Guardians of the Grotto

The air in the Sourlands tasted like a forgotten lemon drop, sharp and a little sad. Elder Rhubard had warned me about these parts, about the Guardians, but even his hushed tones hadn’t prepared me for the sheer, silent presence of them. They weren't like the sculpted figures of our city, smooth and flowing with the emotions of their creators. These were jagged, rough, like raw gum that hadn't been worked yet, or perhaps, gum that had been worked too hard and then left to harden.

My own gum form, usually a soft, pliable pink that mirrored my nervous flutterings, felt stiff and unyielding as I stepped further into the grotto. The entrance was a narrow slit in a cliff face, slick with a strange, sticky dew. Inside, the space opened into a vast cavern, dimly lit by phosphorescent moss that clung to the walls like emerald freckles. And there they were.

Three of them. Towering figures of hardened, greyish gum, their forms vaguely humanoid but twisted, like limbs caught in a perpetual struggle. Their eyes were hollow pits, yet I felt them watching me, a heavy, ancient scrutiny. They didn't move, not an inch, but the air around them thrummed with a silent challenge.