Elia did what Elia did best: she ducked, dodged, and weaved right towards the enemy. Seven steps were enough to get close and give it a good slash, her giant’s spoon cutting a thin line along the lamprey-like neck.
‘Hmm, no joints.’
The shaggy creature snarled, jumping back with a hiss. Despite her deceptively open posture, the were-lamprey-wolf didn’t spit a second time. It didn’t seem overly strong or sturdy either, just quick in bursts.
“Hey Rye, you wanna handle this one?”
I-I, do I what?
But she didn’t let her answer, disappearing behind the pile of burnt corpses and shoving Rye in the front seat. Rye opened her eyes with a squawk.
“E-elia!”
What? You can do it. Show me what you got.
She gulped. The monster meanwhile had turned to Mouggen, though it was still too wary to come closer. It looked scary, sure, but when she compared it to the forest beast or the demon, the first word that came to mind was ‘small’.
“I-I mean, I guess…” She took a deep breath, swapped shield and spoon for staff and spear. “If you say I can, then I can.”
The creature sized her up as she approached. She conjured a series of ice-balls on one end. It jumped away, but seemed surprised after one sloshed against it like a wet ball of slushy snow. More confused than enraged, it spat another glob of acid, but Rye hit the slow projectile right out of the air with a quickly conjured snowball.
It barely even tickled her expanded reservoir. She could shoot a dozen snowballs before she felt anything. What’s more, even though the monster must have easily been three times as heavy as herself, she watched it from behind her spear and felt… not a lot. Fear yes, but not more than usual. Worry too, that it might jump and attack her, but that was what the spear was for.
It hissed at her again, swiping at the air. When Rye stepped forward and it stepped back.
“… Is it scared of me?”
Well, what do you expect? We’ve been slumming it with boss mobs and interdimensional fish for most of our outings. This thing, it’s just a weird animal. Still though, watch out for the acid.
That made her feel a little bad for it. Only a little though. It was still from the dark forest. A quick glance to the others told her they were handling themselves. Mouggen’s opponent was missing half a front foot, red welts crossing its fur three times over. Karla meanwhile had just charged the monster head on. It was flipped on its back, surprised that it had lost the contest of strength, as she beat it half to death with the handle of her shortsword.
Rye got an idea. Slowly, she lured her monster over to Karla. Even with near infinite balls of ice and snow, they were just a harmless annoyance. It followed much too easily, eager almost at the show of weakness, yet oblivious as she cast a new spell.
With a quick flick, she pulled at the little Viln branch, conjuring a wide-nozzle cone sealed at the flared end. Inside, she quickly mixed motive force with a brittle collection of ice from a constellation that made for an incredibly white, flaky powder. The pressure built within seconds. When she felt the spell grow heavy, she pointed it at the monster and let it cast.
The funnel popped, and a gush of heavy snowfall enveloped everything between her and the target. The twirling force sent the condensed material expanding into a thick curtain, an entire day’s worth of snow occupying the swirling corridor of air.
Woah! You got it to work?
Rye grinned as she finished part one of plan ‘make Karla look cool and one-up Mouggen’. The monster could only see Karla now. The girl had finally used the sharp end of her sword to stab her opponent in the neck. Through a blood-splattered face, she looked to the next champion, and back at Rye. Rye gave her two excited thumbs-up.
The rest of the fight was trivial. Karla finished hers after squishing the creature against a wall. Mouggen simply split the skull of his, before hurrying over to help Karla, help which he learned was unnecessary.
“I have slain the monsters!” she proudly declared, posing with one foot on their corpses.
“So I have noticed,” he said, flicking a gray shard to both her and Rye.
You have gained: Bone shard [Common] x1
“Well?” Rye asked. “Anything you’d like to admit?”
He looked over to Rye, metal hiding everything but his eyes.
“Two for the cult-princess, one for me, and zero for you.”
Oh? Is that a boast?
“I’m not a cult-princess!” Karla yelled and he continued ignoring her.
“Well, this is what you call teamwork.” Rye raised her chin a tad. “We both did them in together. It was quite magnificent to behold. But maybe you were too busy running from yours.”
Even through the mask, she felt his eyebrows raise. “Oh?”
It was almost enough to make her shrink back from her boisterousness, but only almost. She had Elia-vibes running through her blood today and after showing a new spell and drinking in the sight of an uninjured, happy crew, she deserved to feel at least a little self-important.
“Yeah, oh,” Elia said, snaking into her voicebox. “And you haven’t even seen the good me fight yet – rude, Elia, very rude – but hey, maybe this is all there is to being a sunlight warrior, a champion of the sunless sands, or whatever.”
He slowly wiped his sword clean on the corpse. With all the energy of a beached whale, he slowly, ever so slowly turned fully. “Big words for a half-pint. Last I checked you’ve got a boon for cooking. Maybe if all you could do was run around like a headless cockerel, you should have stayed in the kitchen. With Cesare.”
Cesare peeked out from his hidey spot, well away from the violence. “Hey, cooking is my hobby, but eating is my passion.”
Elia grinned in a way that could split teeth. “I bet you I can get more kills than you.”
“I bet you won’t even get half of mine, half-pint.”
They walked up to each other, staring eye to eye.
“I bet I can get two times your kill count, with one hand tied behind my back.”
He laughed, deeply. “Fighting words for a girl.”
“Oh it is so on.” Rye could feel her own blood beginning to boil as their oceans of emotion mixed in a storm. “Alright. Karla, stay out of this. Imma boutta make a grown-ass man cry.”
Rye slumped into the backseat as Elia took control again. Even just talking competitively was exhausting, emotionally. Trying to up Karla’s reputation with Mouggen somehow turned into Elia seeking him out for a competition. Well, if anything, they’d be doing this place a service. The city was absolutely infested with beasties. If they could make it just that little bit better with some (mostly) friendly competition, then Rye wasn’t going to stop them.
Maybe they could get enough shards for another boon. One or two more deaths and they’d have to sacrifice one. She just hoped Elia didn’t take this too far.
Soul count: x5,765
Shard count: [Common] x5, [Uncommon] x2, [Rare] x0
----------------------------------------
Mouggen was the first to spot the next group of critters. A pair of fish ogres were walking down the road, digging it up with the anchors fastened to their rope belts. Their sudden bursts of speed surprised even Elia, but through dancing just outside their range before closing back in she carved them up like Christmas turkey. Karla was batted through a wall, but stood up again only slightly dusty.
Soul count: x7,251
Shard count: [Common] x8, [Uncommon] x3, [Rare] x0
Elia looked over to Mouggen with a smile, only to seem him whistling as he cleaned his sword with a towel.
Her smile fell rather rapidly and by the second group, she had to admit that playing with one hand behind her back was too much. They found a single angry lizard the size of a school bus, but it turned out to be uncoordinated, skittish, and not at all strong. It was fat, Elia would say chunky even. An easy kill.
Soul of a fat lizard
A fat lizard engorged that eats anything set before its maw. Creatures in the dark forest rarely find their food lacking, and thus grow to grand proportions. Size alone does however not guarantee an easy life, as this lizard has shown.
Elia frowned. This was either a soul for the body or the senses, and then likely not a good one. It didn’t shine as much as an uncommon, nor did it have any unusual pattering.
She threw it over to Mouggen. “Your kill. Your reward.” He bowed shortly, a small incline of his head that made Elia snort. “Enough of that fancy pants. Let’s get killing – I mean, going.”
A group of dregs were up next, seven men or women wearing chainmail down to their knees. Their helmets were long and pointed like pinecones, their faces covered in a viking-like mask plus a curtain of yet more mail.
“Rhune soldiers,” Karla gasped. “The Rhuna’s footmen, this far out?”
“Will she notice if we kill them?” Elia asked.
“Well, no, I don’t think so. We ought to evade them nonetheless. They give me the creeps.”
Yes, and I think you two can stop competing now.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
“Hell no! Seven isn’t divisible by two, which means… First to four kills is a winner!”
Elia ran ahead, Mouggen at the side.
“…Light…,” the dregs moaned, as golden eyes fixed them. “… ire… oure…!”
Her spoon met a shortsword, just one. Then there were two, then five, and Elia practically skidded to a halt as all seven sword-tips honed in on her heart like heat-seaking missiles. She ducked, then stumbled as a dreg fell over her, then rolled and stood up in one fluid, unnatural movement. Another one jumped at a wall, then off it against her. The dregs were moving awkwardly as she dodged, less like living creatures and more like they were being pulled towards her, stumbling after their weapons.
Mouggen didn’t fare any better. He swept his flamberge greatsword in an arc, earning two cuts along his forearms. A single exchange had both of them backing off.
“Do you need assistance?” Karla yelled from behind. “I can chain them up with a –”
“No!” Elia and Mouggen shouted at the same time. An awkward lull hung in the air as they retreated further around a corner, until the dregs forgot that they were there and continued on their patrol.
“They move as one,” Mouggen remarked. “Are you quite alright?”
Elia spat out a tooth from where a pommel had battered her face. “They’re quick, but still stupid.”
“We can take them.”
“I can. Not so sure about you.”
“Alright, spoon-knight.”
“Whatever, mister sunshine.”
They ran back in and fought quite recklessly. She had a bet to win, a boast to prove, and a competitor who was just smug enough that she’d thoroughly enjoy dunking his head in the ground.
The first one fell to a kick and stab combo.
You have gained: Soul x380
The second one lost his hand after overextending.
The third one had his head cleanly lopped off by Mouggen, when suddenly all of them fell to the ground.
“I found another one.” Nali yelled from the rooftops. “I, uh, hit him on the head with a rock.”
They stared at the corpse of a robed figure lying still around the corner. Its staff was tipped with a shattered lantern, and a clear liquid was evaporating from it. The dregs were just puppets, and here was the puppetmaster.
“Aren’t monks supposed to be non-violent?” Elia yelled between pants.
“Amitabha, the roof is slippery. It is still alive, no?”
The body twitched. Elia did the favors. “Not anymore.”
Soul count: x9,767
Shard count: [Common] x15, [Uncommon] x5, [Rare] x0
“That’s four for me.” Elia said.
“Last one doesn’t count.”
“Fair. Three then.” Three well earned kills. They hadn't come cheaply. Elia was sewn with cuts and bruises. “And you?”
“Three.” Gauging Mouggen’s state was a bit harder, but with the way he was favoring a leg he didn’t come away lightly either.
“You got lucky,” he coughed, wiping beneath his mask. “They are quick, as are you.”
“That doesn’t sound very lucky.” Both sides glared at Karla. “Or, well, you know. I’m just going to… stand in the back. Over here.”
“How about we call it a draw?” ghost-Rye said as she floated out of Elia, “You’ve both proven your… machismo, if anything.”
“Hear hear, the sounds of a quitter?” Mouggen asked as Nali and Cesare snuck back from their hidey spot.
“She does not speak for me.” Elia spat on the ground. “Let’s go. We’re making good time.”
At the end of their traveling day they sat around a bowl of respite they had found in a defensible house that seemed half inspired by a castle. By this point they had fought their way through dozens of encounters, and probably depopulated a good part of the Victorian dreg population of Loften. It didn’t lift the mood that there was no conclusive winner. Elia stared daggers at Mouggen, and he in turn treated her with disdainful ignorance.
Soul count: x13,331
Shard count: [Common] x21, [Uncommon] x7, [Rare] x0
Elia chewed on a dry fruit with all the bottled-up frustration of the entire day. Nali and Cesare were happily chattering away with Karla about what it was like being a princess.
“So let me get this straight. You have dozens of servants whose entire purpose is making sure you don’t feel the slightest bit of discomfort… and you ran away from home? From paradise?” Cesare stared unblinkingly at Karla.
She in turn was entirely fascinated by the cobblestone road at her feet.
“I… may not be the best at executive decisions. However, I had to do it! I was locked up, treated like a bird in a cage. I didn’t leave the palace until the first time a servant helped me climb over the wall and run away. I wanted to know what it was like, to go where I wanted, to see places without every action put through a sieve by my aunt. I wanted adventure. Nakama!” In a surge, she looked up at him with serious eyes. “You know what that means, right?”
“No…?”
“It means friends.” Rye said, immediately feeling a searing embarrassment from Elia’s side. “It’s an outsider word. And Karla, while I find your motivation admirable, I do have to question how reasonable of a decision it was to run away, again and again. You know just a little bit more how dangerous this place is now, right?”
Her face fell, hung like drying laundry. “Yeah. I have the best souls, the best boons and tutors, and I’m still nowhere near your – Elia’s – or Mouggen’s level.”
“Practical experience. That’s the only way you learn to move like that, or when to move at all.” The larger man gestured to Rye, but probably meant Elia. “You dedicate your life to a purpose, to your sword as the instrument of fulfilling your destiny. Not everyone’s destiny is written by the sword. For most people, a sword is a terrible instrument for writing. They prefer a pen, a plow, or pipes of some sort.”
“And that’s my cue.” Cesare said, pulling out a lute in his hands, and a pan pipe wrapped in his tail. “I’ll keep the first watch, though we should be reasonably safe after your rampage. Any song requests? If you can name it, I’ve heard it.”
“Ooh, do you know La belle dame sans mercy?” Karla asked. “My mother used to sing it.”
Cesare winced. “Alright, maybe I haven’t heard one song.”
Elia wormed her way into the front for a second. “Can you do any post rock?”
“What do rocks have to do with music?” He looked confused as Elia retreated, cackling inwardly.
Nali raised her hands. “I know a few prayer sutras we could recite together.”
“NO!” Everyone half yelled at the tone deaf, rhythm-amputee. She took it in grace, like everything from not eating food for days to watching dregs pull each other apart.
Most people were turning in for the night. Cesare was strumming away, humming a tune only he knew when he noticed Rye staring at him from her sleeping spot.
“Have you heard of the Riverdance?”
“The riverdance?” He rubbed his chin. “Hmm, well, unless you mean the Mountain dances at the river’s crossing, but that’s an old folk-song, like way old.”
Rye gave him a nod. “That’s the one.”
He strummed a cord, then plucked a few notes from it in a way that made her realize how heavy her eyelids really were.
“I found the notes written on a blood-red tablet in the tomb of a dark king, so I do apologize if it sounds off.”
“What were you doing in a tomb?”
“Looting.”
“Ah.” That did seem to be the national sport these days.
“Which leads me to ask: where did you hear it from?” His voice sounded sweet, silky as his hands that had never touched a blade, never done violence unto another. “It’s not exactly a common song.”
“A friend sang it to me,” she said, snuggling against her backpack. “Back in my older life, when the sun was still shining bright.”
“Do you miss them?”
Rye nodded, a well of emotion roiling up. “More than anything.” She turned to the side “But I screwed up. I don’t know if she misses me. Or if she’s even alive anymore.”
The air was filled with a gentle roll of notes. Round and round they went, circling her mind until her tears were dry and all the humming was one with her thoughts, swelling like a wave, then ebbing in turn.
----------------------------------------
During a lull in the summer’s heat, two girls sat at a riverbank, drinking in each other's presence. Since most days they either didn't see each other at all, or only in professional capacity, they were now clinging together as close as possums.
Rye lazily blinked up at Sam. Her friend gave her a smile, brushed away a strand of hair.
“Oh? Are you going to kiss me?”
“Kiss?” Sam pursed her lips coyly. “An innocent maiden such as thee? Why, I would never. I am an honorable knight, after all.”
Rye giggled. “Then my honor as a maiden demands that I give you a just reward.”
The grin said it all. Another moment went by in blissful shared existence.
“Hey Sammy.”
“Yes bean?”
“Could you teach me how to dance?”
Even through closed eyes, Rye knew Sam was making that confused face again. It clashed with her eyes, and the normally uptight bun she wore. It was cute.
“Sorry, but I’ve got two left feet,” she said after some time. “I’d just make you look just as silly as me.”
Rye grinned. Sam’s dancing did look silly. The one time she caught her, she was practicing with a broom. But there was more to it.
“I know that’s a lie.” Before her girlfriend could protest she propped herself up in her lap, gave her cheek a gentle caress. She felt Sam shiver through her own body. “And you know I know. We both know you practice dancing at least thrice a week.”
Despite the obvious pleasure it brought her, Sam grabbed her hand and led it away.
“Then, since you know I don’t do anything without reason, you must know that I’m not practicing in secret because I’m ashamed.”
“But, well, we’re all alone out here. No chores, no nothing.” Rye spared a glance at the mountain of laundry they were supposed to have cleaned by now and scrunched her nose. “Would you do it for me? Just once is enough.”
Her round eyes gave Sam pause. She knew there was no consequence for saying no. Rye would never clamp down on her, not when they were both constrained and constricted at any other time.
“Alright.” Sam placed her on a mossy rock and stood up. “Just this once.”
Rye watched with some fascination as Sam undid her sandals and walked into the shallow stream. Step by step she acquainted herself with the riverbed, probably so she could find where to best stand. And then it began. The riverdance.
Sam started timidly at first, one step following another with almost agonizing languor. A twist, then a turn. Like clockwork, her leg shot out. Her arm countered in balance, another twist, a slow pirouette. Then a kick, sending a spray of water in Rye’s direction.
Rye was mesmerized. The display went on, Sam putting on an ever quickening show as water showered them both. Faster, faster it went, more, more, faster, yet more. She was breathing heavily, and her tunic clung to her legs in a way that meant Rye could hardly resist pouncing on her.
Another twist, a kick. It felt like watching a butterfly prance about, skimming the very surface of the water before rebounding, higher, quicker and ever higher.
The unheard song turned hectic. Sam missed a step but kept on twirling. Chaos ensued as all rhythm was lost in swirls.
Rye tackled her and with an undignified yelp they both splashed into the shin-high water. Immediately, a wave swept them from the riverbed and the girls in all their laughter panicked. But they were only pressed under the surface for a few seconds and when they came up, coughing and spewing, they looked at each other, then upstream where the errant wave must have come from a sluice gate. They devolved into giggling laughter.
Despite its name, the riverbed was not the comfiest of places to lie with friends. And yet they did, basking in a shared euphoria.
“I told you I was a horrible dancer.” Sam said as they watched the river flow past their toes. “I didn’t even make it past the fifth cycle.”
“How many are there?”
“Seventeen.” She smiled at the curios face Rye was making. “You can say you know to dance it at eight, but nobody ever dances it completely. You’d have to have three more legs or something.”
“Why don’t you practice out in the open? I know how hard it is to find some time alone on our homestead.”
“Because it’s a forbidden dance.” Sam shrugged. “My da’ never told me why, only that if I practiced every week and gave my thanks, then I’d live a long and healthy life. I never believed it. It’s nothing special, just a dance.”
“It certainly made me feel special.” She kissed her on her cheek. “Thank you for sharing it.”
“Love you bean.”
“Love you too, Sammy.”
A distant call reminded them of their neglected duties. Now they just had to explain how they both got their tunics soaked through, when only Sam was supposed to have been washing clothes in the first place.
Oh well. Some things were worth getting a little wet over.