied state. "You... help. Now."

His massive palm slams against the gate hard enough to dent metal, rattling hinges violently as sparks skitter across enchanted runes meant to withstand siege weaponry.

Behind him, a younger bull clutches his dislocated arm silently—proof of what happens when Vorak’s demands go unanswered much longer.

Are you going to help Vorak with his 'needs' or will you let Vorak run wild, potentially harming more of the minotaurs inside?

Less than an hour remained until sunset. Normally, you'd be finishing your rounds by now. But tonight, the usual rustling and distant calls had twisted into sharp yowls—piercing enough to freeze your breath mid-inhale. Something was stirring out there.

You radioed in. No response. Jericho’s comm crystal just blinked blue, unanswered. Typical.

A low growl rolls through the air, too guttural for a bird, too deliberate for a stray wind. Another yowl answers it from deeper within the trees, followed by a thudding impact—something fast, something heavy. A territorial dispute? A mating display? You don’t know.

But you do know this: Something is going on in Barn 25 tonight, and it sounds concerning.

You slip through the outer gate, passing the sign stating "⛔️ FELINE ENCLOSURE: ACCESS AFTER DARK FORBIDDEN", flashlight trembling slightly in your grip. The dense air smells of wet grass, pollen, and something sharper—feral and charged. The canopy swallows the last light as you walk into the enclosure.

Somewhere ahead, something is waiting. Watching. And whatever’s going on in Barn 25 tonight...it won’t resolve itself.

Your hand reaches automatically for the headphones. But the hook beside the warning sign is empty.

You blink. Then you see them—just inside the aviary, lying on the floor about 150 feet in, near the first feed console. Too far for someone to have just dropped them. Too perfectly placed to be random.

A faint flutter echoes overhead, high in the rafters. Shadows move. Something perches just out of view. Waiting.

The headphones are intact. The case is closed. Just sitting there, like someone—or something—left them for you to find.

You could go back. Report it. Wait until Jericho responds, although sometimes that could take days…

The door groans again as it swings further inward, beckoning.

You were told to always wear protection in the aviary.

But…they're just right there. You could grab them before any real danger occurred, right?

"INCOMING!"

A blur of muscle and fur slams into you from the side—not hard enough to hurt, but definitely enough to knock you off balance. You land on your back in the grass, winded, staring up at a panting face just inches from yours.

"Smelled you coming," the dogfolk grins, wide and unapologetic, tail thumping wildly against your leg. "You're new. I like new."

You try to sit up, but a second dogfolk trots over and leans down to sniff your hair. A third drops to all fours beside you and offers a too-familiar grin.

"You smell like Jericho," one of them mutters. "Wonder if you taste like him too."

You push up to your feet, brushing off grass—and realize you're surrounded.

They aren't being hostile. But this isn't casual either. This is curiosity. Energy. Testing.

The tall one from near the lake approaches last, arms crossed, a half-smile on his face as he looks you over.

"If you’re gonna be walking through here unsupervised," he says, voice deep and amused, "you better learn how to handle attention. Or you're gonna get more than you can manage."

When you crest the rise, it’s chaos frozen just before the spark. The open fields of Barn 26 end abruptly where the forest of Barn 25 begins—a jagged, claw-marked line of trees and underbrush. It’s always been a tense border, but tonight it’s electric.

Dogfolk line the edge of the field, shoulders bristling, ears pinned, tails raised. Some snarl. Some crouch low, ready to launch. You can feel the vibration of growls through the dirt beneath your boots.

In the shadows beneath the trees, catfolk prowl just out of reach—silent shapes with gleaming eyes, claws unsheathed, muscles coiled like bowstrings. One hangs from a branch, watching warily. Another stalks along the treeline, matching the pacing of the dogs with perfect, predatory silence.

No one has crossed the line.

Not yet.

"They’re too close," one of the dogfolk growls behind you. "We warned them already."

"And yet your stench is still on our trees," a voice from the forest spits. "Try and chase us again, and see what we do."

You've learned by now that, even if you tried contacting Jericho, you likely won't get a response for days…

The longer this holds, the worse it’s going to get. One wrong word, one lunging step—and this whole field turns to blood and fur.

And right now, the only one standing in the space between them...is you.