By rights, I should be shitting my uncomfortable pants round about now. This place is clearly dangerous and I’m pretty much naked, unarmed and about as capable of defending myself as a seal cub. I should be paralysed with fear, a trembling wreck. Especially after what I've just been through with the killer faeries.
But I’m not. Not now. I've managed to regain my composure with unsusual speed and I have pondered the situation I've found myself in.
I reckon the special brew that Slobber gave me before we got on the train has something to do with it. When I was sipping it down, I could feel it soothing my brain like magic valium. But more importantly than that, going along with my theory that this world is just a game has made it a lot less frightening than it would otherwise be. If I’m wounded, I’ll just lose a few HP, right? It might hurt a bit, but I’m sure I’ll be right as rain if I quaff a healing potion or two. Or if the worst comes to the worst and I die, surely I’ll res a few moments later at a nearby graveyard or safe house.
I love RPGs when I’m sat in front of a screen. Now that I’m actually in one, I should try and enjoy myself.
“Bray,” I shout at the dwarf, who is still several paces ahead of me. “We’re going into that forest, right?”
“Yes.” he shouts back at me.
“Is it safe?”
He stops and turns around.
“Nowhere is safe, Doon of Tooting. Everywhere is dangerous. It is just that some places are not as dangerous as other places. Which is why we must take the forest path instead of the road. Only sanctuaries offer complete respite from the many challenges and perils of this land.”
“Right. So with that in mind, could I maybe borrow a weapon? You seem to have a few.”
“I need all of them.”
“All of them? That’s a short bow on your back, right? And next to it, there’s that machete kind of thing.”
“Yes, my seax. The blade forged by Opa Duri himself. The handle whittled from the tusk of Grizzlegore, the great Sabretoothed Bear of the Shadowy Pines.”
“Impressive. And you’ve got two little axes hanging from your belt. I know there’s a knife in a sheath strapped to your chest. That’s quite a few things to hold all at once.”
“Yes. It is. But you can never have too many blades, friend. What if I had but one sword, and I was disarmed in battle? I would surely die. It is good to have spare weapons to hand. I need all of them.”
“OK, I understand. So if we encounter anything nasty, I have to either hide behind you, or try and punch it to death with these feeble fists.”
The dwarf considers this, scratching his prodigious red beard. Then he draws the knife from its chest scabbard, and offers it to me, handle first.
“You make a compelling point, friend. I will lend you the long knife, just until we reach Brackwater.”
“You won’t regret it Bray. I promise.”
----------------------------------------
We’re five minutes into the woods and I think Bray is already regretting lending me the knife. It’s the first real weapon I’ve handled. I don’t think NERF guns or penknives count. I’ve got to admit, I feel pretty badass trying it out. I’m swishing it around making ninja noises, while Bray stands there scowling at me.
“You look like a blind man trying to swat a fly. I think you should give it back.”
“No, you’re all good. I’ll get the hang of it.”
“I doubt it. But if we encounter any Sorrow Spreaders and you wave it about like that, it will at least convince them you’re an easier quarry than me. I’ll be able to get away while they cut you.”
“I reckon I’d take a few down. I got a max level assassin in Mythlords Online. Pretty good DPS. I’ve seen his special move animations so many times I bet I can copy them no problem.”
“What does any of that mean?”
“It means if we run into trouble, I’ll do my best to help out.”
Bray smiles. “I like your gusto friend. You appear hopeless, even for a freshly arrived neum. But there is a reckless bravery to you. Perhaps you should choose the path of a Bezerkhan like me, when you get to the Lodge of Beginning.”
“You’re talking about classes?”
“Yes. I’ve heard them called that. But I prefer callings, because once you have chosen one at your initiation, it cannot be changed. It is your calling for life. There are many to choose from and the Guide will recommend paths for you to take. Paths that suit your personality, and your unevolved skills - wyrds and trix and so on. Whichever calling you choose, you must dedicate your life to it, if you wish to thrive here.”
“I wish to find my girlfriend, Ella. That’s why I’m here.”
“Ah, you’ve arrived with a personal quest. That is interesting. But you’ll need to gather allies to complete it, and I expect finding this Ella will not be a simple task.”
“Why’s that?”
“Personal quests never are.”
----------------------------------------
As we go on through the forest, I ponder how to begin my "personal quest". I figure we’ll get to this Brackwater place and I’ll go through my initiation at the Lodge of Beginnings. Then once I’ve chosen a calling and got some starter gear, me and Bray will head to the nearest inn and come up with a plan while we get pissed.
These woods are astonishing though. The last time I walked through this much green was when I went to stay with my grandparents in Wales. I would have been five or six at the time, so that’s a good twenty years ago now. Since then, I’ve taken visits to the countryside of course. I’ve been to Hampstead Heath and Tooting Common, and I once went on a stag do to the Lake District.
But this. This is a different level of green.
It’s all encompassing. It’s a deep, deep green, wild and huge, and seemingly never ending. I’m enveloped in it. The air here is the sweetest I’ve inhaled in a long time. It’s like it’s been freshly laundered by plants. It almost has a taste to it. There are beautiful birds in the branches above us, with unlikely plumes and melodic songs, and as we walk, a host of furry woodland creatures scurry away into the undergrowth.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“This is a breath taking forest,” I say to Bray after half an hour or so of silent tramping.
“Don’t let its tranquility fool you neum. As I said before, there are dangers here too. Folks say there’s a wocky hereabouts.”
“A what now?”
“A wocky. A forest dragon. Only about as big as a horse but formidable nonetheless.”
“It would be amazing, if we saw it.”
Bray shakes his head. “No, friend. It would be messy. Let’s hope that we don’t. It’s not far to Brackwater. Perhaps we have another hour of walking, and we’ll be at the forest’s edge. The sanctuary is just beyond it. If we keep up this steady pace, we should be there by midday.”
“Nice, in time for lunch. I’m still a bit hungover. It would be great to get some roast pig or a cow shank or a swan’s leg or whatever it is they serve at the local-”
“Down!” Bray suddenly hisses at me, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the undergrowth. He puts one of his meaty, bristly dwarf hands over my mouth. “Quiet, Doon. Listen.”
I strain my ears but hear only the pleasant sounds of this tranquil place. The lilting birdsong, the buzzing of dragon flies, the chirruping of cicadas.
“What is it?” I whisper. “The wocky thing?”
“No. Something hunts us. Two creatures, walking upright on two legs. I believe it is the Grief Harvesters.”
“I thought they stuck to the road?”
“They do, usually. They must have decided to search the forest and got lucky. Perhaps they drank a draft of tyche’s tears. There they are! See them?”
I look to where he’s pointing and spot two figures clad in villainous black. They seem to be sniffing the air as they poke the bushes with their swords, like Ring Wraiths looking for hobbits.
“We know your here,” one of them shouts. “A hawk came to the road and told us. Said you were scaring away the mice in the woods where she hunts. She wants you gone.”
“Why don’t you come out,” shouts the other, “and jump on our blades? Save us all a tiresome run around.”
“What do we do?” I whisper to Bray. “Can we go back the way we came?”
“Just as likely they’ll hear us whichever way we head. We continue forth. We stay low, we stay quiet. Silent and unseen until we’re past them. Good luck friend.”
With that, Bray drops to the ground, and begins to commando crawl through the bracken. He’s agile for such a stocky fellow, but stealthy he is not. There are too many weapons hanging from him, clanging together like dangerous wind chimes. Perhaps the griefers will not hear him. They’re still quite far away. I will Bray on from my position of cover as he makes good ground. I try to muster up the courage to follow him in similar fashion.
Then suddenly there’s movement above us, and a hawk emerges from the tree tops. It dive bombs Bray before swooping up last minute, screeching all the while, alerting the griefers to the dwarf’s position.
One of them breaks out into a little excited jig. “There! There brother. Quickly.”
I watch in horror as the other rushes over to the crawling dwarf. He laughs when he reaches him. “There! Wriggling like a worm. We can make sport of his death Stefan. Make it last a while for giving us the runaround.”
Bray rolls on to his back, and with a single fluid movement pulls the hand axes from his belt and hurls them at his would be attacker. Unfeasibly they both miss, despite being thrown at such close range.
“Fucking cowards!” Bray hisses. “Pustulent cock ends!”
The Sorrow Spreader laughs as he stabs down with his sword, skewering the dwarf’s shoulder with ease.
Bray cries out in pain. “Gah! I’m zero you son of a dog.” He spits the words through gritted teeth. “Zero! You won’t get even a scrap of a whisp of glory from me.”
“Glory forsook us long ago,” the griefer snarls. He stabs down again, this time piercing Bray’s thigh. “We hunt to honour our Lord. And to hear insignificant vermin like you scream.”
This is hideous. I don’t know what to do.
Time to execute the special move I was born with - procrastination.
I can’t just stay here and watch while my new friend gets shish kebbabed, can I?
Or can I?
I mean, thinking about it, I don’t know him all that well. He’s more of an acquaintance than a friend. I’ve only just met him, really. I could sneak away, make a break for it while his tormentors are occupied, save my own skin. Maybe he would do the same, if our situations were reversed.
Fuck it. I’d never forgive myself if I left him to die. I feel guilty when I put a can in the regular bin instead of recycling it.
Time for some of that gusto that Bray saw in me earlier.
I leap up and rush the evil fuck who is torturing Bray, swinging my knife around and wailing a battle cry that is half ill-advised Jackie Chan impression, half scream of terror. I launch myself at my adversary, recklessly thrusting my blade at his neck but he simply steps to one side, sticks out a leg, and trips me up, sending me flying into the foliage.
Both the griefers burst out laughing. A surprised guffaw at first, that becomes full body howling.
I pick myself up off the ground and face them, holding out my knife in front of me with a shaky hand.
“Get back you cunts,” I shout, a mix of anger and humiliation. “Leave him alone!”
“Or you’ll do what?” says one. “Fall on top of us?”
“What even are you?” says the other. “A neum, freshly spawned? We may as well spar with a duckling.”
“I’m a max level MythLords Assassin,” I blurt out with as much defiance as I can manage. “A dark stalker. A slitter of throats.”
“A shitter of pants more likely.”
That low-hanging quip causes another round of uncontrollable laughter. One of the griefers is now laughing so much, he’s bent double, with his hands on his knees.
It’s then that I’m aware of Bray, crouching behind them, his seax drawn.
This is not a time for fancy moves, or risky attacks, or eloquent speeches about just deserts. He simply steps forward and full swings the seax into the side of the griefer who is still upright. It’s a brutal strike that nearly severs the fucker’s torso from his waist. Bray kicks his body over as it begins to come apart and thrusts his seax upward at the other griefer, who is just standing there, seemingly in shock at seeing his partner cut in two.
This time, Bray’s attack misses.
At the last moment, the man in black dodges the seax, and flicks a throwing knife at Bray. It strikes the dwarf on his arm, but glances off it, a low damage attack. Before Bray can counter, the griefer raises his other hand and snarls the words “nerve shredder!”
Red threads shoot from his fingers like blood lightning, striking Bray with a force that causes him to drop his weapon, rooting him to the spot. He’s paralysed, shuddering, unable to move with his face fixed in a rictus of pure agony.
“Time to die you stunty whoreson!” the griefer cries, as he goes in for the kill. Bray is immobile and defenceless, an easy target for his cowardly attacker.
Instinct and panic takes over, and for once I act without pondering possible outcomes. I chuck my long knife at the black clad wanker, aiming for his head, praying to all I hold dear that the blade will strike true.
It lands with a satisfying thunk, but in Bray’s side rather than its intended target.
Shit.
The dwarf cries out but at least he’s moving now, growling at the enemy like an injured bear. The sudden knife wound must have shocked him out of the spell’s trance. There’s a desperate animal fury to him, a primal rage. He seems even more dangerous than before and the griefer steps back, not as sure of victory as he was a few moments ago.
As the Sorrow Spreader raises his hand to cast a second spell, Bray throws himself at the man, tackling him to the ground with a heavy thud. He’s wrestling the bastard and now he’s on top of him, kneeling on his chest and punching his head. The fucker grasps at his sword which has landed just out of reach, and as I rush over to grab it, he beats me to it. He picks up the sword and tries to jab it at Bray, but I’m on him, wrenching his arm back. I try to peel his fingers from the sword’s hilt but his grip is true and so I bite them and he cries out and now I’m stamping on the shit’s hand like I’m putting out an especially stubborn cigarette. My bare feet aren’t doing much damage, but at least I’m stopping the griefer from retaliating as Bray keeps up his relentless punching.
Eventually, the griefer goes still. I roll out of the way, breathing heavily but Bray takes no chances. He picks up the man’s sword, and holding both hands, thrusts it into his chest.
“There. Done,” he says, swaying a little as he picks himself back up. He holds the sword in front of him, admiring it. “I’m keeping this one. Like I said, you can never have too many blades.”