What makes a monster slayer wake up in the morning and decide to be a monster slayer? Tragedy? Revenge? The money?
What makes a monster slayer keep waking up in the morning and decide to continue monster slaying? What makes one decide to continue doing so when surrounded by ferocious monsters ready to return the favor?
Murtoa of Lakia is a legendary warrior for slaying monsters and armies, virtually always alone. The man who calls himself Murtoa looks nothing like a legend, acts nothing like a legend, and doesn’t even pursue the benefits of a legend.
Instead, he walks miles through scorching deserts to find his next mission. He eats what is available, and more than once, was too lazy -it seemed- to collect payment for a job no one else could do.
A passing glance at his appearance and his history does this man a grave injustice. He is truly fearless and selfless, fighting things that make grown men and women squirm in their beds.
And right now, there are four dartwings to one warrior.
The dartwings are aggressive and frenzied, but they are far from reckless. The monsters are circled around the man who calls himself Murtoa -but only if asked-, and he is holding his bladed polearm at the ready. His gaze doesn’t move much. He’s listening more than watching, waiting to see which of the four different wing-armed monsters attacks first.
If one blinked, they would almost miss the entire fight, it feels like. At least, if it were anyone but Murtoa.
In a lightning fast burst of motion, the one at his back right, the second of the vibrant two dartwings, pounces. Murtoa has to pivot with several steps, swooping underneath the dartwing as low as he can go to avoid its claws as he slashes in a broad circle. The Fourth dartwing jumped high on purpose. The first and second, each injured already by the warrior, stalked swiftly across the ground at the same time, and now they are trying to flank and take turns slashing at him. The third -his back left from the beginning- is stalking back with his steps, seemingly strategically biding its time.
Murtoa manages to parry a slash from the first dartwing as it lunges close, and he side-flips to avoid a low sweep of the legs from the second, which casts sand and gravel with vicious speed. The third lunges close, though, whirling violently and slamming a braced Murtoa with its tail. He tumbles across the ground, catching himself on his feet as his boots slide a little further in the sand. He coughs and dives to his left, narrowly avoiding the fourth dartwing, which had leapt to a wall for height and tried to pounce down on him. He is able to roll deftly back to his feet, whirling with a wide slash of his polearm’s blade, which slashes the fourth dartwing and drives it back in a startled and violent flail.
In spite of him preparing himself for the worst, Murtoa is fighting valiantly, holding the attention of and fending off the four vicious predators that would make short work of the fairy and the teen girl watching the whole scene.
Lykha has been watching in horror. The last thing she said to this man was to accuse him of being as bad as an actual monster, in spite of everything else he’s done. He’s not perfect. But, he helped both Lykha and Coco, and many others, without a second thought.
She doesn’t have to be helpless, though. She was a damsel already against her will. She’s not strong. She’s not a powerful mage or a skilled wizard. She’s a fairy.
And, she just wasted all of her magic chasing off an essentially harmless scavenger.
She feels down, watching as Murtoa takes hit after hit, barely managing to land anything on the dartwings before being tumbled across the ground, or one of his armor plates being forcefully ripped off by vicious claws and teeth.
It’s four dartwings against one warrior.
NO.
She helped him face a gryduke. She helped him defeat a nightenmael. In just a few short weeks, Lykha has done more with this man than she ever did the rest of her entire life.
And she did that with enough magic to light matches and make bright lights for a split second.
She is not useless, though. She’s smart enough to do something. She turns to the teen and self-proclaimed ‘techromancer’. She says desperately, “We have to do something! Do you have anything that can help him!?”
The teen digs in her pockets and salvaged bag. She presents something that looks like a metal stick with a lightbulb on it and a metal cone directing the light of the lightbulb.
“I webbed toge’er a flih’er-flash like’ye done on ‘e nigh’enmael. Hav’ne tes’ed it yet.”
Lykha takes it, saying, “I’m sure it works. You’re a techromancer, right? If you have anything else, we need to distract some of them long enough for Mury to thin their numbers. I think I can avoid them flying. If you can’t find somewhere safe, try to come up with a trap or something.”
Coco nods. Just as Lykha is about to fly, Coco gently grips her hand. “Be careful, spellspih’er. Do’ne wanna sen’ye off too soon.”
Lykha smiles, “You be careful too. We can do this.”
The fairy flies towards the warrior, whose abdomen is slashed -though not too deeply-, and whose left arm is bleeding from a bite wound. He’s still fighting valiantly and is wrestling one of the dartwings, which has its jaws locked around his polearm. He maneuvers it to keep the other vibrant one at bay.
She clicks Coco’s device on, and sure enough, it starts flickering a flashing light that is painful to see even reflected off of the sand. She shines it at the first dartwing just as it’s positioning to pounce Murtoa from behind. It shrieks and flails backwards, and she slips back just in time to avoid its tail as it whirls away. She shines the third one, which is more alert to her, and it leaps away, roaring at her.
She ignores it, flickering the second one, which is wrestling Murtoa and clawing at his helmet with its free claw. The jaws release as it shrieks and tumbles away with flailing claws and feet.
Murtoa whirls and successfully slashes number four across the neck, stepping closer to it as it stumbles and slashing a second time.
The first of four dartwings falls. A rush fills the fairy. But, they’re far from safe yet. The three dartwings sprint away, regrouping together and roaring at them in rage. They seem almost timid, like the braxes. But, Murtoa doesn’t lower his guard. He coughs, managing to grunt out, “Get away.”
“What? What are they doing?”
“They’re strategizing. Leave behind me. It’ll likely draw at least one of them, though.”
“I understand.”
Instead, Lykha flies towards the dartwings.
“Wait!”
She doesn’t listen to him. He’s probably right, but she’s a fairy. If she can do anything, flying is it. She clicks the device back on, but number two, the surviving vibrant dartwing, slashes its arm forward in the sand, casting a blast of sand and gravel at the fairy.
She falls, coughing on dust and being knocked down by rocks. Why didn’t I listen?
Number four’s jaws explode from the dust, nearing the nearly-helpless fairy, ready to snap shut on her.
“Rrrah!” A male human warrior charges into the monster, tackling it backwards. Its jaws clamp down on his shoulder, but he jams his dagger into its torso.
The second dartwing shoves him off, and the third one spins, slamming him away from Lykha with its tail. He tumbles, quickly trying to rise and scramble into a run.
It’s then that Lykha notices his polearm is missing. That doesn’t seem to faze him, as he simply jogs sideways, throwing a pair of small knives and a jar of powder at the dartwings; one tried to pounce and it tumbles from the air like the second one during the initial discovery. The powder is black, and it coats the first dartwing, which sneezes. It snarls and stalks across the lane from him.
First and third stalk towards Murtoa, but the fourth one hasn’t forgotten about the fairy. It turns back towards her again, and she tries to slide backwards away from it, coughing. Her wings are fairly big compared to herself, and she can’t get enough lift from a seated position; not without magic at least.
It closes the distance, but bootsteps crunch to a stop over Lykha and a metal stick pokes the dartwing’s wing. A loud crackle sparks from the stick, and the dartwing shrieks, backing away violently.
Coco taunts vulgarly, “Prad off ye yogglin’ goob! I’ zah’le ye back ye motchley’s tur’cutta!” The teen swings the stick aggressively, but it’s clear she knows almost nothing about fighting.
Still, Lykha admits with deep relief, “I’ve never been so happy to not understand a word you just said.”
Coco grins, helping Lykha up, cautiously watching the fourth dartwing. It doesn’t return its attention to Murtoa, and they’ve disappeared around a corner.
The fairy looks at the broken flasher. She feels a little sad. Coco put some level of skillful work into it.
And now, the teen is their only defense for the moment with a vicious predator circling them looking for an opportunity.
Lykha asks, “How many times can you do that?”
“Hav’ne a mind, b-... love. Gla’ it wor’ed once.”
“Great. At least he doesn’t know that. Anything else in your bag?”
“Nay but par’s, love. Hav’ne the ticks to make anythin’ yet.”
The teen looks away for only a second, but thank goodness she didn’t let her awareness falter. The dartwing launches itself at them, and she screams, “LOOK OUT!” as she tackles Lykha to the side. Now, with both girls back on the ground, the teen desperately rolls over to jab her device at the dartwing again, and hits are traded. The crackle sparks loudly and obviously pains the dartwing, but it was in the middle of swatting the stick away. So, while it scrambles away in a short circle, the metal stick tumbles across the ground. It snarls and favors its claw briefly, but is sizing them up once more.
It’s Lykha’s turn now. Just before it can lunge at them, Lykha scrambles up with handfulls of sand, jumping into flight and darting to the dartwing’s face. She narrowly avoids a brutal swipe of its claw, swooping over it to put her above its arm and head. She throws the first handful of sand from as close as she can get, landing a hit directly in its eye. The dartwing flinches back, shrieking, but it quickly tries to slash at her again with its other arm.
Again, Lykha manages to avoid its attack, but she’s starting to breathe heavily. Her wings are working hard. She is able to throw her second handful of sand, though. The dartwing leaps back away from her, shaking its head and rubbing its head with its arm in an attempt to reduce the pain.
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Just as she’s lowering her guard, though, the dartwing lunges forward with an attempt at biting where it thinks she was. She is instead headbutted by the monster, and she loses her wind from the impact, tumbling through the air. When she lands on the ground, she can barely hear Coco scream, “LYKHA!” It’s not that she’s far away, but muffled. The fairy’s vision starts to fade. However, she sees a human warrior scoop up his favored weapon, sprinting in and gripping the dartwing’s jaw as it tries to snap at him. He jams the polearm into its abdomen even as the dartwing essentially hugs him, trying to bear its weight on the warrior. He never topples though, and he draws his blade.
The monster’s cry is muffled and fading, and the warrior whirls, bringing the blade down for a final blow.
It feels like a blink, but seconds seem to have passed, and Coco is cradling her. It’s a cold hug though. Maybe it’s just Lykha. Is she dying? It’s not like the capsule. She feels cold and numb, and her senses are fading.
Murtoa’s helmet appears over her, and his voice breaks through the fog, “Stay with us. We’ll get you to help.”
Blood…
Did it come out? She weakly manges to raise her hands gesturing one hand across the palm of her other hand. Did she say it? She keeps thinking it, Blood…
Another blink, and the warrior is removing his right glove. Coco appears again, this time behind Murtoa. She nervously murmurs, “Bloo’ magi’? A-are ye sure? Bloo’ magi’ is dange’rous. Turn ye blob all wonk.”
Lykha’s vision fades fully, and the last thing she can hear is her own voice trying to urge, “Just use mine… It’ll be okay…”
She’s not sure how she arrived, but the young fairy finds herself in her village. Her mother is teaching basic spells to children, while her friends compare dresses made of vibrant colored flowers. The sage of the village looks directly at Lykha, but says nothing. Her stare is cold and knowing.
“You’re sooo lucky!”
Dahchelle gushes over the fecund belly of Rylinair as the latter holds her dress up. Other fairies further away whisper jealously or condescendingly.
Wyrhna asks skeptically, “You let a human do that to you?”
Rylinair, unbothered by the question, replies warmly, “Not just any human, Wyrhna. He’s my one true love.”
“But… a human?”
Rylinair smiles softly, replying tenderly, “It’s not something that can simply be explained.”
The young Vetchen asks with wide, innocent eyes, “So, you don’t regret leaving!?”
The addressed fairy cups the younger’s cheek gently with a warm smile, but before she can reply, the Sage, Grandmother Galla, says sternly, “That is enough. Let her rest.” She shoos the youths away, taking Rylinair aside.
Rylinair wasn’t in the village the next morning.
Lykha will never forget that smile, though. A genuine, happy smile. What did Rylinair find when she left the village?
The next thing she knows, her eyes open in completely unfamiliar surroundings. She appears to be in a room inside of a home; one that’s well taken care of. She wearily looks around. Coco is asleep at the foot of the bed, hanging off the side as drool runs up her cheek and forehead to fall to the floor. There’s a chair nearby, likely where Coco has been sitting when she’s awake, given the small cobbled together electrical devices she has.
Her gaze circles almost the entire room before her heart skips a powerful beat, then beginning to race. Murtoa is standing casually in the corner near the door with his head down, as if he’s resting his eyes while standing. His arms are crossed, and bandages adorn his body where his clothes are torn. His armor has been patched together sloppily using wire, rope, and even rags, likely having lost straps or fasteners during the fight.
The fairy’s heart is pounding, and she puts her hand to her chest. What is this feeling? Surely, nothing changed so quickly, did it? She’s always grateful to him, but…
She feels completely okay. He must have understood what she was asking for. ‘Blood magic’ is one of the first and oldest magics in the world, and descends from the ancient fairies of old. Unlike most blood magic practitioners, fairies are the only ones that can make use of it without amplifying spells or charms. Her body can process blood on its own and heal her. Though, there are grave consequences to performing such profane arts too often, especially with her own blood. Among other things, the caster is bound to the giver of blood, forcing the giver to experience the caster’s pain. When a caster uses their own blood, this effectively amplifies any pain they receive. It’s why many doctors and soothbringers are extremely hesitant to transfuse blood to fairies, or so the stories go.
Longer usage of these arts can result in much darker drawbacks and even curses building up, but this is the first time Lykha’s ever had to use it. It was Rylinair herself who once told Lykha about blood magic in the first place; a dark secret fairies can use as a last ditch effort to survive.
The tiny fairy dreads the next time she feels pain, knowing it will be amplified upon her.
“You’re awake. Good. The inn is charging increased rates.”
Normally, this would enrage Lykha. How could they charge increased rates in an emergency? But instead, she can only stare at the warrior. She’s struggling to process what is going on within her.
The warrior straightens his posture as he stretches, asking, “You okay?”
Lykha finally summons enough sense to murmur, “Y-yeah…”
“Good. Know who we are; what’s going on?” He gestures at Coco, who seems to slowly be shifting.
The fairy nods distantly, still foggy in the brain. “Mury and Coco… and… we were fighting dartwings…”
“Good. It’s done. We won. Didn’t have time to skin the females, though, so no reward for them.”
Coco finally wakes up with a start, which causes her to fall completely off the bed with a “WhoA-oof!” The teen grumbles, “Which’e’ye move’ the softy under me?”
Murtoa scoffs, stating, “Mage is awake. We can leave.”
Coco scrambles up to look at Lykha with concern and excitement together. She exclaims, “Spit-shine and a flicka in ye once another, ey?”
The teen crosses her arms, shaking her head as she says dryly with a wry smile, “Slingin’ big dust ‘stead o’ tricks, like a goobcrossin’ Bae.”
Suddenly, her eyes water, and the typically brash and vulgar teen whimpers more angrily, “I di’n’e ask ye to protec’ me. I… I ca-can protec’ meself.” She sniffles, still trying to stay stern, “A-a-an’ I s-still don’ like ye. A-a-an’ y-ye don’ like me. B-Bes’ way to keep’us.” She wipes tears from her eyes, ordering even as she still sniffles and nearly chokes on her words, “S-So don’ try nothin’ like ‘at again, g-got it?”
Lykha smiles tenderly, whispering, “No.”
Coco breaks down into full sobs, and she quickly jogs out of the room, trying to dry her eyes. Murtoa watches the teen leave, and then looks back to Lykha.
“You need help?”
The fairy’s heart races once more. She keeps her composure, though, wiping a few tears of her own away as she sits up. “I think I’m okay.”
She inspects her wings. There are scars in the gossamer chitinous scales between some of her vein lines, but between her healing and the medicine that feels waxy on her wings, she believes they’re structurally sound. She climbs to her feet, with the warrior watching patiently. She gives her wings a few test flaps, and then uses her passive magic energy to lift herself with relative ease. Honestly, as long as she has magical energy, flying is the least active thing she can do aside from breathing, basically.
She gives Murtoa a thumbs up, and he nods. Without another word, he simply turns and walks for the door.
Lykha watches him a moment longer, bringing her hand to her chest. She still doesn’t understand what happened, or if the feeling she’s feeling is real, but she’s thankful it’s not a bad feeling. She still can’t forget what he did, but she knows he’s not evil.
The fairy floats out to the main area of the inn as Murtoa dumps two bags of coins on the counter, asking, “Any jobs need doing?”
The innkeeper counts the coins, replying, “Nothin’ big been floating around. What kind of work you lookin’ to do?”
Murtoa replies, “It’s fine. Used to bounties, of sorts.”
“Ah. Well, bounty hunter, Sheriff wanted to talk to you lot ‘fore you left. Somethin’ about where you came from.”
Murtoa nods, looking at the fairy. She flies obliviously through the inn lobby, not paying attention to the stares and gazes that normally make her nervous. “Let’s go.”
He puts the two coin pouches back on his belt; one belonging to him, and the other belonging to a fairy. She understands her payment of the debt, but his? She floats after him as he walks outside.
Naturally, Coco is arguing with someone as she swings a wrench around, “I been spittin’ gab wit’ ye nary a stone’s death, an’ ye hav’ne hear’ a single gab!” The teen points the wrench at the unintimidated man armed with a single barrel gun like the one Murtoa used on the nightenmael. She scolds, “This. Be. My. ‘Rizon. Chasuh.” She taps the wrench on the much smaller sand rail, which is clear she set to work tinkering on as soon as she left the inn.
Murtoa asks, “You the Sheriff?”
The man turns, and a silvery-grey metal badge is on his chest. He replies with exasperation in his voice, “Yes. This your friend?”
The warrior nods, saying plainly, “We took it from the village southwest of here. Week’s walk, about.”
“I know it. You say you took it?”
Coco shouts, “I’m no a grifta! Near had’ta web her back togetha with me own head strings!”
Murtoa clarifies, “Yes. Village is wiped out. Was being picked apart by braxes and dartwings by the time we got there. Seems like something came through and abducted most of the villagers all at once, dissolving others. No traces of acidic residues though.”
The Sheriff studies Murtoa up and down. He concludes, “Mm… You a monster slayer, then?”
“Of sorts.”
“What sorts are there? There’s monsters and there’s not.”
“I focus on colossi where I can.”
The Sheriff cocks an eyebrow curiously. “Not many risk such a feat. Just their movements can break bones. You half drakyk?”
“No sir. Just careful.”
Lykha can’t help but scoff. When everyone looks at her, she blushes, but Coco snorts and starts laughing. “If tha’ nay a sof’ talk of a hard rock!” She continues laughing, turning back to the sand rail. She mocks Murtoa playfully as she works, “No suh! Jus’ careful. PFFT!” The teen has to lean on the vehicle to support herself as her guffaws continue.
The Sheriff replies skeptically, “I hear tell of colossi fallin’ every now and then. Never thought’d be a human slayin’ ‘em. Must have some divine protections or enhanced gear.”
Coco bursts into a new fit of laughter, gently hammering the wrench on one of the sand rail’s cage bars. Lykha snorts, but suppresses her laugh, and the warrior asks bluntly -if not outright innocently-, “What?”
“Nothing,” replies the fairy affectionately.
The Sheriff sighs, “I don’t care either way. Can you prove what you say, and that the village’s fate isn’t your own doing?”
The two girls suddenly turn silent and grim. That’s not a question any wandering adventurer wants to hear. Not when an entire village has been destroyed on the path they wandered.
Naturally, Murtoa answers directly, “I’m a monster slayer, not a god. I didn’t wipe out a village. That said, something did. We didn’t cross paths with it on our way here, or we’d have killed it.” He looks at Lykha, admitting, “After… dropping off our friend.”
Her heart thumps powerfully, and she almost gasps.
However, Coco suddenly screams, and Murtoa’s weapon is drawn before her breath even ceases. There’s smoke coming from the sand rail, and Coco is clutching her right hand, screaming.
Lykha is at the teen’s side in an instant as she falls to her backside, screaming in agony. Murtoa stalks close, inspecting the source of the smoke; a mud stain on the side of the sand rail. The mud is mostly dried, but is smeared where the teen had started to wipe it off with spit and a rag.
The moistened mud specifically is pitting the metal of the sand rail.
Murtoa looks at Coco, where she’s sniffling as the fairy casts her healing spell. He quickly steps in, withdrawing his water bottle and dumping a steady stream on her hands. She whimpers, and Lykha cries out, “What are you doing!?”
“It’s an acid. We need to wash it off. Otherwise, her sweat will keep it active.”
Everyone watches him, and he empties his water bottle on the young girl’s tense hand.
Satisfied, he inspects her hand closely, looking for something only he seems to know. Satisfied, he releases her, saying, “Finish your spell, Mage.”
He then turns back to the sand rail, staring at the spattered mud. He murmurs, “So, there is a residue… It just blends in with everything else.”
The Sheriff steps closer, asking with his arms crossed, “What does this mean?”
“I’m not an alchemist or a chemist, but in my experience, acids that dry become salts. Some can easily be reactivated by water. Whatever this thing is, it uses acid.”
“Most likely a silveryourd or a nunjack, then, ain’t it?”
Murtoa looks at the Sheriff, who replies, “What? I hear things. You ain’t the only monster slayer to pass through here. Gave it my own shot once upon a time.”
The warrior looks back down at the mud stain, replying, “I don’t think it is. Silveryourds and nunjacks leave behind vibrant colored residues, and usually their fair share of footprints. And, a silveryourd’s acid can melt stone and metal with relative ease. The stone melted in the village was slowly melted, and the metals were all almost completely intact.”
Suddenly, Murtoa kneels with a grunt. He stares more intensely at the mud. “What is it?” asks the Sheriff nervously, and both Coco and Lykha watch in earnest.
The warrior replies grimly, “The wet mud… it’s sliding.”
“That so surprising, slayer?”
Murtoa shifts and points, saying even more seriously, “It is… when it’s sliding up.”
All three of the others watch. It’s slow and hard to notice, but sure enough; the moistened mud seems to be in a slow crawl upwards.
Lykha asks urgently, “What does that mean? What is it?”
Murtoa looks at her. “I… don’t know.”
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