Within a few hours the dwarf and his party returned to the plundered cottage. By then it was late evening and, on the way, the dwarf caught sight of stray fireflies, their hearts beating loud in open air. Opening the unlocked door, the dwarf sucked in the last breath he’d have of the outside, entering and exhaling, pets bounding behind. Once all nine gathered, he set the lock firm, checking the back door as well. Before Waspig or another could return to redecorating the downstairs laboratory, the dwarf shoved the parlor’s couch in front of the cellar. Despite their all encompassing blackness, each hog’s dozens of eyes still managed disappointment. This feeling subsided as the dwarf dumped another pile of feed out from a pantry. It struck him odd the funguay--who he remembered as Doctor Mallow--would collect so much supply for such a lack of livestock.
“ANIMAL HUSBANDRY SKILL INCREASED TO 17”
Checking once more on the locks and blocked cellar, the dwarf realized how little energy he had left to give. Pouring water from chilled jars stored within heavy black blocks, he drank some and his flock drank more. It behooved the dwarf to resist dropping to all fours to lap liquid as was performed around him, instead procuring a glass and sipping carefully from its lip. One more refill and he sat the cup down, then himself. His back fell against carpet, his sides became surrounded by hogsect. The dwarf’s eyelids fluttered, and black overcame...
Doctor Mallow took a scalpel to the dwarf’s flesh, hot blood bursting from cut veins punctuated by hoarse yelps. The dwarf’s arms, pinned to metal, could not be freed. His legs wriggled restlessly. The funguay took a pill off a table with no support and popped it behind the dwarf’s skin. His dwarfen teeth clenched to the point of faults. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. But his sight soon returned to the scientist, now a heap on the ground. Standing above the corpse stood a woman of long scarlet hair. She smiled from beneath strands and, brushing them aside, her face bore the writhing bark of The Ponderous, his sudden wails shocking the dwarf with fright, his vocalized misery inescapable.
“KILL.... ME.... DWARF...”...
Awake, it was newly morning. The dwarf’s creatures scurried about the cottage in wild play, each critter bouncing and bounding one after another--mudkip included, albino not. He grumbled and rolled over to breathe in carpet. He didn’t necessarily wish to return to sleep and, potentially, another cruel nightmare, but the noise of hijinks prevented such either way. Rising, the dwarf paced around observing the destruction of the home and the wild acts of his animals. He’d need a barn. Was he planning on building one? Was he set on planting roots where he stood? Waspig oinked. The dwarf furrowed his brow. He, in fact, did want to stay, the presence of a building with door--no less lockable--improved his chance of survival by a felt magnitude. Giving it up did not seem so eager a decision to be made. And for what--to go to the city on the shore? Despite the remembrance of scent so aquatic, the dwarf knew he had no business heading there. And neither did he wish to return to the elves--they who imprisoned animals underground and slaughtered his own, once. The Ponderous Tree likely suffered, its parasite yet clipped--but why would he need be the one to do it? The dwarf weighed the possibility of wrestling out a clue towards the tree who damned him so many saves ago. If he wished to pursue the investigation, would the dwarf not fare better with shelter, time, and proper plans? Despite the destruction of furniture and marking of walls, the mossy roofed cottage seemed a veritable oasis in a world so otherwise dangerous. A glance at the fresh red markings across Pistol drove the point home--no matter what his next move was, he’d not put any of his flock in danger again, God willing.
Gold and black, the reflective foil left untouched atop a dresser drew the dwarf’s gaze. He took the package into his hands again and revealed again the assortment of baubles that each radiated in pure saturation. Multiple rimmed coins flickered from what light came through windows. This was no gift, the dwarf figured, but payment. And as he connected the dots within his head, all the less did he feel guilt for his imprisoning of Mallow. In the best case scenario, the dwarf considered, the transaction between captain and doctor was complete and no elves would be seen at this elevation again. But even this hope produced an unignorable caveat: what if Locust wished to do more business? And the worst case scenario, the dwarf sweat, saw suspicion grow within the captain for his gift needing be left at the doorstep, no final words exchanged. And that suspicion would naturally lead him right back to the dwarf and his flock. No--best and worst, the cottage could only function temporarily as sanctuary. Perhaps, then, the church could serve. But repairs would be extensive: no front door existed but as ash, the ceiling exposed the church’s guts to the elements, and there was the matter of the massive hole once escaped--not to mention the dwarf’s replacement. Yet he saw no reason for an elf to investigate so far to the river’s source; Captain Locust would surely go no further than the cottage. But obstacles laid in the dwarf’s path. He needed a way of transporting the feed, unwilling to make several smaller trips versus one haul. He would need to scour the pillaged home for seeds to plant, if such were stored, for he knew no food awaited him back at the house of God. And some sort of temporary fortification would be necessary at His entrance if the dwarf wished to sleep soundly, army or not.
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The dwarf was convinced.
Rewrapping the jewels and returning them to their spot out from the pigsects’ collective reach (should none remember their wings), the dwarf began his stripping down of the cottage. The kitchen’s collection became understood over the course of an hour. No food awaited him here either, but ingredients such as flour and ground mushroom were identified. Indeed, the dwarf recalled the dormant kitchen within the steeple and imagined capabilities. But no way of growing more to eat could be found. The dwarf decided to breach the cellar--alone, refiguring the furniture to keep his pests--thought affectionately--from disturbing his search. And down the dwarf traveled, down and through a series of halls, doors, stairs, doors, halls, stairs to such a degree his toadstool topped head bobbed and bounced with every turn until at last coming to rest--as did the rest of him--deep in the bowels of a decimated laboratory.
It appeared a sad sight.
But among the debris, the dwarf noticed a shattered glass collection of what could be none other than bonafide seed samples. Indeed, the dwarf recognized woven packets with miniature illustrations denoting the contents of each. Corn. Broccoli. And something mysterious. The dwarf unslung his poker-less sack and stashed all his fingers could find. Turning, his foot landed atop a pile of unseen shards. Yelping, he fell backwards and smashed a table, flasks coming down atop his head and shroom. An intense sweep of dysphoria froze the dwarf, realizing his nerves reacted even to the bleeding fungus atop him, glass embedded. His hand melted, rose, and gently pulled at the foreign object, red splatters dotting the tiles below. Though no sound surely emitted, the dwarf felt the shrieks of Funguayou. He picked the glass out from his feet after to his own grunts.
Carefully rising, the dwarf touched the tips of his toes across the lab floor towards a cart of tools upturned. A fully black bottle caught the dwarf’s attention--he took it, popped the cap, and dribbled its contents onto tile. Clear it came out--like water, but viscous. He let a little fall onto his palm and confirmed his suspicion: 100% proof alcohol. Grimacing, he let it pour onto his foot and suffered the burn that strangely satisfied him. It would have been better, the dwarf thought, to have had soap, but he was not sure such existed in any form he knew. The disinfecting complete, the bottle too joined the seeds. Still stepping precariously, the dwarf finished his sweep of the laboratory and exited into the tangle of hallways and stairs outside. It was not long before he found himself within the lab again, and out he stepped for another go only to thrice return. The dwarf wanted to scream. Collecting his thoughts and breathing deep the cellar air, the dwarf once more entered the maze beneath the cottage, its routes plenty and interwoven, its turns confusing, its stairs misleading, until the dwarf, by then with fresh sweat upon his brow, realized the furniture before him and, crawling over, returned to the late light of evening and his flock.
“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 24”
Affectionate rubs doled recklessly, the dwarf smiled and stretched his beard ear to ear. He put his head against Waspig, and Waspig nuzzled the top of his. So too did Pistol, and the dwarf took to it the alcohol of which it very reluctantly allowed. After its cleansing, he and his flock of hogs and single glistening dog curled into a pile and, although he went hungry, he did not go without love. The following morning’s rays did not wake the dwarf. No knocks came from either door, and no hogs dared disturb their master’s rest. But the dwarf did wake, and it who shattered his sleep did so with two miniature dwarfen arms and two more leg, both the tone of its talk flesh. The oddity--standing firm, arms crossed, wound fresh atop its head--impatiently tapped away its foot. And it greeted the dwarf loud:
“Hey, you. I’m Funguayou.”