The fleeting shadow of another flying beast filtered down from the canopy as unseen things flittered from tree to tree, circling, watching, waiting. Mycal ran as fast as his spongy legs could carry him while the sound of trees splintering and shattering behind him grew closer and closer. To his left and right a pack of panting predators kept pace, ready to pounce the moment he stumbled.
He stumbled. A storm of fur, feathers and fangs erupted all around him as his momentum carried him face-first into the foliage, the fall probably saving his life as beaks and jaws snapped above him. His menagerie of pursuers faced off against each other, each determined to claim this tasty morsel for themselves. Mycal cowered beneath them, senses overwhelmed by their screeching and snarling. The ground shook as one of the beasts pounded its huge fists against a tree in a terrifying display of size and power.
Lying there among the leaves, shaking in terror and awaiting a messy death, Mycal noticed a single unhelpful thought crystallising with frightening clarity. He really should have paid more attention to his lessons with the Shroomwardens. Any competent Truffle Knight could deal with a threat like this. They could have released a cloud of sleep spores or woven their mycelium into deadly stabbing and cutting tools. Some even cultivated exploding puffballs that could take out an entire group of foraging humans.
The thought vanished as something sharp clamped down on one of his legs. Mycal cried out in pain and scrambled for purchase as he was dragged toward a trio of drooling v-wolves, maws stained red with berry juice.
“No! Stop!” His fingers dug into the soil and a tangle of mycelium stands erupted from the back of his hands, wrapping themselves around every rock and root they could find. The thin fibres were not strong enough to anchor him and tore away like cotton. “Please! Bind! Come on, bind!”
Mycal didn’t know if it was his desperate subconscious or if he’d actually managed to tap into some of that half-remembered training, but the tangle of filaments lengthened and twisted around each other to form a whiplike appendage nearly four feet long.
A second set of jaws latched onto his leg and he screamed, instinctively swinging his arm at his aggressor. The whip slapped it hard in the eye, eliciting a yelp of surprise as it released him. He struck again, hitting the other creature over and over until it let go. Perhaps it was because he was inflicting some noticeable damage, or maybe the v-wolves just weren’t used to their vegetal prey fighting back, but the pack apparently decided this simply wasn’t worth the effort and slunk back into the undergrowth.
Mycal’s sigh of relief turned to a gasp of shock as a pair of talons gripped him tightly about the shoulders, and with a powerful beating of rainbow wings he was lifted from the ground. Leaf litter swirled around him as the forest floor dropped away, and through it he saw a massive scaled hand reaching for him. Luckily the Lizardon was hindered by a pair of Parrocs clawing at its face, their frantic flapping creating a confusing kaleidoscope of colour and movement that likely saved Mycal’s legs from being torn off. Instead all he felt was a claw brushing against his footpad, then he was blinded by sunlight as he burst through the canopy.
He struggled against his captor but the talons just gripped him tighter, digging into the soft flesh of his torso as the Parroc squawked in triumph. Mycal flailed his whip weakly against the bird’s legs and underbelly, unable to generate any significant force with his arms restricted by such a powerful embrace. They were climbing higher, their destination seemingly a singular towering redwood that reached far above the rest of the forest, growing alone on a small islet in the middle of…
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“The river!” There it was, snaking through the endless green, wide and powerful and brimming with the promise of leading him to her. All he had to do was not die a few more times.
As they neared the tree Mycal could see that it was truly a giant, the trunk so thick and tall that he wouldn’t be surprised if it was holding up the sky itself. A dark hole, as large as any cave he’d ever seen, loomed before them as the Parroc squawked and slowed its approach. Four featherless beaked faces appeared from the darkness and started screaming when they saw lunch was about to be served.
Vivid thoughts of being eaten alive by giant baby birds flashed in his mind. Again and again he swung the whip, no longer aiming for anything particular as he just focused on hitting as hard as he could. Pulling his arm back for another strike he felt it catch on something. “No, no! Not now!” He yanked it with all his strength and the Parroc let out a deafening cry. A huge tail feather tore free and spiralled away behind them. The creature’s grip lessened slightly and Mycal saw his chance, swinging the whip back up and willing the tip to wrap around whatever it touched. He pulled again and another feather came free, accompanied by another angry squark.
The Parroc swung its head down and snapped its curved beak at him. He kicked at it with his dangling footpads, keeping it at bay as his mycelium lashed up again and tore out a third feather. The talons loosened for a moment and the bird tried to readjust its grip, but Mycal squirmed as hard as he could, letting his squishy body twist and contort until he slipped out of its grasp with a shout of triumph.
Now that he was free, wind roaring in the tiny holes that passed for ears, he had a moment to consider his options as he fell toward another likely death. His lack of bones made a high velocity impact less of a threat than it might be for a vertebrate, but there was still the splatter factor. He recalled another lesson from his tutors, a survival tactic meant for cavequakes and rockfalls but it was probably worth a shot.
With all his mycelium retracted safely into his deep corestem, Mycal tensed every part of his body as tightly as he could, squeezing the moisture out of his flesh in an explosive mist. He kept squeezing as he fell, leaving a trail of vapour in the air behind him. His body shrivelled rapidly, becoming lighter and lighter as more fluid was released, until finally he felt his descent slowing as the air dragged against his desiccated body. A powerful updraft sent him spinning and he lost all sense of direction, unable to see a thing with his eyes sealed shut like a pair of wrinkly walnuts.
He felt the cool touch of the river as he landed on the surface with barely a splash. Immediately he felt his flesh re-expanding, but it would take some time for his withered skin to reabsorb enough moisture for him to move. At least the Parroc seemed to have given up, so he was content to just catch his breath and let the gentle flow carry him downstream.
It was quite serene, floating there while the afternoon sun strobed through the trees along the riverbank. When he’d rehydrated enough to open his eyes he watched the scattered, wispy clouds drifting across the sky at the whim of the winds much as he was at the mercy of the river. Battered and bruised as he was, this didn’t seem so bad. There would no doubt be some residual trauma, but that was a problem for another day. Right now he felt good, he’d survived, and felt a new seed of self-confidence blooming within him. He just needed and hour or two to recover, then he’d be back on his footpads and eager to continue his journey.
Then the nibbling started.