I follow the gravel path until it tapers off eastward. At some point, the sun began to rise in front of me, and I had to cast my eyes down. That’s when I noticed that the color of the gravel beneath my feet had begun to change. Coming out of New Eden, the gravel had been a uniform gray, bordering on white, and had been a good size. Now, however, I was walking over a ruddy brown sand. Even the grass; which had been a sickly green, bordering on light brown, had The sun’s burgeoning light caught the silhouettes of red pointed spires in the distance, and a westward blowing wind brought with it the scent of salt and rust.
Within the grass, beneath a heavy rust-colored stone, was something that I recognized from the book. A dark brown mushroom, with a cap about the size of my palm, and splotches of rust covering its stem and cap. I step off the trail; the rust-colored grass under my feet collapses into clouds of red dust as I step toward it.
Hm? What is it?
“It’s called a ‘Rust Cap,’ supposedly alchemists can use it to make an antidote for some kind of poison. If eaten raw, it’ll give you the runs.”
I reach the rock and notice a small cluster of smaller Rust Caps hiding beneath the shade. I gather each one. They’re as hard as stone, so I don’t have to worry about them breaking apart. I gathered four of them in total.
As soon as I picked them up, the PID lit up with notifications:
[Scrapyard added to Locations]
[Rust Cap added to Ingredients]
[4/10 medicinal herbs found]
[+1% Foraging Mastery, +.5 Endurance Mastery +.5 Perception Mastery, +.25% Agility Mastery]
I sling the bag over my shoulder and continue along the path. Countless mountains of rusted metal stretch toward the skies. Discarded, rusted washing machines, car parts, grocery carts, and countless other things sit in these piles, as the winds howled ominously through the narrow corridors that weren’t occupied by piles of rust. I look through a pile of what seems to be old railroad parts and see my first plate jutting out from a large beam. It’s bolted in place inside of the beam at about shoulder level. I let my bag fall to the ground once again, and take some time to find the right sized socket by fitting them over the bolt one by one.
While doing this, a crow, about twice the size of a crow back home, perches atop the upended belly of a shopping cart. Rust tints its black wings, and its black, curved beak as it begins to call to me.
CAW. CAW. CAW. CAW. CAW. CAW.
It lifted its wings toward me, as it glared down.
Oh ho. It’s trying to intimidate you.
I bend down and pick up a small bolt from the dust on the ground, and hold it in my knuckles before chucking it toward the bird. The bolt misses by a mile; clanging loudly on the nearby scrap. The noise, however, seemed to scare it, as it took to wing and circled the junk pile; still cawing loudly.
Once it made three loops around the peak, it tucked its wings, and turned its beak down toward me, and in a second it rammed its sharp beak into my chest: at such force that it sent me falling back to the ground. It seems I made a smart move by putting my PID there, however, it blocked its beak from doing any damage to my chest. It stood on top of me; its long talons gripping hold of the fabric of my peacoat, as it hopped across my chest, and stared down at me with its black, beady eyes. A sharp pain later as its curled beak slammed into my face.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
I yelp as I use my arms to shield my eyes and throat; its sharp beak tore chunks of flesh free from my exposed wrist and hands and tore chunks of fabric off of the coat as it worked to get at my face.
Are you really going to die from a crow? Really?
I guard my eyes with the crook of my left elbow and tuck my chin to avoid it going for my throat from its angle and reach out with my right to wrap my hand around the throat of the crow. Its feathers bristle in defense, and feel as hard and as sharp as nails. I let go temporarily, and its beak begins pecking at my tucked chin. I had to bite through the pain. I squeezed my hand around the feathers as hard as I could make them, and pulled the bird off; slamming it as hard as I could into the pile of rust beside me. The metal rattled, as smaller items rolled off their precarious perches. The crow cawed loudly, as it bit my hand to try to free itself. I bit my tongue and grabbed hold of a railroad spike that had rolled off the scrap pile and into the dust, and jammed it into the top of the bird’s head.
I hissed as I finally released my grip from the creature’s neck. My palms weren’t as destroyed as I had thought, but there was still a bit of residual pain left in my palms. The chunks of flesh ripped off were mostly superficial wounds; I had worse breaking into cars. The bleeding had already stopped for most of them as well, as the bites didn’t go too deep, and only tore off chunks of fat, though I knew there was a pretty nasty gash on my chin, it wasn’t life-threatening. I wiped the blood off and observed the bird a little.
Its feathers were hard. Almost metallic, but not quite. All of the feathers, save for those around its heart, and the very tip of its wings and fan-like tail, crumpled with a little bit of pressure. Rust tipped its wings, and the feathers of its tail, and a jagged, rusted serration colored its jaws. The feathers on its broad chest were layered horizontally and were as hard as tin, and sounded like it at a tap of my finger.
Now tear out its heart, and drink of the blood.
I knew I had no choice but to obey, so I drew my knife and pried off the metal plates around the heart. They clung to the flesh and had to be separated by using my knife to cut free the connecting strands of tissue and fat. Once all three were gone, I set them in one of the front pockets of my bag and used the knife to cut open its chest. The bones, too, felt like tin. I pried them up with the knife, reached in, and pulled out the heart. It’s colored a deep rust red and is about half the size of my fist. I punctured its hard, red flesh and tipped it to my mouth. The blood was thick, and grainy as if I were swallowing sludge, and left the taste of iron in its wake.
After it shriveled and turned to dust, I plucked the long feathers of the wing and tail off and put them in my bag. “Can sell practically anything,” was what was written in that letter. I suppose I’ll test that. Once the buzzing notifications stopped, I checked the PID.
[Rust-wing Crow added to Bestiary]
[1/10 mutated or monsters killed within the Scrapyard]
[2/20 Heartblood drank]
[Brawling 2.0%, Anima Manipulation 1.5%, Endurance 1%, Strength 1%].
I pick up the dropped socket wrench and get to work removing the steel plate from the railing. I pocket the bolts and nuts put the plate in my bag, and continue looking around. Focusing on the pile in front of me. Iron girders, sharp and pointed spears from discarded gates, and countless other pieces of scrap that wouldn’t look out of place in the junkyards back home. A glance up and down the nearby piles, reveals no more of the plates readily available without having to climb a few feet of pointed scrap, so I grab a few pieces of metal that weren’t too heavy; a rusted spring, a rectangular piece of metal that looked as if it had been cracked and shattered, and a few other bits and pieces; and put them in my bag. Anything could be sold, right?
[SCRAP YARD]
No one knows where the scrap for the Scrapyard comes from, but these mountains of rusted metal and scrap are continually growing. Some people speculate that the metallic objects are naturally forming phenomenon, while others speculate that they're pulled here from the oceans of Midgard and somehow wash ashore nearby, only to be drawn by some strange magnetic property of the area into these mountains of rust and metal. There's strong evidence for both sides, and the topic is hotly debated by those who care about such things.
Regardless of which is right, it's true that to the keen eye, the Scrapyard becomes a treasure trove with still countless unfounded treasures waiting to be found.
[RUST-WING CROW]
These birds, as their name suggest, have rust growing off their wing tips. This is because their flight, and dorsal feathers, contain trace amounts of iron. They use their sharp, serrated beaks to tear apart their prey. They're only aggressive to humans when they have a nest nearby, or when they think of one as easy prey. They will attack children and small animals so if spotted, it is advised that you bring both inside.
(Common, mutated)