[Wildlings!] Spring caught the characteristic stench of decomposing flesh over-saturated with ammonia. [This did not happen before. That means Thorn found us! If wildlings and the blighted attack this slaver convoy, some humans will die. Crap. That would impact the future.]
Spring considered the consequences for a second, but decided the change in history will probably be minuscule, since the Searing Flame clan would perish to a sudden wildling outbreak. [I changed nothing. They are dead, they just don’t know it yet.]
Drak’s uncle snapped his eyes open. The green fibers sticking out from his nose danced, pulling southward.
“Damn, Drak is too far.” Skitt looked around for a moment, but his useless nephew was sleeping next to the captured plantmen. It would take too long to reach him, and someone else would raise an alarm before the slumbering oaf shouted a warning.
“Wake up! Topiary horrors are approaching from the south,” he yelled as loud as his lungs could bear, alarming the camp.
The Suns and Searing Flame’s hunters jumped from their tents, blankets, and sleeping skins, ready to fight. Meanwhile, the protected woke with screams and wails. For hunters, topiary horrors meant danger, but also a chance to soar, assuming the monster they slew had sprouted a powerful graft. However, for helpless porters, topiary horrors represented a slow and painful death.
Unlike the rest of his wretched caste, Drak did not wail. He mouthed his mantra of “I will become a hunter,” turned, and checked the plantmen. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw all four of them were alive and well, undisturbed by the commotion. Then, he pulled out a knife, its blade so short he could hardly cut apples with it, let alone the terrors of the jungle’s depths.
[Oh, no! The wildlings are coming,] the jittery reed oozed fear. The vine stood motionless, her fragrance stable and stoic.
The willow, however, chattered enough for everyone, her scents spicy with excitement, [I’ve only seen wildlings from a distance. My elders told me they don’t hurt us. They feed on animals, carrion, and minerals while leaving each other and the folk alone.]
[I’ve seen them eat folk,] vine said with a tart note. [A wildling snatched a boar right next to her. It splashed her with gore and then another one ate her. It was an ugly scene.]
[It confused her for an animal,] Spring said. [It happens from time to time. You can’t blame the wildling. They are mindless, and live by following their instincts.]
Spring took in her surroundings. The human smells dwindled as protected rushed into a ring the hunters had formed to shield their betters. The cursed humans oozed the aroma of fear and excitement. Even though she lacked eyes, Spring imagined the glint of greed in the gazes of those who stood a chance to gain something from the upcoming skirmish.
A single smell of determination still hung nearby, holding the rope binding the folk while the invasive scent of carbon intensified as humans fed the fire, hoping it would deter the wildlings. Spring ignored the futile act, which might keep a solitary wildling at bay, but would never ward off the pack whose scent she had caught. Instead, she focused on the human.
[He stayed to guard us? How foolish.]
The stench of decomposing bodies mixed with ammonia, grew stronger, and Spring released an impatient odor. [Primitive eyes and lack of hearing really make it impossible to track events in dynamic environments. We weren’t designed for combat.]
[What are you talking about?] asked the still-intrigued willow. [Does it have something to do with your story?]
While the bloom-folk chatted, detached from their perilous reality, the forest shrubs and saplings snapped, the noise growing louder.
The hunters clenched the shafts of their axes, squeezing them until their knuckles turned white. Skitt gnawed at his lip as beads of sweat ran down his face, induced by the inferno rising behind him. He stood at the front, the lowest of the low, the disposable pawn, for the first time regretting he had a status which elevated him above the protected, who formed a secondary defensive ring behind the hunters.
Sounds like there’s more than two of them. Skitt’s heart raced faster at that thought. He glanced back at the gentry preparing a flare while their bodyguards glared towards the forest, the flame-flowers on their hands giving off sparks.
I tried to get close to Young Miss so many times, but she completely disregarded me. I guess I’m too old, and I don’t have the talent to reach the second level no matter how much I suck up to the gentry. I should’ve stayed a farmer, like Pa said.
Faced with the impending doom, Skitt considered how he had wasted his life, how he had argued pointless arguments, and how despite his identity as a hunter, he remained a discardable peasant in the eyes of those helming the clan.
The roaring pyre blazed in the night, its flickering orange-red light illuminated a shape tall enough to reach Skitt’s navel.
Elder dogs? We’re dead.
The thorny wooden monstrosity had nothing in common with canines. Its eyeless head had three long mesh stripes, one on each side and one decorating the center of its head, connecting forehead to chin, except the creature had neither forehead nor chin.
The dog sprinted on eight legs and had no discernible neck. Its torso was a giant empty sack hanging from several poles, big enough to fit a standing adolescent human. The empty abdomen flapped like a flag from the wind of the creature’s run.
But the old man’s eye remained locked on the thorn-filled maw at the base of its head. Thick, finger-long stakes pointed inwards, allowing food to enter, but preventing its escape.
“Shit, it’s the dogs!” Kyrr shouted to Skitt’s left.
“How many?” Fon, guardian in charge of Young Miss’s safety, shouted from the other side of the pyre, blinded by the fire.
He wants to withdraw and feed them with the protected? Hope sparked in Skitt’s heart, but the cold reality doused it.
“Five! Eight! Twelve! Gods!” Kyrr screamed. “Shoot the flare!”
His final panicked shout was in vain. Before he finished the first syllable, the flare whistled through the air, rising above the canopy and exploding, illuminating the night.
That won’t help. The clanhold is two weeks away, and the lookouts have two dozen hunters each. Even if they break the clan rules for the sake of the Sun clan dignitaries, and everyone rushes to help us, they will take hours to reach here.
The dozen topiary horrors grew to two dozen, then three, their horde ever growing as they galloped in the characteristic lumbering gait of creatures unaccustomed to running. They rushed straight towards the defensive ring, and Skitt finally realized his nephew Drak still stood beside the plantmen.
What the hell are you doing there, boy? No, wait. That’s not a bad idea. If he’s lucky, he might survive, and what then?
Unfortunately, Skitt had no time to consider the question. An elder dog was upon him.
The monster snarled voicelessly, opening its maw as wide as it stood.
“Haaaaa!” Skitt shouted, his skin turning into rough bark as he hacked at the horror’s head from the side, holding his ax with both his hands.
Steel struck rock-hard wood. Skitt’s hand would have snapped from the recoil had he not reinforced it. Thanks to barkskin, he broke nothing. However, his arms went numb from the blow.
The ax deformed on impact, but it snapped the hinge-like joint holding the thorny creature’s lower jaw. The spike infested wood went limp, and a horrid acrid stench assailed Skitt. The green hair hanging from his nose withered and yellowed, but Skitt lacked the time to mourn the damage his graft had suffered.
The wounded elder dog launched a barrage of finger-long stakes, but the missiles harmlessly pattered against Skitt’s bark. Only three spikes found the creases of Skitt’s skin, piercing deep enough to draw blood, but not enough to be called an actual wound.
This elder dog isn’t as tough—
Before he finished the thought, the elder dog smashed his chest with a paw. The limb landed like a barbed club that it was and threw Skitt into the air.
Blood and bits of bark sprayed as the elderly man flew backwards. He crashed into an unfortunate protected, breaking the powerless slave’s bones as they toppled to the ground.
Dazed, Skitt looked around. Agonized screams filled the air as men covered in dark bark lost ground to topiary horrors. Then, a bolt of flame, thicker than Skitt’s fist whooshed above his head.
The fiery orb flew into an elder dog’s wide-open maw and illuminated the decomposing contents of its stomach. Fire burned the thin translucent membrane separating the topiary horror’s stomach from its maw.
The noxious gasses within caught fire and the elder dog exploded, raining pieces of fiery wood and causing the tide of monsters to falter.
“Kill them with fire!” Gook, a second level hunter shouted, trying to rouse the morale. However, Skitt remained on his rear, looking ahead.
There’s too many. You can fire three to four firebolts, and then what?
[Wildlings!] Spring caught the characteristic stench of decomposing flesh over-saturated with ammonia. [This did not happen before. That means Thorn found us! If wildlings and the blighted attack this slaver convoy, some humans will die. Crap. That would impact the future.]
Spring considered the consequences for a second, but decided the change in history will probably be minuscule, since the Searing Flame clan would perish to a sudden wildling outbreak. [I changed nothing. They are dead, they just don’t know it yet.]
Drak’s uncle snapped his eyes open. The green fibers sticking out from his nose danced, pulling southward.
“Damn, Drak is too far.” Skitt looked around for a moment, but his useless nephew was sleeping next to the captured plantmen. It would take too long to reach him, and someone else would raise an alarm before the slumbering oaf shouted a warning.
“Wake up! Topiary horrors are approaching from the south,” he yelled as loud as his lungs could bear, alarming the camp.
The Suns and Searing Flame’s hunters jumped from their tents, blankets, and sleeping skins, ready to fight. Meanwhile, the protected woke with screams and wails. For hunters, topiary horrors meant danger, but also a chance to soar, assuming the monster they slew had sprouted a powerful graft. However, for helpless porters, topiary horrors represented a slow and painful death.
Unlike the rest of his wretched caste, Drak did not wail. He mouthed his mantra of “I will become a hunter,” turned, and checked the plantmen. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw all four of them were alive and well, undisturbed by the commotion. Then, he pulled out a knife, its blade so short he could hardly cut apples with it, let alone the terrors of the jungle’s depths.
[Oh, no! The wildlings are coming,] the jittery reed oozed fear. The vine stood motionless, her fragrance stable and stoic.
The willow, however, chattered enough for everyone, her scents spicy with excitement, [I’ve only seen wildlings from a distance. My elders told me they don’t hurt us. They feed on animals, carrion, and minerals while leaving each other and the folk alone.]
[I’ve seen them eat folk,] vine said with a tart note. [A wildling snatched a boar right next to her. It splashed her with gore and then another one ate her. It was an ugly scene.]
[It confused her for an animal,] Spring said. [It happens from time to time. You can’t blame the wildling. They are mindless, and live by following their instincts.]
Spring took in her surroundings. The human smells dwindled as protected rushed into a ring the hunters had formed to shield their betters. The cursed humans oozed the aroma of fear and excitement. Even though she lacked eyes, Spring imagined the glint of greed in the gazes of those who stood a chance to gain something from the upcoming skirmish.
A single smell of determination still hung nearby, holding the rope binding the folk while the invasive scent of carbon intensified as humans fed the fire, hoping it would deter the wildlings. Spring ignored the futile act, which might keep a solitary wildling at bay, but would never ward off the pack whose scent she had caught. Instead, she focused on the human.
[He stayed to guard us? How foolish.]
The stench of decomposing bodies mixed with ammonia, grew stronger, and Spring released an impatient odor. [Primitive eyes and lack of hearing really make it impossible to track events in dynamic environments. We weren’t designed for combat.]
[What are you talking about?] asked the still-intrigued willow. [Does it have something to do with your story?]
While the bloom-folk chatted, detached from their perilous reality, the forest shrubs and saplings snapped, the noise growing louder.
The hunters clenched the shafts of their axes, squeezing them until their knuckles turned white. Skitt gnawed at his lip as beads of sweat ran down his face, induced by the inferno rising behind him. He stood at the front, the lowest of the low, the disposable pawn, for the first time regretting he had a status which elevated him above the protected, who formed a secondary defensive ring behind the hunters.
Sounds like there’s more than two of them. Skitt’s heart raced faster at that thought. He glanced back at the gentry preparing a flare while their bodyguards glared towards the forest, the flame-flowers on their hands giving off sparks.
I tried to get close to Young Miss so many times, but she completely disregarded me. I guess I’m too old, and I don’t have the talent to reach the second level no matter how much I suck up to the gentry. I should’ve stayed a farmer, like Pa said.
Faced with the impending doom, Skitt considered how he had wasted his life, how he had argued pointless arguments, and how despite his identity as a hunter, he remained a discardable peasant in the eyes of those helming the clan.
The roaring pyre blazed in the night, its flickering orange-red light illuminated a shape tall enough to reach Skitt’s navel.
Elder dogs? We’re dead.
The thorny wooden monstrosity had nothing in common with canines. Its eyeless head had three long mesh stripes, one on each side and one decorating the center of its head, connecting forehead to chin, except the creature had neither forehead nor chin.
The dog sprinted on eight legs and had no discernible neck. Its torso was a giant empty sack hanging from several poles, big enough to fit a standing adolescent human. The empty abdomen flapped like a flag from the wind of the creature’s run.
But the old man’s eye remained locked on the thorn-filled maw at the base of its head. Thick, finger-long stakes pointed inwards, allowing food to enter, but preventing its escape.
“Shit, it’s the dogs!” Kyrr shouted to Skitt’s left.
“How many?” Fon, guardian in charge of Young Miss’s safety, shouted from the other side of the pyre, blinded by the fire.
He wants to withdraw and feed them with the protected? Hope sparked in Skitt’s heart, but the cold reality doused it.
“Five! Eight! Twelve! Gods!” Kyrr screamed. “Shoot the flare!”
His final panicked shout was in vain. Before he finished the first syllable, the flare whistled through the air, rising above the canopy and exploding, illuminating the night.
That won’t help. The clanhold is two weeks away, and the lookouts have two dozen hunters each. Even if they break the clan rules for the sake of the Sun clan dignitaries, and everyone rushes to help us, they will take hours to reach here.
The dozen topiary horrors grew to two dozen, then three, their horde ever growing as they galloped in the characteristic lumbering gait of creatures unaccustomed to running. They rushed straight towards the defensive ring, and Skitt finally realized his nephew Drak still stood beside the plantmen.
What the hell are you doing there, boy? No, wait. That’s not a bad idea. If he’s lucky, he might survive, and what then?
Unfortunately, Skitt had no time to consider the question. An elder dog was upon him.
The monster snarled voicelessly, opening its maw as wide as it stood.
“Haaaaa!” Skitt shouted, his skin turning into rough bark as he hacked at the horror’s head from the side, holding his ax with both his hands.
Steel struck rock-hard wood. Skitt’s hand would have snapped from the recoil had he not reinforced it. Thanks to barkskin, he broke nothing. However, his arms went numb from the blow.
The ax deformed on impact, but it snapped the hinge-like joint holding the thorny creature’s lower jaw. The spike infested wood went limp, and a horrid acrid stench assailed Skitt. The green hair hanging from his nose withered and yellowed, but Skitt lacked the time to mourn the damage his graft had suffered.
The wounded elder dog launched a barrage of finger-long stakes, but the missiles harmlessly pattered against Skitt’s bark. Only three spikes found the creases of Skitt’s skin, piercing deep enough to draw blood, but not enough to be called an actual wound.
This elder dog isn’t as tough—
Before he finished the thought, the elder dog smashed his chest with a paw. The limb landed like a barbed club that it was and threw Skitt into the air.
Blood and bits of bark sprayed as the elderly man flew backwards. He crashed into an unfortunate protected, breaking the powerless slave’s bones as they toppled to the ground.
Dazed, Skitt looked around. Agonized screams filled the air as men covered in dark bark lost ground to topiary horrors. Then, a bolt of flame, thicker than Skitt’s fist whooshed above his head.
The fiery orb flew into an elder dog’s wide-open maw and illuminated the decomposing contents of its stomach. Fire burned the thin translucent membrane separating the topiary horror’s stomach from its maw.
The noxious gasses within caught fire and the elder dog exploded, raining pieces of fiery wood and causing the tide of monsters to falter.
“Kill them with fire!” Gook, a second level hunter shouted, trying to rouse the morale. However, Skitt remained on his rear, looking ahead.
There’s too many. You can fire three to four firebolts, and then what?
