The world seemed to tilt and whirl as she rode upon the thundering titan. They had to free The Manglegrove. With every fiber of her bark and leaf, she knew this single truth, even if she could not understand how such a calamity came to pass. Her whistle screamed overhead, signaling to the mangrove to strafe right and try to keep a safe distance from the abomination. Her goal was a moldering log, half sunken in the muck of a shallow pool. Below, amidst the chaos, she could see her fellows struggling to move in the same direction, following the signals meant for Mosstache.
Bushwhacker held on tightly as the mighty tree reached for the prize and heaved the dead trunk up from the mud. The bass groan of straining wood rattled through her as Mosstache launched the detritus at the enemy. It screamed through the air, flying as true as any javelin, promising destruction. The impromptu commander of their verdant forces narrowed her eyes, counting silently as she observed its flight.
Knowledge was power, as surely as strength of arms. Her fellows didn’t lack strength. The problem was that the enemy was a spell caster, and that was a weapon she did not know. That black portal was a powerful defense. How quickly could it be cast? How often? At what range?
She tried to gauge these details, counting the moments so she could learn, seeking a weakness. The effort was spoiled when three of the abominations' myriad eyes locked upon the missile and a powerful tentacle lashed out to smash the log to pieces in mid air. The rumbles of shifting earth and creaking of wooden beings was overwritten by a shrieking howl from a dozen throats.
“YES!!” Weavebriar cheered. Bushwhacker gave him a questioning look.
“IT BLOCKED THE ATTACK.” she snapped, declaring the obvious in an effort to understand his response. Her glare was hardened by her frustration over the lack of information gained.
He pointed at the beast’s sagging tentacle. “IT’S BLEEDING!!” Her eyes widened as she saw the brackish ooze seeping from where the log had scraped and punctured the slick skin of the thing.
So. It can bleed… Pieces fell into place. A slow smirk slid across the warrior’s face, fierce and feral, as a realization came to her. A forest missed for the trees.
“TAKE THIS!” she rustled, thrusting the whistle at Weavebriar.
“WHAT? WHY?” the frantic builder managed, fumbling to grasp the tool and his cudgel while keeping a handhold on the trundling treant. Bushwhacker pulled him close, her leaves brushing over his own so she could convey more meaning than their clumsy shouting allowed.
“Keep Mosstache circling that thing. Throw anything you can at it, but keep your distance. We can’t let it take them like it took Igore.” she explained in a breathless rush.
“Me?! What about you?!” he demanded in a panicked voice.
“I’m going down there.” The motion of her leaves carried a grim determination. A confidence the builder couldn’t understand.
“Are you insane?! No! I’m no warrior! I can’t lead this charge!”
Grabbing him firmly by one of the thorny branches about his head, Bushwhacker touched her forehead to his. Her eyes shimmered with the fire and passion that had stolen his breath away even in the first moment they’d met.
“Listen!” she demanded. “That thing could have used a spell to stop that log! It could have stopped the javelins earlier too. I saw it! If it’s willing to injure itself blocking that attack then I’m guessing it either can’t cast that spell right now, or it’s too slow at this range.” She paused, waiting to see if he was following.
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“What’s that got to do with this?!” He insisted, fear taking root behind the sorrowful embers of his eyes. She shook him by the branch, breaking his spiraling thoughts.
“It has to see if it’s going to parry. I’m going to take its eyes out.” Her voice was as cold and steady as stone. “And when I do, you and Mosstache need to take it down.”
Weavebriar grabbed her wrist, holding it close. “No! You can’t! You’ll be crushed! Or worse!” He knew his mistake the moment he brushed out the words against her foliage. The builder cried out as he felt his hold suddenly reversed, his balance tipped in a terrifying moment of vertigo as he saw the rushing ground beneath Mosstache’s stampeding roots. Then he was slammed against the Mangrove’s bark, the warrior of his heart crouching over him in all of her furious glory.
“Idiot builder!” She growled. “Did you forget?” He had no time to ask her what she meant. His faculties fled him as her smooth lips pressed against his own. In a daze he heard her conclusion. “I’M the warrior.”
With a powerful leap she sailed backwards, trying to oppose the mangrove’s momentum as best she could. Even still, the ground came up to meet her like a wall of PAIN. It almost felt deserved. If she died today, Weavebriar might still make it out. She doubted he would ever forgive her for leaving him behind, but at least he’d be alive to resent her. She managed to dig her claws into the earth, slowing her mad tumble, and by the time she got to her feet a large figure was closing the distance. The familiar, lopsided form of Scout.
“Are you alri-“ his question was cut short by a dismissive swipe of Bushwhacker’s hand. They had no time!
“Fine!” She lied. “Your whistle!” she turned her palm upward in an implicit demand. Scout detached his intricately carved signal whistle off of the bandolier on which it hung, passing it over without a word. She slipped the woven loop around her hand, winding back and throwing the whistle out to the full length the tether allowed. A snap of the wrist started the dance. Three long, low notes in wide orbits signaled for the the Javelineers, then she pulled the tether inward for a staccato trill that signaled a charge, followed by three alternating notes they had practiced but never used. It was a call for a disabling strike, rather than a fatal one. Scout stared at her as though she’d gone mad.
“A melee attack? And you want it ALIVE?!” he asked, clearly shocked.
“Leave the killing to Mosstache! Go for the eyes! Tell the others!” Bushwhacker called back, already charging forward. Clarity settled over the large leshie’s leaves, stilling his misgivings and smoothing them into a dauntless grin.
“Understood!”
The eldest daughter pulled a spear from her back, holding it aloft as she ran. In her off hand, the whistle spun in a tight circle at her side, screaming out a painfully shrill note. As she leapt over a slithering crevasse, a squad of her fellows closed in beside her. Harrier and her ambushers, their leader giving Bushwhacker a firm nod. Then came Sharpshooter, leading a band of village warriors, falling into position at her roots. All around her the scattered forces of her grove joined her charge, forming a chartreuse wedge as the rallied army drove toward either victory or destruction.
Leaping in a wave over the last muddy cliff, they came at last to the final stretch of unbroken ground before the sinkhole that held the beast's cloven hooves in a muddy grasp. A crimson eye, larger than she was tall, swiveled downward, locking onto her. She held her breath, waiting for the magic that had stolen away Igore’s mind… But it never came. Bushwhacker’s feral grin spread, her leaves rattling in derisive laughter.
That’s right, flesh beast. We’re coming for you.
Tentacles as thick as tree trunks pulled back, preparing to strike. Her laughter only grew. Too slow! The whistle was already screaming out the order to scatter. When the blow landed, shaking the earth like the hammer of the gods, most of her fellows had already gotten out of its way. The gelatinous bulk shifted, slithering back to try again before the tiny plants could finish closing the distance, but Bushwhacker wasn’t about to let that opportunity pass. With a wet squelch, her spear jammed into the blubbery black hide, and she felt the ground fall away from her grasping roots. The world was a blur, the huge monstrosity swinging her faster than she had ever moved before, but then came the apex. Just as the tendril curled to try and smash downward once again, it slowed. Leagues below her, she saw the goat-like hourglass of one huge eye.
The wind howled through her branches, singing to her of glory and an end well met as she fell. She had a moment during her plummet to spot Saboteur astride his creation, looking at her in awe. She couldn’t see Mosstache from this angle, but if this failed, she hoped Weavebriar couldn’t see. Then the sharp tips of her fingers and roots plunged into the pale skin, and pierced into a wet jelly beyond.
Scraps of pale skum flew from her claws as her frenzied attack shredded the delicate surface. The humid air vibrated with otherworldly howls of anguish, as she grabbed the lower eyelid and swung herself downward towards a smaller orb just below. Javelines thumped into the wrinkled flesh providing her with convenient anchor points. It was working! She could do th- With a moist slapping sound, the beast shook itself like a wet dog. A towering monster, dwarfing even the trees, and she, only a foot tall. She was cast off like a bothersome insect. As she passed the edge of the summoned muck, she took solace in the fact that this would at least be a swift end.
A flash caught her eye, in the lingering moment before oblivion. A bolt of yellow, rocketing towards her, like harnessed sunlight. A spell? Weavebriar? She closed her eyes, accepting that she could do nothing either way. Then came a jarring twist in her trajectory, cushioned by something cold and damp. What followed wasn’t the sudden halt of impact, but the steady force of deceleration. Her eyes opened once again as she felt grass and soil beneath her, rolling onto her back to try and see just how in all the worlds she was alive. What greeted her was a broad, smooth, yellow striped face. As she stared, a pink tongue lolled out and licked the large, amphibious eye. The energetic salamander stamped its feet, wriggling playfully as she spoke its name.
“WILEY?!?”