“MELEE INCREASED TO 8”

“MELEE INCREASED TO 9”

“MELEE INCREASED TO 10”

“MELEE INCREASED TO 11”

By the point he’d regained consciousness, the dwarf found his fists flying deep into a pulverized funguay’s face leaving behind disturbing craters. If the fungus were animate before, the dwarf had seen to the matter, ‘EXP’ pocketed as reward. On the dwarf’s right, his torch rolled across translucent white brick, jagged rock it so strangely uniformly was. On his left lied another crushed mushroom topped creature, its sentience pounded out of its head by brutal dwarfen rage. Other funguay fled screeching in various tones. He watched his dad fire pellets warding off opossums. The dwarf trembled, his eyes locked snapping between the victims of his directionless anger. But he soon remembered the why and turned to face the suspended wasp barbed, pig headed creature; rod rammed fully, skin browned and blackened above crackling red. Salty blue made its way down cheeks. The dwarf dropped to his knees and directed powerful blows to the ground, shaking rock and stone apart between absent focused, adrenaline fueled sobs.

“MINING SKILL XP GAINED”

“MINING SKILL INCREASED TO 2”

The dwarf howled at the declaration in a tone he would later admit inhuman. Further enraged, the dwarf began seizing the various shacks and shanties assembled, blind fury unfurled. One by one he took to funguay infrastructure and demolished all down to his bone, skin flayed and pounded away, engorged scarlet ringed around the dwarf’s exposed knuckles. Unbeknownst to his episode, a single funguay returned armed with a spear. It descended from its perch under dark and made a stab at the stout scourge, piercing straight through naked flesh round the dwarf’s shoulder blades dropping him quick. The funguay twisted its tool in turn and forced pathetic yelps out the suddenly-made prisoner, his limbs writhing. Sobbing, rubble pressed into his cheek, the dwarf called for his mother. He cried for his father, he couldn’t believe, but the pain had produced unbearable spasms and reactions within him yet ever experienced. Even Waspig’s name stole out from his cries, mind so desperate and wracked he saw no difference in calling the dead--they were all dead. The funguay withdrew the spear and shot it back into another chunk of skin quickly fissured. The dwarf slammed the front of his head repeatedly into the ground busting his nose open. He grit mouthfuls of rocks between teeth. What had he been thinking? Why had he done what he had to the measure he’d taken? If he was at fault ultimately for his fate by fungus hands--of which many reached out to draw the dwarf completely through--then why did he still feel so cheated?

“HEALTH LOW”

A deep grunted squeal rang out reverberating hard between the ruins of the underground village, iron grating screeching. A sudden shape burst across rock and shot its tusks into the funguay’s chest--approximately; ultimately. The assassin released its grip of the spear and stumbled backwards before the snarling hog seized its prey, wasp wings mad in excitement. The dwarf’s eyes blurred shut, spear falling from his flesh and clattering to white rock...

The dwarf’s vision shot wide. A surprising warmth had huddled close to his bleeding frame. He stretched an arm gently over to stroke the source, familiar fur felt. An expel of satisfaction came from the creature, and the dwarf knew it then, in no doubt, to be his. Wrung eyes produced streams from a seemingly spent source--all it came out anyway, the dwarf overcome with grief and joy. He sobbed into Waspig’s fur for a great while.

Getting up, for there were no other choice than to continue his lay and load painfully his ‘SAVE’, the dwarf staggered. His torch had given out, but the same could not be said for the tribe’s fire that continued its crackle. Atop it, the dwarf found--following repeated stumblings and falls--the dressed kill had burnt fully black, its consumption now beyond question, a somewhat satisfying sight given the alternative’s ethical dilemma. He smiled softly and collapsed, gone from consciousness again...

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His mother knelt beside the crumpled dwarf and cradled his head, tangled beard slowly undone. He twitched in occasional response without complaint or sound at all. She tilted to let great spools of blazed red curls descend upon her bald child, a gift he received too sans comment. Her hair became his blanket--and timed well, for a cold front swept the cave and frosted the ruins. Fat white blobs puffed with air glided with grace to rest atop various jagged features, demolished entranceways and exits, places of obvious rest, the remains of the mushroom headed, fear etched into the marble of their corpses. Light blew blue across all ends of the cavern soon illuminating the demolished in an ethereal state. The dwarf missed no moment, watching outside his perspective, an observer to fiction he recognized as much. But finding he could maneuver unhindered, the dwarf set himself to excavating the snow topped ruins for anything of value. He found books and boxes and bread and considered only one of the three truly helpful but not ultimately, his death by bores on the peak of its precipice. A glow of red compelled the dwarf to lift slushy wood, discovering underneath a collection of potions smashed in on themselves, bottled essences in glass now pooled in the floor. The dwarf turned back towards mother and double and found neither. He woke up.

“HEALTH CRITICAL”

His body an island in a red sea, the dwarf lurched himself over to the neighboring Waspig. He kissed it, hunched over and atop, thankful again repeatedly, between every groan and grunt, for its support. Together, directed, they traveled to the slush envisioned within his dreams and, astonished, the dwarf identified a crate of alchemical treasures beneath collapse. Its labels--the vials, such treasure, bore two dark fingerprints, both thumb-like and parting away from one another. The dwarf thought of the berries. He didn’t have a choice. A cork shot and the dwarf downed one of two drinks, various colors glowing though his throat--then gone. He collapsed. Waspig settled in for another nap.

“ANIMAL HUSBANDRY INCREASED TO 19”...

His mother knelt beside the crumpled dwarf and cradled his head, cooing into his large ear and tracing the tips of her fingers across a great, bald dome. The dwarf could hear snorting and snarling from a distant source but felt unwilling to investigate, his peace attained and not loosened easily. There existed no double this time, no alternate perspective--only he--and he would not go easily. But a gun rang out and again. The situation soon became suppressive fire lain over the dwarf and his human mother, both surprisingly shielded from wild ricochets. But Waspig burst wildly and suddenly from the stalactites above and crashed to the ground, hundreds of thousands of casings unclogging, scattering across the milky white floor. Fingers continued to smooth the dwarf’s lobe, and he resisted eye contact with the tusked interloper. It huffed and crashed into him, the scarlet haired human bouncing backwards into the firing range and torn asunder. The dwarf, realizing her fate, turned to his pet and seized the thing in his hands, squeezing its sides, its noises growing confused and frustrated. It shrieked. At once the creature popped and a bounty of more bullets flew in all directions, the dwarf pervious to the sudden penetrations ripping through his small frame in seconds. He stumbled backwards and laid perpendicular to the warm corpse of his mother, her eyes turned away. He tried to speak--shotgun shells came rushing out his throat. He wept gunpowder.

Waspig was gone. The dwarf, aware again of his dreaming, squinted and scanned: no signs. But familiar noise rang out from a particularly dark corner of the cave yet unmolested by cartoon sized pummelers. He recast his rolled torch and ventured, each movement precise and slow, his wounds ostensibly sewn, his bleeding stopped, a weakness in his limbs still persistent. Eventually he crossed over to a dim corral. The dwarf palmed a crooked gate away and became entrenched in a bounty of Waspigs--at least seven hogsects in total. His own snorted in delight at the appearance of its master and introduced him to its newfound friends. Although hesitant, the dwarf became convinced to reach out and brush the various cautious but friendly sets of hairs and wings. While initially intent on only rescuing the one, the dwarf found himself easily convinced to take the entire crew under his newly healed wings--though the theory of the singular cursed swine now silently fell apart.

With so many creatures wandering the pen, the dwarf drew his finger up from the west and wagged it east for a final headcount: eight. Eight? The dwarf took note of the largest of them, his very Waspig--1. Three more seemed nearly identical minus some centimeters on height and tusk--4. Two wrestled with each other, inseparable, both with wilder hair than the others--6. One stood at least half a Waspig higher than Waspig but shockingly scrawnier. He couldn’t understand why any fungus would select it for meat but, nevertheless--7. A mushroom with two miniature dwarfen arms and two more legs--both the tone of its stalk flesh--standing firm, arms crossed--8. 8?

The dwarf brought himself lower to the oddity’s height, it impatiently beginning to tap its foot. The sight of the funguay boring a hole into its experiment’s head flashed through the dwarf’s, and he reflexively shot his fingers up to the top of his scalp--bare. His hands dropped as he realized what then addressed him.

“Hey, you. I’m Funguayou.”