Where the bug had been lays the gouged scar of a battle half lost. Its timber teeters with the weight of Jade's sorrow. It's lumbering threat crying out to the two standing and the dozens of hundreds of avian onlookers. Yet none dane to step away.
Jade's grip on her axe softens as she lets flood her fear. Her fury, her somber emptiness out into the uncaring void of the forest.
Poncho, still hugging Jade, lets his tears rain. Coating his fur and dotting her hair. He takes a long pause and sets himself right.
Patting Jade's back he lets her go.
*Jade, hug, tears, gone?*
“Thank you Poncho. I'll be as alright as I can.”
Wiping the tears from her eyes she centers herself. Her demeanor shot back like an on return boomerang.
Grabbing her axe she hauls it over her shoulder. Poncho follows as the two head deeper.
The further they traverse the more roaches they find. Every few steps they find hundreds of them in the midst of devouring the bushes. The swarm hugs every patch with a greedy devotion to sap any nutrient that may be left.
Jade fidgets with the welt on her hand, her spine tingling and her hairs standing on end with every shrub adorned with these insects. She scratches it instinctually as the blood starts to dry and form sticky patches.
The eye of the beast hung high as the Twilight moved on. It’s watchful gaze cast a blanket of shadow along the hills and the forest lighting up the very corners that once housed the creatures of the night. And on this day at this hour and in this moment it lit a terror untold. A tall tree stood proud and dead, perched on a hill as if placed there by the gods itself. Once a protector of the forest. Now a shell of it’s former glory. The crown of leaves had fallen and left the forks of gnarled fingers, grasping in the wind for any source of rain to aid it’s sickly branches.
The visage of the once mighty oak had been used as a landmark for Jade back when she would wander from her orphanage. She remembers the summers when it’s leaves would shade her and the other orphans. How animals on different levels of the food chain would come here and be at peace during the winter months. The secret of it’s fruits would nourish those that sought refuge.
Beneath it’s majesty, hidden in it’s dens was where Jade met Penelope. And Jade was certain this was where she would be found.
As the pair walked deeper and deeper, the eyes of the sky followed. So too did the eyes of the ground. Silent and approaching. Brought forth by the long buried languid cries of one that sought comfort in the end, and the alluring hymn of the one who watches. Stalking close enough to keep watch in wait, but far enough away to watch the giant guardian and the small meal without arousing suspicion. A hungry hunter of this forest of long dead animals.
The shadows are a friend of its strategy. And in older times, it served him well. The days of now, the creature is a ghost among haunts, a wraith of hunger and a one track mind for it’s prey.
~Chapters End
Kirst’s sense of smell awoke first. Tasting the heated sands of a home he had abandoned. A mate who he had no love towards only an obligation, and the three clutches they produced. It was as cold as the way he remembered it.
The aroma of the wild flared onto his tongue, of his once true lover. Kirst’s heart fluttered to bursting. Then the dark cloud of his spouse showered onto him. The task of his tribe, the responsibilities to sire children. The deceit he brought onto himself and his tribe. And the scent he had forgotten, His taste washed away into a melancholy of waste.
His village celebrated with a feast for the senses. But to Kirst, watered down with a sallow paste of some unearthly continence that were his spawn.
Powerful warriors they became, and weak shriveled babes they would return to the earth.
Kirst’s tongue tasted the bitterness from both himself and his mate, from his once greatest friend and lover, turned betrayer of his flesh and his prodjiny. Better was he that they were gone. But the sting of that blade will forever be on his heart.
Kirst only ever wanted to be with him. To forget their home and run away together. And when he finally found time to run, he was captured, put in locks and the smell of iron had been a friend for a long time.
Then HE appeared. His smell was something new, irresistible and woke him from the fog that was the darkened cage. Afraid and intrigued, a tempered hand reached out. And was met with a soft grasp. Too weak to resist but finding strength in him.
The air fluctuates to visions of their heroics. Side by side. It was the flash of their blades, the arrow and the iron head. Where he pointed.
“Where he pointed you followed like some pet. You are his toy.”
The dunes of sand in his homeland roll hot. The blazing sun hangs high, swirling flame coating its frame, the eye of his god leering at this tiny figure known as Kirst. It's voice echoing loud from across the desert laying like weights in his heart.
The scorching sand puffs to the sky as it settles on something solid. Like a stone hidden behind the oasis of blue and orange. As it stood, it casts no shadow and slumped the dust off like a worn blanket, shifting and molting its flesh as it paced rigidly forward. Taking thought in each step, and finally stood face to face with Kirst.
“What triumphs you have faced. Overshadowed by his image. What shame you have wrought on your kin. A messenger of mine, unfit to wear my scales.”
It's mouth never moves, its blind eyes transfixed on Kirst.
“TEStify for they will come, MARvel at they're glory, THEN pray to the being who was cast aside.”
That voice rang in Kirst's soul. Loud and debilitating. But it also echoed of Their voice, of the voices that he knew. Vile and delightful. His two loves form to one. But it was not his god that spoke them. His god abandoned him to chains and iron long ago. His god lay dead in the vastness of this decaying world.
The only response then that Kirst could think of rolled from his mouth,
“Who are you?”
The figure shuddered, it writhed. It’s cloak as visible as a brick wall to Kirst, it could do nothing more then recoil from him, and it fell to the sand, the husk of his god cracked, the shell broke and from it’s spine rose feathers. Black as midnight and vast as the sky, concealing the beast in its shell.
And before Kirst’s eyes birthed anew was a terror whose beauty and horror entwined. Repulsive and captivating. Threatening to seep and fester, to commerce and profit on the terror it has yet to unleash.
And all it did was glance at Kirst with it’s large green eye, that ripped apart the sky, to cascade and deny, the somber cry of salvation.
As it crashed to the sand, a green flash and a loud scream jostled Kirst awake. Grabbing hold of anything within reach, he finds his familiar tool and readies himself. He listens intently and hears soft shuffling from his side.
He moves swiftly and quietly. His dagger ready and his instincts on high alert. As the being grows closer, Kirst's tongue tastes the air.
“Kirst?” The voice sang to him. It was joyous, but it was villainous. It was and it wasn't His voice.
Kirst's instincts took over his sense and he struck. Quick as a viper and as his fang sunk into flesh, the horror of his actions took root.
“Summer.”
As she looked puzzled, astonished, fearful and saddened at the revelation that it was Kirst who did this to her.
Summerfield's entire body shuddered as she fought to heal her wound. A very faint blue light pulsed weakly in her palm. Her strength was leaving her fast and she could only look to Kirst and mouth, “Mushroom”
Quick as the wind Kirst jumped into Summerfield's tent pulling out what he could in a panic and found the bag she had kept the mushroom in.
He ran to her side as she began to fall over. Her wound was still bleeding and her eyes grew heavy. She fell to the ground with a thud, and a loud squelching pop, and Kirst’s heart sank. He didn't want to know what that was but he knew it was bad. Summerfield was in shock and he needed to move fast.
He unwrapped the cloth and tried to feed Summerfield. There was no movement. She had lost consciousness from the blood loss.
A panicked decision was reached as he chewed the mushroom and opened her mouth. Spitting it up and like a bird feeding its young, passed it to her.
The taste was vile, the magic that surged through the mushroom wrecked havoc on his body. Kirst doubled over in agony as he felt like he had been stabbed in the same space as Summerfield.
The flowing of energy through Kirst felt electric and molten. Like his nervous system was being electrified and sending his joints to spasm, and the overwhelming heat of lava ran hot through his cells. The air had simultaneously been sucked out of his lungs, and expelled into his heart, the energy surging through him rocketed the process of circulation through his body, the feeling of choking and causing his brain to work in overtime slowed his perceptions. Each millisecond stretched his pain to eternities that only the eldest of elves knew. And in spouts of moments for an hour his body tried to reject this magic, to expel this dark ichor onto the world.
His vomit felt like acid burning its way up his throat and out onto the grass, bloody and chunky, his skin itched like skittering insects that would crawl, burrowed under his skin. His eyes ran dry and every time he tried to ease them, the soft cooling moisture of his tongue would send icicles stabbing deep into his corneas.
He grasped the ground, dragging himself through his pain and torment to where Summerfield should have been. He searches for what felt like hours, only to clasp the prickly pin feathers of a crow. Black as midnight.
~Chapters End
In the months leading up to the event, Summerfield had been keeping an eye on the life cycles of the animals, from the giant Tigers in her home country to the smallest voles, she noticed long before anyone else that there was a pattern being displayed. Predators would over hunt their prey, causing mass migrations. The food chains were shifting and where most of the larger animals would avoid human settlements, their desperation forced them to move in closer. Causing farms to lose swaths of animals, travelers to never return and for small settlements to put up large bounties on the extermination of certain fauna.
Most of the time, small-time hunters would take up the offers and would either show up with the decimation of other creatures or never return. More seasoned hunters knew to avoid these listings but would often come back with stories of many differing sightings.
Mostly creatures that would be herbivores suddenly becoming carnivores. Tales of rabbits hiding in bear dens, eating creatures as large as deer were no mere fairytales anymore.
Sightings of mountain men larger then trees, chimeras who could cast more powerful magic then any wizard, or the crows crying with the voices of departed loved ones and many many more weird happenings became more common as the days drew closer to the asteroid appearing in the sky.
All the migrations and depopulation of specific animals meant most of the mana from the forests dwindled as well. Food became more scarce, and meat was seen as a luxury.
The havoc wrought onto the vegetation destroyed most of Summerfield's favorite herbs. Her nursery in shambles and her personal stache had been well used, acquiring seeds became almost a brawl in parts of town. Summerfield had to face the music that she had to take a pause on substances. On a whole, sobriety from the more psychedelic plants brought the glow of the world to a dull Grey, at least now and then she would find roots with magical toxins that could scratch her itch for a while.
It wasn't till those became harder to find that she took her interest in the migration patterns of the animals more seriously.
During one of her excursions to some of the less inviting places she reunited with an old companion of hers. Daggert. It seemed fate had brought the two back together. He would talk for hours about the past but he also went on and on about a discovery he had made exploring the forbidden catacombs and abandoned miners tunnels. In places far below was a fungus, manufactured in the darkelvin caves that hid beneath their feet. A true miracle of mana sustainability. One bite and people born with magic could feel like the greatest wizards that ever lived.
The side effects were the usual bad stuff. Manageable honestly. Dead skin, clairvoyance, bad breath. Nothing that Summerfield hadn't experienced at one point or another.
But it was the sparsity of this plant that made it incredibly secretive. Even nobles in the capital cities have probably never heard of it. It was for the best of everyone that they hadn't.
Summerfield inquired about this discovery on more then one occasion as they spent their time together. He seemed to avoid the question entirely. Too embarrassed to say how he found it. Or maybe too afraid of the hole he might have dug if he brought up how. But the whereabouts of a specimen was the most critical point.
“I can't say for certain if it will still be there. But it's important that only you and I seek this out. We can split it. Right down the middle.” He extends his hand out and the two form a pact to adventure for this magical Mcguffin.
~Chapters End
It had been the talk of towns, cities, everywhere the pair would go that it was official. In the North word spread of Arthur and his knights had failed. And yet the madness was slow to fester. Summerfield and Daggert could feel the tenseness in the air, and it started small. Kings and mayors would send guards to silence the murmurs, to hold those accountable for spreading rumors. Capitol punishments were issued daily. And the methods grew more severe the longer the twilight stayed.
It was widespread. Almost every major city started burning their dead. The ground had grown fat with fetid putricities that spewed forth from beneath their feet. The smaller towns faired no better. Most of the ones they passed through were littered with dead crops, orphans, and the silhouettes of loved ones, hung high in the watch towers that circle the towns. Steele cages being their new homes, almost bursting with how many occupants were crammed in their crevices.
The outskirts of the cities, small villages saw the worst atrocities. Raider attacks were more common now. And as the pair would wander through, empty streets and ransacked homes, blood splattered walls and the cry of the crows mirroring the pillaging was all too common.
Summerfield and Daggart had been in the Central Northern City when the guards started rounding people up indiscriminately. The night prior had them return to one room and thankfully for them when the guards started kicking down doors, Summerfield’s room was near the end.
Screaming and yelling erupted from downstairs, giving the pair just enough time to grab their things and make a break through their window. All over the city, the streets roared with screams, with yelling and pleading of innocence, and as the hour passed, those screams were snuffed.
The two didn’t look back. They fled as fast as they could, with the early twilight hours covering most of the streets in a golden shadow, the guards sight was more tracked on the torchlights in the homes of the accused then the veil of the alleys. After that day, the pair decided to avoid the major cities and towns along their route.
Daggart finally confessed on how he learned of this magic mushroom they were fetching. He was a drug runner for one of the dark elf tribes for many years.
Summerfield had known this for a while, even when they were kids, Daggert had a pension for getting himself and Logan in trouble. Though drug smuggling was a line Logan would have disagreed with, Summerfield knew how harsh the world was for those who weren't lucky enough to be brought into a loving home.
Daggert's harrowing tale of how he came into contact with one felt more like a fable rather then he met his contact in a dive bar one drunken night. But Summerfield was happy to let him entertain his fairytale. And as it turned out,
“I wasn't entirely honest about finding it during my adventures.”
“You don't say.”
Summerfield mused. Daggert made a small huff, throwing his arms up, exaggerating his expression. He smiles softly.
“Yeah well, it wasn't all made up. We did have to make a break for it when the guards came in looking for me. Longer story. Sometimes fleeing from captivity forms a bond for thieves and brigands. And that was the start of our long standing partnership.”
“You fled from a guard and you were inseparable?”
Summerfield giggles to herself.
“That's the most romantic story I've heard yet. Poncho has a lot to learn from you.”
“Just wait till I tell the others about how we fled the Northern capital.”
Summerfield laughs and goes for her pouch. She finds her linen bag with a red chord tied at the top and rummages through it. Pulling out some herbs and passes one to Daggert. They share a brief moment of bliss as the twilight sky started to creep to the edge of the horizon.
Summerfield runs her hand through the grass, reveling in the way it tickles her skin. And all too sudden the intense feeling fades. The dull Grey of the earth envelopes her once more. A dull sigh breaks from her lips as she looks to Daggert.
His knees wrapped close to his chest, his back facing towards Summerfield. “Do you think this is it for us?” He asks the sky. The eye always glaring, he chose to speak to it. And got no response from either staring party.
Summerfield just lets the dull grass stick and hold to her fingers. Growing more numb by the day to their pleading. Her connection would soon die and then what use would she be? To anything. Or anyone? Her research was basically solved when they started hearing the rumors. Now the confirmation. If even someone as powerful as Penelope could fail how could she fare any better.
Her body was still useful. But for how long? Their world was at an end. No god she prayed to, no divine spirit, no fiend, or devil answers. They are alone. And there is no salvation. At least she had Daggert. But for how long?
Then there's Gladwyn. She flirted with the idea briefly but she respected Kirst. She'd never betray their friendship for a fling. Not fully. Then she thought on it more.
Daggert rose to his feet, clutching something at his side. His orcish frame was thin, but the amount of strength he put into hurling his own rage at the burning rock made Summerfield think for a second that what ever he tossed could reach the heavens and cure her of her woes. Only for it and the reality of their situation to come hurtling down harder then any cataclysmic asteroid could muster.
Daggert shuddered as the rock hit the ground. Keeping his eyes fixed to the sky. Summerfield went to touch his back but hesitated and moved over to her tent. With one last look before she went into her dark, Daggert still stood. Like a statue frozen in time.
~ Chapters End
The magnificent visage of the once proud tree is replaced by the rotted monument, its brown limbs scraping to the cruel sky as a cry for rain, for sustenance, for the life blood of the earth. Only to be answered by the ever watchful eye of some maleficent deity grinning at the chaos it has brought. All the while the wind whips the branches cruelly, threatening to snap them at any given moment.
Jade stops dead in her tracks, the old path has led her to a grave of her youth.
She pauses as the shadows linger heavily. Her home away from home. Ruins. She steps closer, her hand stretched out. A greeting to an old friend, withering away in its bed. And as she's about to touch the bark, Poncho gently places his hand in front to stop her. Pointing his staff to the tree.
“Poncho, what are you?” She stops and stares where the end is guiding their sight. Just beneath it Jade's skin crawls, the welt in her palm itches violently, and her spine tingles. The bark skitters to the shadow of the staff. This entire side of the tree skitters to the shadow, forming an unsteady beam of brown moving towards the pole, trying to all fit in the shade.
The roaches must feed. As the swarm forms a tiny branch, swaying in the wind and growing in size and desperation. Jade steps back, scratching at her palm and she sees what they have done.
The exposed limbs are stained ivory white. The ancient oak stands withered and frail. As its tiny thieves sap it of it's life. This Monarch of the woods is a festering trough for the vile infection. Shivering brown veins flow upwards pooling into sacks that dot the tree where every knot should be. And at the top of every branch pulsing wooden clovers oozing with the same ichor, rustle in the wind. Filling quickly with the fluids from the sacks the bugs feasted upon till they rupture and cascade the sap back down the channels and grooves of the tree. The roaches take pause as one clover bursts and form around the golden brown mucus, lapping it up with their proboscises. When the roaches have their fill, they take flight as the sky blue of their inner layer is exposed, like tiny jewels in the darkened shadows.
Jade looks to the tree, then to her hand as she notices that the bite on her hand has swollen larger. Its red and pulsing, its itching and growing.
“Fuck!”
It ruptures.
The roaches must feed.
~ Chapters End
Her world went from shades of shimmering trees, blue and pink, to a piercing white light. Blinding in it's intent as Summerfield stirs awake. Trying to rise, she feels her shirt pinned to the floor by something. Stopping her ascent abruptly. Her rousing now jostled awake as she tries to dislodge her shirt. The pin prick light glaring in her eye only adding to her discomfort and bubbling anger. Finally she slams her fist on what ever caught her, slicing her wrist open. Whatever had bit her had bit hard and she threw curses in the air.
“Daggert! Where are you!? Come help me!”
But no reply came. Using what ever strength she could she yanked at her shirt hard, finally hearing the tearing and feeling the freedom of her release. Then the tumbling out of her open tent. Rolling into sticky, viscous pools of who knew what. It was mixed with Mud, grass and the metallic scent of iron as she looked to her cut hand. There seemed to be far more of her blood trickling down her arm then she had thought. That was until she looked around at the grisly scene painted before her.
Bodies. Silken sheet covered bodies. Where red had not been splattered, the gold and black trimmed fabric of finely embroidered sigils sparkled cleanly into the air. Their outfits had belonged to the higher standings of the Northern capital cities church. They had pursued them all the way out here. In the middle of enemy territory to do who knows what to them.
“Daggert?!” Summerfield shouts, scanning the area for any sign of him. Bodies, hundreds of them all dead. Limbs tossed everywhere, swords and axes buried into the dirt or laying flush in a corpse.
She finds her first clue as it's plunged deep into the eye socket of a large beast. The tapestry it wore seemed like it was torn into shape around this creature, and plunged unexhonourably into the brain. Holding it in place was Daggerts knife. A weathered blade with intricate engravings each line etched for how many this blade has slain. He always kept it sharp. But the excessive usage from this fight dulled it to the point of being mistaken for a child's practice tool. The fatal blow had to have used enough force to shatter even his arm, not even this troll's rock like skull could match the wrath of an enraged Orc.
Foot prints in the mud showed someone fighting and leading a group of them into the woods. More limbs thrown about. Hung like tree ornaments on a festive holiday. The crows were feeding well. Some of the insects slinked into the shadows as the light would pass. Waiting till evening to claim what remains.
Summerfield ventured deeper, the morning haze still coating the earth. Making tracking the boot prints harder. The blood splattered trees, the mangled corpses, and the occasional poorly disguised troll bodies lay strewn about here and there. The trail ran deeper and Summerfield kept hoping that Daggert would regale her of his valiant fights. 1 orc versus an army. Bards would sing about this for the remainder of days. The last full orc still living up to their name's sake, defiant till the end. And what an ending it will be! Till Summerfield saw his arm. Half buried in the dirt. The crows already picked most of the meat clean off the hand. The rings he wore on that hand, the one she gave him to protect with his life, had been plucked by the crows. His right arm was gone.
“DAGGART!” She cried even when her voice grew hoarse. She could feel her throat scrape out his name, through the bloodied shrieks of his name she called for him. Searching for hours. Still seeing signs of fighting. But the bodies had begun to grow fewer in number.
She could see it, he was exhausted, he was fighting on fumes. And then she could see pinned to a tree was cloth from his shirt. And a bit of his skin was pierced by an arrow.
She saw marks here and there, blood painted the grass in parts. He was leading them away from camp. He was fighting for his life. And she was his last hope.
Summerfield followed his blood, then a body or two. He had switched to using their weapons. Swords made by men were only meant to be weirder by men. They shatter when orcs use them. Even runts like Daggert could break them easily. Every hit turned to dangerous shrapnel for everyone.
She could see Daggert’s blood splattered on the church's soldiers. Every weapon he had used exploded into shrapnel that coated the surrounding trees. A few soldiers took the brunt of the hit and fell with bits of sword buried deep into their skulls.
She saw a soldier walk right by her, a drooling idiot who didn't even stop her. When Summerfield looked at his face, a large thin piece of shrapnel was wedged right in his eye socket. An accidental lobotomy.
Summerfield looked at this soldier. (Let him be, it deserves to starve. It will die without knowing the world is going to end. It might fall off a cliff, or be eaten by a Giant tiger. Maybe I can see if it feels pain? I want to hurt it. I want it to suffer. I want it to burn. I want it to starve. I want it to cry and scream and ask for pity from their dead deity. The church of the North has always hated the West. Called us Devils and whores to sinners. This one wouldn't spare me.)
“I'm not Penelope.” As she took out her dagger and dispatched the soldier.
~ Chapters End
I grow increasingly tired. My belly yearns for the feast. Skin and bones are all that's left.
I brought about FEAR in the hearts of creatures. tiny and BIG. My voracious appetite was sated. Now they bury their dead. Lock their doors. But guards no more. Easy feast. But their abodes lay abandoned, their trinkets strewn. Not a bite to eat.
The jungles of my old home lay barren. The towns. Heading west to where there's food.
Scraps of human. All that feeds me. No better then mice. But I sustain and I persist. I rage, I cry, I hunt. But it's all kitten growls.
Found a new hunting ground. I can smell food. Towns overpopulated, but tiny morsels. I smell her. I don’t dare to hunt here. My prey will come to me. I can see them. But I see her.
She leaves, I wait. I starve while they got fat. The small one is worth a meal. The Panda poses a problem. I must wait.
I smell her taint on my prey. Her screams rejuvenate my instincts. But I can not chase her. Too late to find the others. She has them now. I'm left with one. More fluff then meat. If I was full, it'd be an easy hunt.
I stalk, I slink, I stay hidden. Till all is right. The small ones scream makes me famished, But her blood is infested. The panda tends to her. I strike with all my fury, all my hunger. More fur then flesh but I feel bone. Then I shatter. My fangs rip from my mouth. The panda is a problem. I must feed! Taint or toxins I care not. As I am about to taste flesh, My bones splinter from my skin.
I roar, this morsel is mine! I lunge at the panda. Swiping with all my energy. I am careless. The little one sinks something heavy into my foot. I must flee. My foot is caught. I feel the deafening crack in my skull. I hear the wind before I feel the blows. I swipe to gain advantage. Only to have it blocked and beaten back.
I would Tower over this panda if I had food. I need the little one! One more attempt and I strike fast, my back paw rips. I am free. As i lunge and bite hard. I taste the blood. The warm sticky sweet nectar is what I expect. The fiery trickling of insects chewing my mouth, The vile toxins making me gag. But I have my prize. It's fist lays in my jaws clutches. I run. I will be back.
I hear the screaming again. My hunger for that morsel grows. Devouring this putrid flesh. My trophy. My poison. I feel my face swell. I feel my mind slipping. It's agony.
Then I see her. She drops a fowl thing in front of me. It's hooded cap is a glimmer of lavender I have never seen. I don't have the strength afforded to me to eat. But I am not to refuse a gift like this.
And so I eat hungrily. I feel pain unlike anything before. My hunger is still there. And it grows all consuming by the second. But I feel. Like me.
~ Chapters End
Summerfield walked for hours, finding less bodies, but more of Daggert's torn clothing, ripped hair, his blood, and finally one of his tusks. Ripped from his mouth and buried in the neck of a priest from the North.
A fearsome foe when the gods watched creation. But nothing more then pompous quire boys screaming out commands to a clergy that still respects or fears the church.
More broken blades, more shrapnel wounds embedded in the trees and cloth of those fighting. Daggert's blood mixed into the soil of the others making the ground muddy. But finally a credible foot print leading West.
Before the twilight sky coated the world in it's orange haze, she found him.
“Daggart!” Summerfield ran as quick as she could. She grabbed weeds, flowers, mushrooms, anything and everything she could see to help tend to him. And when finally face to face, the damage he had been inflicted almost left him unrecognizable.
His arm had been torn. Strands of flesh still hanging loose from the loss. The flesh had been cauterized to stop most of the bleeding, but it was a very temporary fix. His eye had been gouged out, his face beaten beyond any repair. His jaw hung loose, his only tusk still held strong but had been chipped. There was broken bits of sword and wood in his shoulder, face, chest, legs. One had to have shot directly into his eye. His left arm was broken in 3 places. How he had survived this long is a testament to his orc blood. But even this was blurring the lines.
“You slept through your watch.”
Daggert croaked. His voice is a ghost of what it once was. She chewed the weeds, pulled apart the mushrooms. Balled up the flowers and mushrooms, then spat the weeds on top. Ripping it all into tiny pieces as she poked the nuggets into the charred flesh of his arm. Daggert winces and though she knew he wanted to scream, he was saving his energy for what came next.
“Don't talk. Save it till the root takes hold.”
“Summer,” Daggert whispers. “They had been tracking us. For a long time. You went to bed on your shift didn't you?”
Summerfield pauses. “I didn't.”
“Then how did they manage to sneak up on us?”
“I really-”
“Summerfield take some Fucking responsibility!”
Daggert coughs loudly, blood shooting from his mouth. He tries to cover it with his right hand but gives up almost immediately.
“You're going to sit there and lie to me when it was pretty obvious where you were?”
Summerfield sits and stares at Daggert. Trying to hold back her tears.
“Daggert I'm sorry.”
“What's sorry going to do for me?”
There was a long silence between them.
“We're heading West.”
Was all he said. They didn't bother to go back for their things. Most of it was their comforts. Distractions to remind them that there used to be something to look forward to. A tomorrow. But all that tomorrow promises now is wishful ignorance of the damned and bordering insanity for those yet there.
~ Chapters End