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Chapter 6 - Before the Wave
Fernando was by no means a beast of pure unadulterated speed. In fact, speed would probably not be a word even hinted at in descriptions of the stubborn mule. He was consistent, prideful of it in fact, and whilst danger was always hot on their heels, Fern would manage to keep those heels far enough out of the fire (whilst still allowing for some dramatic suspense.
It was in this manner that they left the faceless townscape behind them, the bemused faces of the thankful but apprehensive folk left in their wake as they headed in the direction of the apparent Gnome Plane. Goreblaster huffed alongside the mounted Percy, ever complaining about the forced cardio, as his companion got to ride atop Fern once more. At least tomorrow it’d be his turn.
Ceaselessly, the short wave of gnomes had swept behind them, their tiny nubs of legs just about enough to keep up with the tireless mule. Even chanting jibes at the barbarian, their efforts had lessened now that they were so large in number. Instead, their heckles and barbs smooshed together into one droning, albeit high-pitched whines, like some kind of insect with daggers and murderous intent. This was not the right climate for Knifebugs, however.
“Do we really have to run all the however-many-miles you said to this Gnome god?” Goreblaster huffed, his fur-lined boots a methodic thump against the grass-laden floor like a healthy heartbeat, in contrast to the hospital-recommended hammering of Fern’s awkward gait.
“Demi-god, and yes. Unless you want to increase your fan club behind us.” Percy was short, as was the tone in his voice. The tubular manager often increased his sass levels to almost meanie territory in high-stress situations - apparently, all the danger was meant to be delegated to the brawnier of the two (Goreblaster).
Goreblaster was mostly perturbed as he didn’t remember if he had breakfast or not - and running on an empty stomach was a miserable experience. Running on a full stomach could be just as bad, he considered, remembering back to their time fighting the Mile-wide Citymuncher.
The pair had left the roads outside of the town now, instead plotting a course through a handful or five plots of brackish woods. Whether the mule had been directed this way as the shortest direction to their intended destination, or had just thought it would be more amusing for a slightly more hazardous romp, would be a question left for later when they had their peer reviews.
The barbarian stumbled over a gnarled root, almost tumbling head over heels over their gnarled route. With deft expertise, he turned the motion into a rolling slash, striking at the darkened tree - seemingly looming over in mocking fashion - a blue arc rendering a heft of branches sliced off and toppling behind the pair with the intention of waylaying the rolling tide of gnomish bloodthirst.
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Abatement was not in the cards for the intrepid heroes, as almost like a juiced-up gang of beavers the gnomes picked and slashed their way through the brief obstacle - the sheer amount of daggers to bear like the angry teeth of an animal desperate to get a bunch of splinters in their tum. A rise in their tone as they whooped and chanted some jubilant retorts towards the barbarian, their exact wordage falling on as deaf ears as the tarot card reading did, where the Abatement card was not present.
“Dash their prescience,” Goreblaster cursed in the most chide and family-friendly way his contact allowed.
“You can’t give the tarot reader credit for the cards that you didn’t draw, Gore,” Percy rolled his eyes behind thick spectacles, ever the sceptic. He had allowed his fortune read once, and that was his fill. The pair were at odds at how correct the reading had been.
“I did pull the Running Man, Portal Beyond, and Boss Fight cards though,” Goreblaster protested, only begrudgingly aware that the three cards could describe the majority of all his heroic excursions. “Plus, I had the reading before I was even cursed.”
“Then it could have easily been for fighting the wizard,” Percy huffed, “You ran, the broken window was the portal, and you killed the big bad.”
“Exactly,” Goreblaster beamed, unaware or uncaring that the sack of assistant had been trying to argue against his point.
They splashed through a shallow stream, clambering up the minor muddy incline beyond only to turn and see the gnomes form a human-well, gnome-bridge out of each other to cross, with a few casualties that were soon replaced.
“Do we have any spell scrolls left?” Goreblaster asked, teeth clenched, trying to find some way to slow the inevitable horde of creatures.
“No, fresh out, I’m afraid.”
“What? No more Fire Impalement, Ice Crash, Wind of Ages, Heaven’s Envelope, or Dirty Dance? Not even a Candy Rot, Hail of Bricks, Plant Shame, or Seven Shirkless Shanties?”
“What part of 'no' do you not- I don’t think half of those are even spells, Gore.”
“They should be,” the barbarian sulked to himself, like a child cursed with the Candy Rot spell. Woe be unto the world should he have been borne into it as a prostigious arcane spellcaster, instead of a meaty sword swinger. In both ways.
They burst out of the last of the overwatching trees into an open field, long green grass waving its hellos in the breeze as flowers blooming in white and yellows held their heads above, like the rich aristocracy that needed to be eaten. Well, Fernando would eat them at least. Another woodland stood darkly at the other side of the verdant expanse, a wall-like barrier before the area changed.
“Is this the gnome plains?” Goreblaster whined once more.
“Not that kind of plains, a plane as in a different reality than this one.”
“Ohh, so we would need to find a… portal, right?” The barbarian bobbed his eyebrows up and down like a pond-bound duckling in an earthquake.
The chittering of the horde behind them halted any further discourse, as the gnomes dove obscuredly into the long grass behind them like sword-wielding fish at a custard convention.
Of Death.