Liv looked up from her doodles as the pre-dawn light finally shot rays of warm sunshine across her thatch of razor grass. Her little “Character Sheet” display had lacked… well… character. So lately she’d been spending her least productive hours of the night just drawing up new options to see what took. Now that the sun was up, though, her little world would soon begin to wake up. Getting to her feet, Liv began her morning routine. She’d always had a strict morning process when she was alive, and had recently decided that the fact she no longer slept was no excuse to drop the habit.
“Morning Giermund,” she said gently, rousing the drowsy mangrove. The tree shivered, slowly lifting its beetle-like head from the water to acknowledge her. “And Koosh!” she added, waving upward.
“Hey Scout,” she chuckled. The little guy was always quick to rise and waved excitedly at her every morning. Bushwhacker, on the other hand, rustled his leaves a bit in recognition of the greeting but made no move to budge from his resting pose. And so she went, walking casually to each of her plant’s preferred spots. Saboteur, Sharpshooter, Raider, Harrier, Tracker, Ambusher, Berserker, Kneecapper, each one got a warm greeting as the sunlight touched their leaves.
As the slowly building rush of vitality that came with the sunrise warmed the specter of the core, she looped around her small but ever-expanding universe. Far from the tiny puddle that had once been her domain, Liv had managed to claim a whole second islet to the west and had just recently started to explore the edges of a new shore.
The best part, though, the single greatest quality of life improvement she’d managed since the day she landed in that puddle, wasn’t anything tangible. No, the thing that was currently putting a smile on her face was finally figuring out the MATHS!! It had taken her ages to brute force her way through everything, but she had eventually reverse-engineered the numbers!
Every forty square feet added 1 to her maximum SP pool. Meanwhile, she’d worked out what different types of foliage averaged in SP regen per hour, with her mangrove trees being the best by far at about .25 SP per hour. Why was this simple knowledge such an amazing godsend?
BECAUSE SHE NEVER HAD TO DO THE DAMNED SKEETER EXPERIMENT EVER AGAIN!!!
Even now that thought alone brought a smile to her face. No more mathing out how her regen and summoning speed impacted the test results. Now she could track her expansion as a function of time and SP investment, and then plug in a few simple numbers to figure out how that expansion impacted her overall resources. Five minutes of math each night had replaced an arduous, day-long slog every week and she was absolutely over the moon about it!
Walking to the edge of the world, she saw the edges of another stream trickling by her toes. Nearby sat a miniature reconstruction of what supposedly lay beyond the stream, as observed by Scout. Her shrubs had proven to be more clever and resourceful than she’d originally thought, but they had a habit of only really caring about what plants were present when drawing a map. Everything was always ‘six trees that way, just past the fern’. Which is why this map had her so confused. It had the usual twigs and leaves marking trees and shrubs, but every inch between them had been covered in fine black gravel. She really wished her little shrubs could speak, because she had no clue what that was supposed to mean.
Glancing down at her character sheet, she quickly recalculated her existing totals and nodded to herself.
Character Sheet [https://i.imgur.com/agTFBD5.png]
Lifting her hand over her head she slashed it downward, dumping about 120 SP into the single push. The fog swirled away from her as though she’d cleaved it in two, forming a path across about eight feet of stream.
Crossing along the surface of the water at a casual stride, the diligent dungeoneer stepped up to a three-foot ledge of packed clay. Atop the miniature bluff was a wall of trees so dense that, had she still been corporeal, she’d have had a hard time squeezing between them.
“Oh… So that’s what the gravel was for.” Liv’s voice was softened by something akin to awe. The canopy here was so thick and packed together that it dammed in the shadows to form a reservoir of night. The sparse weeds that grew along the little cliff tinned out into almost nothing the further back into the grove she looked. A fibrous creak and soft thump heralded the arrival of Scout. The little shrub clung to a thin woven rope that he’d used to swing across, and which he now pinned under a stone the size of her palm.
“I see what you meant now,” Liv said aloud to her non-verbal companion. “This is gonna be a problem.” If the grass wouldn’t grow here, then claiming the territory would have to be done the slow and expensive way unless she could find a solution. With a sigh, she set her hands against the smokey gray barrier and pushed it a touch further, giving it an additional four square feet back into the shade.
The city-dwelling punk didn’t have a particularly clear concept of what plants might grow on shady forest floors, but if she could find something already living here, then maybe she could put it to use. Liv knelt between the tangled mangrove roots and took a centering breath before opening her eyes to a world of threads and magic. To her surprise, despite nothing being visible on the surface, the damp soil here was positively TEAMING with life. The tangled snarl of threads in the soil reminded her of the networked roots of her grasses, but nothing was showing through.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
“Hey Scout? Can you come here a second?” she called over her shoulder. Scout scampered and scrambled between the roots until he was at her side, looking curious. “Can you please dig up a bit of the dirt? Just right here?” she pointed at a barren patch of soil. Without a second thought, Scout plunged long, sharp, wooden fingers into the soil and yanked out a big clump of dirt and… Something. Liv knelt, squinting at it, and realized the dirt was laced with hair-thin pale fibers. Fungus! She wracked her brain for the right word for the little subterranean fibers but was drawing a blank. Myconids? No, that was a fantasy creature. Though that did give her some fun ideas… Later! Right now she needed to learn more.
Looking once more at the threads of life that laced through the area, she tried to see if there was a source for the fungal roots that she could tap into. If she could claim that, then maybe she could use it to grow into this dark region. Laying flat on her belly, she scanned the leaves and detritus for maybe a mushroom cap or something.
Scooching along on her stomach, her search came to a sudden halt. Not because she found what she was looking for, but rather because she’d discovered something she hadn’t been. The fiery punk’s eyes went wide as she brought her nose so close to a large mangrove root that her pupils were practically crossing. She watched as a slow pulse of energy moved through the fungal threads just as with any life form she’d seen. However, she was stunned to see that the strange threads of magic wove not only through the fungus… but into the root of the tree.
Unlike every other living thing she’d encountered so far, this fungus seemed capable of somehow connecting threads between separate entities.
—
Logan steeled himself against the pain. His leg still hurt when he put his full weight onto it, but it wouldn’t be wise to walk into The Wainwright’s Weal with a limp. These sharks could smell blood a mile off. With a crack of his neck and a set jaw, the dusky-skinned ranger walked through a door he’d not seen in nigh fifteen years as though he owned the place.
The den hadn’t changed a bit. The same odd assortment of crate and barrel tables, circled by mismatched chairs and stools. The walls were draped with colorful fabrics, both to insulate the space as well as hide hastily patched wooden walls and more hidey holes than a constable could shake a stick at. Even the pervasive smell of tobacco smoke and moonshine felt familiar.
A handful of larger folk were scattered amidst the tables, no doubt arranging business before sneaking out one of the countless back exits. But they were the guests here. The regulars were his folk. The packed tavern was bustling with Halflings. Everyone was welcome in the Weal, but this was their place.
Logan strode in, schooling his expression to hide the lingering pain, and sat himself atop a waist-high log, turned stool. The familiar impressions of a carved cat brushed against his palm, bringing a half smile to his lips. His seat was still here. Hopefully that was a good sign, he honestly wasn’t sure what reaction to expect from his former mates.
“Alley Cat?”
The old name slid onto him like a well-worn shoe. Turning, Logan saw a face that made him nervous, even if it was one of those he’d been hoping for.
“Malcolm,” he cautiously greeted his one-time partner in crime. The nut-brown face was creased and wrinkled now, and the fence’s hairline had receded to nearly halfway up his head. Malcolm had been none too happy with him when he left the life. There’d been enough barbs slung between them over it that they’d barely spoken since.
The hairs on the back of his neck lifted when the tavern din softened into a murmur. Apparently, his presence had been noted. Logan tensed, ready to dive for the door or grab his boot-knife as Malcolm closed the distance between them. A few others around the room stood or turned to face them. This had been a bad idea.
“Wait Mal, I-“ Logan’s plea was cut short as the grizzled man pulled him into an uncharacteristically comforting hug. Blinking in shock, Logan tried to process this new behavior. This wasn’t something Malcolm would have done even back when they had called each other brother…
“I heard about Emma,” Malcolm said softly, though his voice managed to carry in the sudden silence that now dominated the tavern. Wordlessly, other patrons made their way over to circle around them. Some he knew, others he’d never so much as spoken to. Tears stung at his eyes, now. He’d almost forgotten what this felt like. The near-instant solidarity, the almost familial bond. Fifteen years and he was being welcomed back with open arms like not a day had passed…
—
Malcolm sat across the crate from him in a driftwood chair of his own making.
“You’re daft,” he said around his pipe, as he tried to strike a match to light it.
“Is it daft to want to protect the people I love from whatever madness has seized the Marsh family?” Logan whispered fiercely.
“No, that’s perfectly understandable. You’re…” Malcolm paused as the match caught and he took several drags to start the burn. “You’re daft to bring it here.”
“Where else could I go, Mal? There’s not one arbitrator in Njörvenn that isn’t in the old man’s pocket! If there was anywhere I could go to be beyond the reach of his money-“ Logan was cut short by Malcolm’s husky cough of laughter.
“Alley Cat, if you think Halvard’s money don’ reach here then your head’s gone as soft as your gut.” Logan suppressed the urge to point out that he was probably in better shape than his old partner, in favor of staying on topic.
“That racist old bugger? Here?”
“Don’ got to like a man to like his money.”
“There’s enough of our folk down at the docks. What about Connal? Doesn’t his family still work down there? Him or his have got to know something about Old Marsh’s dealings?”
Malcolm pulled his pipe from his mouth by the pot, flipping it to jab the bit in Logan’s direction.
“Don’ waste your time. Connal’s bought,” he explained in a more serious tone, dropping his voice. “Ol’ Halvard got him named wharfmeister. Loves to claim it’s because he’s ‘one of the good ones’ but we all know it’s just because Connal’s got a sharp mind and a soft spine. Now I’m tellin’ you, Alley Cat, leave it lay.” Malcolm leaned back, putting his pipe back in his mouth and taking a drag. “Go home. Mourn your wife, comfort your daughter, and forget about Halvard Marsh. If not for your sake, then do it for Marla’s.”
Logan sat for a long, quiet moment, staring over Malcolm’s head at the dancing flames of a lantern at his rear. His grim expression slumped into one of resignation, and he pounded back a tumbler of clear moonshine before getting to his feet.
“Very well. I’ll be off then.”
As Logan stepped out into the night, lit now by the waning moon, he kept his posture slouched and defeated. In the shadows of his hung head, a victorious smirk was hidden. So Limp Connal was the wharfmeister now?
Good…