Four days before Doctor Mallow would arrive as scheduled to monitor its pupil’s training in ‘FAITH’, the pupil, atop Waspig, glided across a sunlit trail to the mossy cottage. Familiar trees and rock walls rushed by both sides, hot wind against the dwarf’s beard the while. He flared his nostrils absorbing as much of air he could regardless. Waspig grunted and bounded out from its flapping to hoofing. But just before the point in which the trail ended and the entrance to Doctor Mallow’s home awaited, the dwarf commanded a sharp turn, he and his mount then due for the mysteriously unexplored west.
Long the dwarf had considered the diversion in the road. But so swallowed by the elfen conflict and physical recovery, entering could be paid no mind then. With Locust hung and Doetrieve crowned--conspirators locked up--the dwarf felt satisfied in his flock’s relative safety. What would come for him? With his limbs at near recovery, restless, he took off with Waspig at once, warm sun on dry clothes, cowskin buckled. And, thought the dwarf, with continued devotion to ‘FAITH’, of which he practiced nightly, he would be all the stronger a guardian for his animals.
Land mountainous and without maintenance, the dwarf considered his choice in flight lucky. Much of the road had become undone by boulders and overgrowth. And above, the sky grew to a rough gray, warm light gone cold. The dwarf braced for rain and instead felt a flurry in Waspig’s rush. His beard caught frost, and the dwarf became aware of a dark purple hue the earth had transitioned towards. Grass grew silvery as did hang the leaves from ancient boughs. The dwarf, though thankful for his gi, frowned. Snow was not inherently a flawed concept. But every winter at the farm welcomed with grimace his father’s impotent rage. Crops died in this season--late plantings could mean no harvests and less capital. And sometimes they did everything right; the crops failed. The dwarf knew capital. He had little of it stashed away beneath his mattress, the one place his father wouldn’t overturn. What little profit was made off the farm the dwarf’s father whittled away on vices, and years defined by crop failures saw no change in spending.
But how could it snow during the season of swet? The dwarf did not play coy with himself: this was summer; how could temperatures drop so low? Caught in his questioning, the dwarf only then realized how slow Waspig buzzed. But no alarm needed calling: Waspig only found fascination with the cold crystals falling in various size and shape. The dwarf, easing his pet low to the ground, scooped a handful of snow and dribbled it atop its head which began snapping to lick. The dwarf laughed.
“ANIMAL HUSBANDRY INCREASED TO 38”
What would his father’s ‘HUSBANDRY’ be? Did he ever love his livestock? The darker and grayer the clouds became, the deeper the dwarf plunged in self reflection. Why did his father ever farm at all? “Because mine did,” was the remembered maxim. The dwarf hadn’t met his grandfather, but he could only assume he’d say the same. The dwarf wondered if the skill would decrease with poorer treatment of animals, though he harbored no intent of testing. In a trance until Waspig’s snorting of a snow topped pinecone, the dwarf glanced around and observed a massive distance between he and the city upon the sand, every biome between distinguishable but clouded in heavy mist. The altitude had been rising as well, the dwarf came to understand, and he stopped Waspig momentarily for the two to rest and adjust. On this break the dwarf produced a dreaded wrapped mushroom loaf--he’d gotten sick enough of apples to desire a change of pace. But the flavor was not altogether disagreeable. He offered a piece to his pigsect which declined hastily.
Away from the cliffside the dwarf and his mount flew as the trail veered deeper inland. Purplish green grass bent beneath cold globs, silhouettes soon forming of pure white, shapes only guesses. Trees revealed their shrouded shaded insides. None carried a leaf. And the dwarf, blinking several times in recognizement, discovered the first relic of civilization: destroyed stone foundation. Indeed in a rectangle one could discern where a basement once supported stories--but no longer. To a complete stop came Waspig, and the dwarf glanced at the rest of the structures distinguished: he was in a small village. But there were many buildings and windmills. Few of the former supported roofs and the latter offered sad, shredded sails. All lay under a great smothering of snow.
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Drawing close to a boulder built patio, the dwarf, dismounted, gently pushed an ajar door and entered followed by his mount. The air tasted a deep mixture of musty cold, as if the place exuded what once were residents. But it was clear to the dwarf from the abandoned, pathetic state of the inside--bookshelves toppled and picked clean, counters empty, doors smashed in--none had lived in such a space in quite some time. He traveled upstairs and found, at best guess, a bedroom, snow on every surface, sky above dark under a barely perceptible sun. The dwarf returned downstairs having to drag a curious Waspig away from the weather and hesitated before exiting. Another house attempted a scavenge inside ended in the same state. One more building fell to the dwarf’s search and he left cold. But it did not frustrate the dwarf to discover no loot. Instead, he wracked his mind at the bizarre state of the weather indeed. While the view from the cliffs proved impressive, they were not a great deal higher than that of where the cottage hid. How could such frost fly? And he hoped an answer could be found in at least one structure.
Through his persistence the dwarf appeared within a building of unique atmosphere. The difference between outside and inside was balmy. Waspig appeared especially perturbed. When the dwarf pushed forward within the ruin, his pet remained behind at the entrance. It was not as if it would be missing much, thought the dwarf. And many empty, trashed rooms proved him right. But one door gave resistance, and the dwarf realized a lock. He paused, licked his teeth, furrowed his brow, and gave way to a smile as his fishing hand produced a lockpick from his pouch.
“LOCKPICKING SKILL INCREASED TO 4”
Storing the tool back in cowskin, the dwarf’s heart seemed to jump. Nothing as far as he could discern had changed. But, hand trembling, he turned the knob and pulled it clean off its brass. He smiled again and became conscious of multiple smiles in so short a time. Was he adjusting to this world? The dwarf’s thought processes ceased, fingers through the door handle’s hole, as a wet smacking set his hair straight. The room halfway entered was especially without light save what shone past the dwarf. The smacking grew into an agonized spitting and dribbling as if a bucket of paint were being sloshed and spilled. A harsh gnarled whisper rang the dwarf’s ears but he could not determine from where. He began to back up and slid into Waspig. Yelping, the pained expulsion of liquids turned violent and with volume. Back before the door with no knob, it swung into place. Noise behind its weak seal increased and wet slaps against stone resounded. The door creaked and a humanoid with some inches on the dwarf, one arm half raised, staggered. Its skin was a sickly splotchy imitation of the grass outside. Its limbs were mangled. Its head lacked a chunk of cranium, exposed skin and decayed muscle causing the dwarf’s throat to dry. The shambling figure howled and lunged and the dwarf was on his back kicking and screaming. Assailant atop, own eyes frantic, they landed on a leg of an overturned table the dwarf ripped from brittle nails and shattered against the bored skull.
“MELEE INCREASED TO 14”
The zombie (for the dwarf could think of no other description) moaned and continued another advance by the time the dwarf had risen. He watched Waspig penetrate the undead’s chest. But the stinger receded and the dead continued. It took flight under the low roof and spun around fast enough to catch the uncaring zombie stinger first. Puncturing and blasting its head apart, the dwarf fought another wave of nausea. At sight then of the still lumbering figure the dwarf let loose the full stores of his mushroom loaf. Backing up against a crumbling wall the dwarf eyed Waspig fluttering in confusion. The dwarf kept his sight fixed to his creature and away from the hulking headless menace, and he shut his eyes. They opened to gold glittering rope. The dwarf formed a lasso from a length of ever stretching supplies and whipped it across the sickly colored humanoid sending it reeling backwards. The dwarf sent again the rope out atop the undead assailant and hopped aboard a lowered Waspig--together they glided through the dilapidated explored halls of the ruin and out under the snow heavy clouds above. Animated corpse dragged to the flurry outside, if it were only sunny, complained the dwarf.
In the freezing onslaught of cold the dwarf quietly congratulated himself for how coolly he received the abomination. In a way, he felt thankful to the deceased dream eater; he was prepared for anything.
Galloping home, zombie trailing all the while by holy rope, the snow cleared by the point of arriving just past the mossy cottage. In its wake was the very sun which greeted the dwarf at the start of his day, bidding then farewell, the undead smote as goodbye. Indeed its flesh burst into flames and the rope dissolved. Ash joined the warm wind becoming indeterminate, and he and his pet rode home.