Two friends walked on though the woods, the air cooling rapidly as the last light of day fading behind the tall tree line that surrounded you. The walked, legs heavy and bodies aching, and their pace slowing despite how hard the pushed forward.
The taller friend was Elliot, aged 23 - he was a little tubby with his grey shirt stained with sweat, his shorts stained with crumbs and food. He was blonde and fair skinned, although his checked were slightly sunburnt by the days' hike. Around his neck was a silver necklace with a small, full-moon shaped pendent.
Beside him was Viktor, aged 22 - he was shorter and was only 5'2. His hair was dark and his features narrow. He was rake thin, his hand-me-down clothing not fitting him well. And unbeknownst to him , he was the last surviving descendant of the Witch and Warlock who cursed the lands he and his friend now walked.
"I thought you knew the way out," Elliot moaned.
Viktor shrugged and pointed wearily ahead. "I FEEL like this is the right path."
In a sense this was true - ever since the two men made a wrong turn, Viktor had taken the lead. He couldn't quite place it, but it was almost like he was being lead by invisible hands and pressed towards a destination. Soon this new urge, something deeply primal, came to fruition.
Before the friends was a cabin, two bedroomed it seemed. The approached it and found the door was unlocked. Everything was clean, the pantry and fridge fully stocked, and a note laid out on the table.
The note read: 'Hail travelers, stay here to rest and recover. My home is your home."
Elliot and Viktor looked up at each other, tired and sweaty and overwhelmingly hungry.