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Chapter 3 - Skullcrushing It

Fernando had indeed appeared just when needed, like a deus ex machina ready to save the lead characters from peril at the last moment. Except his main role was to ensure at least one of the monster-fighting duo was saved from the peril of having to walk for too long. Despite the almost genetic permanent foul mood on the mule, he at least performed his duty to the letter. Even if that letter was sometimes one of the ones last on the list, like Y.

They had left the town of whatever-it-was-called to little fanfare, waving off the small throng of fans like the brushing the cobwebs of a distant memory from the brain. Goreblaster and Percy had travelled through many a village, town, and kingdom, and over the years they all smooshed into one blob of beige similarity.

Strikingly, however, he could recall each villain and creature he had despatched over the years. Each a vivid scene in his mind - Bludcrag the Giant, Hamcake Redberries, the Sinister Den of Toe Gobblers - and countless more. Indeed, it was through these recollections that he spent his downtime, reliving the glory and considering what he could have improved on. Enemies of the past becoming a catalogue of glossy pages detailing his ascension from humble hero to unwavering god. At least, that last part is what he told himself.

For a week they meandered through the malaise of distanced travelling, the gait of their beast of burden unquestionably consistent, if not aggressively average in terms of speed. There was an occasional pause as Percy would run into nearby villages to gather supplies as they passed - Goreblaster avoided going into any form of civilization that didn’t need his immediate help. If he wasn’t being lavished with praise and adoration, he found the whole society thing quite pedestrian.

“We are about a day away from the mountains now, Sir,” the round form of Percy spoke up as he rolled beside the mounted Goreblaster (it was his turn to ride).

Goreblaster shook from his thoughts of his battle with Tabby the Great Hungerer, to observe the range of large, pointy rock bits that obscured the horizon in front of them. “Yes,” he nodded, agreeably. Although the estimated time was news to him, he had partially assumed that heading towards the hulking shapes of the mountains ahead would have them arrive when they got to their destination.

“Skullcrush is said to be home to more than just Thunderguts.”

Looking around, Goreblaster grunted. Since leaving the last hobbled collection of houses that passed for a village, the area around them had gradually become sparse and arid. Now that they were but a day from the mountains it was almost a desert instead of a more temperate region that he expected. Large footsteps, slightly obscured by the shifting dirt and sand, gave evidence of the rampage of Thunderguts from two weeks prior.

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“Why can’t we just go to hell here? Seems thematically suitable.”

Percy clucked his tongue like an overweight turkey prime for a seasonal celebratory dinner. “It’s not that simple; we don’t want to go to the wrong place in hell - and the doorways are-”

“Yada yada, I get it,” Goreblaster moped dismissively. “Sorry, I just need to smite something with my wrath; you know how I get from being idle.”

His assistant nodded roundly. “Yes, and I have a feeling that you will soon get what you seek.”

“Before the bog troll, you think something in Skullcrush will want to test its mettle against my, ugh, metal?” He went to draw his sword for dramatic effect but chose to save the theatrics for a more receptive audience. Fernando had tired of the bravado, and Percy seemed incapable of being enthralled by anything that didn’t exist on a scrap of paper.

“I can almost feel it, Gore,” the small assistant wiggled a full ten fingers in front of him to enunciate the statement.

This cheered Goreblaster up to no end. Well, it ended when he slept that night, but until that point, the cheer lasted - an acceptable amount of time considering it was just over the fleeting maybes of potential danger. He had come to respect the gut feelings of his assistant slash manager; more often than not when it came to the job, Percy was correct. Or at least correct-adjacent.

Through sleep he found himself haunted by nothing. In fact, it was so rare that Goreblaster dreamt that usually, the scant times he did were to be viewed as an omen. Certainly, it was a surprise to him when he awoke early the next day to the discomforting feeling that he did dream - but could not remember of what. He sat with head in hands in their small tent, trying to chase the vague thoughts like sand through his hands, much like the sand through his hands as the ground beneath where they slept was pretty sandy on account of being much like a desert (as mentioned previously).

“Problems, Sir?” Percy asked from the other side of the tent, the fact that he slept fully clothed (including shoes) still enough to concern Goreblaster even more than the escaping dream did.

“Dreamed, but no recollection. Just feel… off.” The barbarian crunched the words out like the dusting of sand between his teeth.

“That’ll be from the dream-eating monster Gh’ull-ak that lives beyond these plains, no doubt.”

Goreblaster stretched his jaw side to side as he mulled over this information.

“You’re going to say ‘Where do I find it, and how do I kill it?’.”

“Where do I find it, and how do I kill it?” The barbarian grunted and rolled his eyes.

“Well you’re in luck because it lives in Skullcrush Mountain, and you can probably stab it.”

“Oh, don’t have to go into my dreamscape and fight it by overcoming my insecurities or nothing?”

“No, just a regular thing you can go stab; no need for any self-reflection.”

Goreblaster sighed in relief, and then leapt out from their tent into the sunlit morning, brandishing Pureheart towards the towering earth peaks.

“Sweet dreams, nightmare,” he mouthed to the mountain.