Chapter 2: Like A Very Lost Soul

~ Part 3: Prom’nons nous dans les bois… ~

Quote: “Waking up after a good night’s sleep is one of the greatest pleasures of life. Being greeted by a smiling face upon waking up, is a must. The smiling face belonging to an undead skeleton is, however, a bit of a turnoff.” – Life among the dead, Elric Walker.

~

Morning greets me with no sun, no singing birds, and no kiss from a loving girlfriend, those three being respectively hidden by clouds, probably dead, and error 404.

And I’m still lost.

Hurray!!

I’m going back to sleep.

No you’re fucking not.

Dammit Brain. How do you wake up so fast? Shouldn’t I need an extra-large coffee to even align two coherent thoughts like any normal human being?

You hate coffee.

And you are an obnoxious know-it-all. Coffee, tea, hot chocolate, milk, cranberry juice… Don’t nit-pick.

My hallucination is right though. I should probably get going before the charming dead neighbours decide it is time to start respawning in mass.

Alright. Get going… But where? Like I just thought, I’m still completely without a clue about my current location.

Of course, there is no mini-map in Untold Tales. Of course. And the air in this place is so saturated with necrotic magic, my compass has much higher chances of pointing towards the nearest graveyard than towards North. Admittedly a graveyard detector has its uses in a country overrun by zombies, but not at this moment.

As the Solar Knight, you’d think I’d be able to always pinpoint the direction of the Sun, but no. Using the stars is also impossible right now due to obvious meteorological circumstances. Though it has stopped raining, the storm-clouds have not decreased one bit.

As for alternative methods, like spotting the mossiest side of the trees…? In a world of magic, you quickly learn NOT to trust nature, as nature is often the very thing trying to kill you.

A quick couple of incantations, my magical bubble of holy water dissipates into vapour and a little floating amber pops back into existence. I sit up, wriggling my arms out of the sleeping bag. The untrustworthy map – but also sole map I have – is quickly taken from my inventory and spread on my lap. Under the warm light, I start studying the childish lines, trying to figure out where the Helheim I am.

Random reference to Norse mythology is random.

I don’t hold much hope of success in my localisation endeavour though. The cheap, amateurishly drawn, a travel-mistreated piece of parchment only outlines the main features, roads and towns of the region centred on Cali. The other nearby cities are namely Kelborg in the South, Ashen in the East, and Dalh further West. All three stand about two weeks on foot from Cali.

My last stop was in Ashen, which is also where I got this map.

In a country where nobody travels, maps are sort of a rare commodity. I do have some magical auto-editing ones of course – which adventurer doesn’t? – but those are consumables. Once filled, they stay that way. My stock isn’t unlimited, so I try to keep them for dungeons and the likes.

Arguably, this forest could qualify as an open-air dungeon.

Arguably.

On this sorry excuse for a map, the northern part is represented by a vast, almost inkless mystery which I intend to thoroughly explore, but only after getting some fresh supplies in Cali. At the southern border of this mysterious area, stands the [Lost Woods] where I am currently, well, lost.

The irony isn’t “lost” on me.

Hah, hah, hah.

Although, to be fair, given the current state of the country, most of the landmarks have been colourfully renamed. The chances are thus not that low for someone to find themselves agonising in the [Forest of Utmost Despair], or to be ripped open on the shores of the [Lake of Spilled Guts], not to mention the [Chasm of AAAAAAAAAAAAAaaa…] where I once fell to my death.

“Lost” is in fact quite a mild denomination in this godsforsaken place.

Yeah… Why did I come here again? Ah. Right. Because I’m a bloody genius.

My thoughts float briefly back to the time when I discovered a bunch of old dusty crumbling documents mentioning a secluded land, separated from the rest of the continent by the humongous [Tiamat Mountain Range].

The reason still eludes me why a mountain range inside a post-apolitical medieval environment on a planet that clearly isn’t Earth would be named after a primordial Mesopotamian goddess.

Surprisingly, this undiscovered kingdom isn’t even that far from the Tame Zone. You can actually spot the range from the westernmost tip of the Frontier. But the mountains are high and infested with all kinds of nasty reptiles – the giant, flying, fire-breathing kind… if you catch my drift.

No one had ever found a way to bypass the scally guardians. Until now!

Praise me! Praise me! *sparkly eyes*

Yes, yes. Good boy.

…

……

………

I’m lonely.

So, after finding a way where countless had failed, I was very proud of myself. I took the secret path under the mountain – which involved a lot of crawling in flooded antique waste disposal ducts, and swimming and drowning and dying – I eventually ended up here, in this kingdom.

And I use the term “kingdom” very loosely.

Like I already mentioned, according to my investigations Z-day happened roughly three centuries ago. After that, the government had some understandable difficulties in managing the land and Erwyn quickly devolved into little more than a collection of city-states, all coexisting in this inescapable hellhole.

Because, ironically enough, the mountain range that saved the continent from a spreading zombie-pandemic, also trapped the condemned inhabitants inside the country. Tough luck, but, hey, “C’est la vie”.

The royal family still supposedly exists. But, even if that’s true, they only truly rule over the capital [Shaun]. The rest of the country really don’t care. I do, but only because it means I’m going to save the exploration of Shaun for last. Somehow, I seem to have bad luck with royalty because of… reasons.

…Note to self: do not eat the crown jewels, even if they are candies.

Excellent candies though.

Well, they were on that Queen’s crown. Royalty don’t usually put low quality confectionery on the symbol of their authority.

Do they usually put sweets there at all?

Good point. But in any case, that makes for a good story to tell my future grandchildren… not. Plus, to get grandchildren, one must have children, the first step involving the capricious existence known as… “girlfriend”. Not seeing that happen anytime soon… Maybe I should get in contact with Jenny again?

Yeah… Let me think. How about: “Nope”? Or maybe “Don’t you fucking dare”?

Do you hate her that much?

She’s a backstabbing bitch that deserves to be crucified at the bottom of a lake of acid with rusted nails shoved up her cunt and ants crawling up her ass to eat up from the inside.

Do I take that as a yes?

HELL FUCKING YES!! She’s a skanky whore and you fucking know it!

…I guess.

Jennifer – Jenny to her friends, which I’m not sure I still qualify as – is my ex from before Yasmin. The break-up was bad, and rather one-sided. I may not be a very empathetic person, but I’m not made of stone. I didn’t take it well. Ironically enough, that’s probably the only reason that pushed Yas and me to attempt a relationship. Attempt, and fail. Overbearing sadness made you do the oddest things…

“But to resort to such name-calling…” I mumble, then turn my head and raise my voice: “What do you think about vulgarity, Mr. Skeleton? Or is it Ms. Skeleton?”

I can never tell.

Isn’t this about the shape of the pelvis?

I know, but how do you tell which is which?

The female one is wider? Because childbirth and all.

Makes sense.

I store the map back in my inventory and proceed to stretch without hurry, as if to taunt the bizarrely unmoving [Skeleton Lancer] standing barely two metres away – though taunting an undead is technically not feasible due to their lack of self-awareness.

Calmly I pack up my camping gear, remove the night-robe and equip the leather armour I wear to travel on difficult terrain. The set doesn’t really suit a knight and actually gives me a few penalties for incompatibility – because I am a heavy-armoured class, which leather doesn’t classify as. But whoever has ever tried crossing a dense forest in full plate casts me the first bone!

Furthermore, Elric’s rule number two applies. Comfort almost always comes first.

As I leave my resting place, I stop by the paralysed undead and nonchalantly pluck the spear out of its fleshless phalanxes. As expected, the craftsmanship of the weapon is poor, a simple wooden staff with a blunted iron head with traces of rust starting to set in. But my holy sword is still chipped and recovering. I’ve got plenty of spare weapons, but this one seem perfect as a slightly dangerous walking stick.

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I mumble a spell, distractedly reducing to powder the dejected assemblage of calcium phosphate trapped in my warding net.

“See,” I say to no one in particular. The remains of the skeleton aren’t very receptive as an audience. “I knew it wasn’t pointless to use expensive wards… Although it should have been. Pointless that is.”

Usually, when a boss has recently been defeated, no monster spawns in the area for some time. Overlooked mobs might linger around, but I’m pretty sure I was quite thorough in yesterday’s extermination. This is definitely unexpected, but I have grown to expect the unexpected – a sentence which makes absolutely no sense if analysed – and the wards I have placed played their roles beeeeeautifully.

“If the wards were activated though…” I groaned. “Damn. Those were my last batch.”

Wards are consumable items. You can retrieve the unused ones, but not the activated ones.

I’m now officially ward-less, foodless, practically antidote-less, mostly health-potion-less and also under-armoured. Although the last one is by choice.

And girlfriend-less?

…Really? You had to point that out?

I’m sexually frustrated.

“Urgh.”

On that happy consideration, I get once again on my merry way, confidently advancing… in a direction chosen at random. I’m still completely lost after all. Did I mention that?

BUT!! As Rule 83 states: “As long as you act like you know what you are doing, you are likely to fool yourself into thinking you do. Therefore you will not be worried about a probable lack of any constructive result.”

That’s psychology.

Or irresponsibility.

Probably both. I think Responsibility Deficit Disorder is actually a thing?

We should ask Mom next time we phone her.

I thought you didn’t like Mom?

What for? Mom is Mom. She raised us, well, you. I don’t like those pills she gives you, that’s different.

“Eh…” I breathe out ponderously.

As I stroll, whistling intermittently, I’m looking around but can’t pierce the darkness beyond the ball of light provided by the [Lantern of the Selfish One] hovering by my head. Now that I actually pay attention to it, it’s rather gloomy. And a literal footache to walk through.

I’m also deploring for the umpteenth time the absence of wildlife in Erwyn. Only silence surrounds me – exception made of my own whistling, and the repulsive dying gargles of the burning animated fleshbags I do in, since I’m conscientiously giving the finishing touch to my critter genocide from yesterday, burning undead shrimps and racoons whenever I spot one. Apparently I missed more than I thought yesterday.

“Spring without singing birds…”

*SLARSH*

“…really isn’t spring anymore.”

It does feel weird.

*SPLAARSH*

“Speaking of weird…”

*PSHUEEERRRG*

What the hell was that big bony fellow doing here?

*SLAM-CRUNCH*

Yes. It’s far too early for respawn to start. I can accept having missed one or two winged shrim–

You missed one, behind that bush.

“Ah! No! Not so fast, you~.”

*burn*

Like I were saying. I can accept having missed one or two winged shrimps, but not a whole freaking dummy escaped from biology class.

This is definitely an unusual situation, but somehow I’m not surprised?

A gut feeling?

Maybe…

“Eh…”

Though I’d say we’re just used to it.

“Eh…”

…Is this going to be your new thing? Because it’s already becoming really annoying really fast.

“Eh…”

Stop that.

“Hmhmhm.”

Smartass.

After pondering for a few contemplative seconds, I take out an enchanted quill and my precious notebook “Elric’s little Travel Guide, Philosophy of Life and Deaths”. I start writing without slowing down, neither my steps, nor my mindless slaughter.

Me Elric Walker. Me don’t need no hands. Me eyes shoot holy lasers.

Very funny. You know I don’t use that skill because it gives me headaches, and conjunctivitis.

Writing while walking still isn’t very fast. “Rule … number … 373 … Only … trust … your … guts … in … places … that ... spawn … undead … squirrels.” Seriously, is this some kind of in-joke? I get why game programmers would like to use squirrel, but still… that’s just plain bad taste.

Do people actually still use that programming language?

How would I know?

I put the notebook back into storage and keep talking to myself: “And sleeping there might also have been a tad idiotic… Naaah. C, nothing happened. Hehehe…”

Dumbass.

Lost in confused thoughts of wordplays on programming languages and sleeping positions – Arms in or out of the sheets? Families drew weapons over that issue. – I wander the forest, distractedly wiping out every moving being in sight. I must say I’m not really paying attention to what exactly perished under my spear and magic.

Good thing Little Red Riding Hood took a sick day. Ah… no. There she was. Lacked most of her lower jaw though, and didn’t look very fresh.

Wolf bites to the face tend to have this kind of effect on people.

Aaaaaand there goes grandma~. Reuniting families in death through brain perforation. Aren’t you the nicest guy? And our spear just broke.

Aw~. I was growing attached to that thing. Oh well.

I throw the snapped weapon through the stomach of a [Common Zombie] then roundhouse kick its head against a tree. The skull explodes like a rotten egg, smearing my boot with brain juice. I glance down at the dirtied footgear with a raised eyebrow, then shrug and continue walking through the woods.

To be perfectly honest, I have noooo idea where I’m going.

* * *

After a few hours of aimlessly hiking, which involved six commandos of commando-going skeletons, a [Survivor Armoured Cockroach] that had somehow evolved from my first raid, and a disturbing encounter with [Unborn Suffering Kitten Foetus “Kill Me Please”]…

Who raised THAT?! SQUIIIRREEEL!!! Come out of your damned hole so I can shove you back in, you SICKOOO!!

I kind of appreciate the style.

…I finally come across a mid-sized “river”.

Like with “kingdom” earlier, I here use the word “river” lightly. Very lightly.

What is that thing?

No sure. Some kind of magical pollution?

I squint at the flow. This has to be the nastiest body of water I’ve ever seen. And I SWAM in several lakes in the Infernal Realms. “Infernal Realm”, as in Hell. They didn’t even come close to this abomination.

Maybe this place just likes to be creepy for the heck of it?

…Please don’t answer that, World.

It has its aesthetics though. I like the black tears. It’s a nice touch.

Now that you mention it…

I stand at the edge of a large jagged cavity that extends from one side of the horizon to the other. Instead of water, turbulent waves of white phantasmal plasma are speeding jerkily about four inches below my feet. Distorted faces form and melt in turn on the surface, at the mercy of chaotic whirlpools. Their closed eyes are crying dark goo, and each visage has its mouth gaping open in a soundless screams of agony, revealing insides filled with lumpy tar.

Emaciated arms, covered in scraps of peeled-off spectral skin, are reaching out from the horrid stream. The ones closest to the shore are trying to grab patches of grass and protruding roots, but are incapable of holding on for more than mere seconds against the brutal current.

How immaterial spirits are even managing to grab anything in the first place is mystifying, but I’ve long since stop trying to understand every little detail about this world. I’m more interested in why this “river” is flowing backwards and up the slope. Don’t these tortured souls have ever heard of the concept of gravity?

Does gravity even affect spirits?

I’d guess it would be the case for spirits who can tentatively hold onto roots. They do seem unable to just fly up and out of that canyon.

A valid argument.

I would love to stay here and examine this phenomenon further, but a small issue is making that course of action unpractical. The air-filtering runes are on my metal helmet, which I don’t like and is part of the full-plate armour I’m currently not wearing.

And this river stinks.

The smell reminds me of a sickening mixture of sewers, rotting corpses and burnt flesh. Also, the whole atrocious river-ish spectacle flows in a lagging manner, leaving nauseating afterimages in its wake. For the first time since I entered this diseased country – and it says something – I finally feel like puking.

“Ugh.”

And I do.

I like to deliver.

* * * * *