The bright white of the sun’s light filled the vision of the knight. Durge’s head throbbed with pain. Each pebble or twig ran over jostled the cart and made him feel violently ill. Rising from his drool-stained bag, he lurched over the side of the wagon. Venison, cheese, and ale spewed from his mouth that left a gray pool along the road.

“Beautiful risings, Durge!” Ryder cheered with a laugh.

Durge groaned and sat in the back down, gripping the edge of the wagon as they followed the convoy ahead. Six wagons with five people in each of them. Ryder felt smug when he relished in the thought that he commanded all of these high-ranked adventurers. But being in the back of the line did not feel as rewarding as he hoped. Soon, the midday came and went, leaving the orange glow of dusk in the sky above.

“Beats being packmules and getting blisters on our feet, eh Durge?”

Durge was too busy sucking down the last of his waterskin to listen to Ryder. Fortunately, their destination would soon arrive. The convoy stopped for the night. Tents and fires lined the sides of the road and into the forests. The duo stuck close to Catwood and his close group of guardsmen. Food, drinks, and tales of past adventures were told through the night.

While Ryder brought out his food purchased from Baird, Durge gazed over the guild members. “Isn’t that the same halberd that cut off Catwood’s hand?” Durge asked.

“Same orc wielding it too. They must’ve reconciled. Not like it was Gaxx’s fault anyway, an enchanter took hold of that blade that melted through Catwood’s defense,” Ryder said, pulling out the scraps of meat and bowls of rice.

Catwood gave a toast to his personal crew and raised a mug for the two young adventurers that guided them here. “By dawn tomorrow we shall be near enough to strike. If what the Potion-Giver says is true, we’ll see scouts and vulture hatchlings soon enough. Keep the fires low, keep the perimeter secure.” He gave a final look over his guild for the night and went to his tent.

A shirtless human covered in ink with metal pierced through his skin leaned over to the duo, greeting himself as Typhus and spewing drunken words onto them. “Keep it up and one day you’ll be Glorious! Then you can join us officially!” he laughed. His axes swayed along his hips as he left to refill his cup.

Ryder looked for the shimmering gold dog tags upon their necks but saw none. The only similarity each member had was the yellow cloth or feather plume they wore. He went over to Gaxx, the intimidating orc that donned red war paint underneath his crude black-iron helmet. He sharpened his halberd as the boy approached, whistling a cheery tune.

“Pardon me, but is there somewhere that we may acquire the yellow cloth and plumes? My companion and I were not aware of the identifier that your guild wears,” he wryly laughed. The orc stopped his tune and peered at the young adventurer. He pulled the feathers from his own helm and pulled a dull yellow rag from his side.

“Well… thank you, sir.”

The orc continued his tune after Ryder walked away.

“For yee, Knight of Locria,” the Count said, presenting the yellow plume.

Durge pulled it through his bestial helm. The vibrant yellow didn’t exactly match the sinister aesthetic of the black and crimson armor, but it was best to ensure that friendly adventurers would not try to slay him. Ryder tied the rag over his arm and went to lay beside the fire.

Cold air washed over him. Blown from the northern reaches of Moevohr, it reminded him that summer would soon end. The fireflies that surrounded flickered. And the stars above twinkled; they twisted and danced in the cosmos with life and their own stories to tell. The dwindling moon sat still on the clear night. It glimmered through his mother’s necklace, leaving small rays of blue across his palms.

Embers popped from the fire and ash fell upon the noble, filling his nose with smoke, his body with soot, and his eyes with tears. He breathed steady as the visions of Locria came back. But with a deep sigh, they vanished, and peaceful slumber fell upon him.

Durge held the reins while Ryder sat beside him at the front. His slime-friend bobbed up and down as he followed the convoy. “The journey would be better if I had a pipe full of stems and a large-brimmed pointy hat.”

“Tsk. I don’t need you hazed out while trying to steer Cauliflower,” Ryder said.

While trotting down the dust-ridden road, they heard an abnormal amount of rustling through the shrubs that paralleled the road. Durge halted the horse, raising his shield, and pulling the war hammer from his side. Ryder held the arrow through his fingers, ready to string at the sight of a Vulture. But last Ryder checked, Vultures did not wear flower pots on their head or absorb the grass below them.

The rotund green slime feasted on the shrubbery, twigs, leaves, and berries swirled inside it. Its clay pot was still halfway absorbed through the top of the slime, now with ripe fruit to harvest. The tiny slime around Durge’s neck seemed just as cheery as the two adventurers.

“What were you saying about stems?” Ryder laughed.

“The gods favor me!” Durge exclaimed. He sprang from the wagon and went over to the familiar slime. After plucking a handful of cherries from its shrub, he pulled the stems from the fruit and dropped them into the slime. It encased the toxic red orbs in its acidic goo; its gelatinous green body turned a light pink.

Ryder hopped off the wagon to gaze at his gifted plant. The slime was the rightful owner of the pot now. His thoughts of pruning, preening, and plucking the stem shrub for profit were long gone. But looking over the pot again, he noticed dull yellow paint around the clay edges. It resembled sunflowers weathered by rain and harsh landscape. Someone else met this slime. I’m just glad they didn’t give them to the glassblowers, Ryder thought.

While Durge worked on packing the stems into a small pouch of cloth, he felt an usual tugging on his neck. His red slime-friend moved more erratically than it has ever before. It acted as if it wanted to break through the glass of the vial or absorb the cork it sat in.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“Didn’t I just give you grains of rice? What do you want? Stems? Cherries? A leaf?” He procured a small blade of grass and put it in the vial but the small slime ignored it. Durge looked at the flowerpot slime, he didn’t know the relationships between the slimes or if they had one to begin with, but all he could think of was if he should set the slime free. He walked a few steps back to see if maybe slimes fought one another but that didn’t seem to be the case. The shield-bearer put the vial to his eyes. His red jelly friend for many moons now had to be let go.

“I wouldn’t want to live my life in a vial and feed on crumbs for my whole life either. And who would take care of you if I fell in battle? I know we had a good journey together…” Tears welled and dripped down his cheeks. “But you should return home now.” Durge uncorked the vial, gently placing the slime near its parent. From a speck as small as a fingernail to the size of a pebble, Durge’s companion raced to be one with the flowerpot slime. Slowly absorbed whole, all that was left of his tiny friend were memories and an empty health vial.

But as he wiped his tears and climbed the wagon, he swore he could see a faint red orb that swirled within the flowerpot slime until it disappeared into the vibrant forests once again.

“Don’t speak a word,” he sniffed.

Ryder nodded, holding a lip-curled smile and keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

Stillness of the wind. Silence of the birds. Strangeness surrounded all in the summer evening. Ryder knew it was about time for the convoy to start heading west, but a raised hand from Catwood at the front commanded all to halt. Every driver behind him mimicked the sign, commanding without a word.

Durge saw the order but continued onward, they were strides away from the convoy and used the pause to catch up. The driver ahead gave a stern glare and waved at Durge to stop. The oaf rolled his eyes and waited for the wagons to begin again. The driver huffed and shook his head at the duo. A ruffled tree branch above caught his attention, as he stared into the dense foliage, a reflection of the last light of the day shone from an iron tip of an arrow before it shot through his neck.

The stillness of the evening stayed until the driver’s body fell to the red soil beneath. As if the convoy took a deep breath in together, they all shouted simultaneously. Adventurers hopped over the wagon’s edge while some would remain nailed to it for eternity. Dozens of arrows rained down upon the Glorious. Hardwood, black-fletching, and an iron tip pelted wagons, horses, and the men before them.

Ryder and Durge were fortunate to be on the fringe of the ambush. No arrows came to them except one. Aimed for Cauliflower’s heart. Durge blocked it with his heater and saw into the eyes of the archer deep in the woods. He stomped toward him. War hammer in hand. Crushing the undergrowth before him, his dwarven-crafted armor could not compare to the cloth and tree bark the scouts wore.

An arrow struck Durge’s chest but ricocheted without a scratch upon the plate. The archer missed two more of his shots before it was too late for him to retreat. His hands quivered and fumbled pulling the shortsword from his scabbard. While stuck in the leather, a steel headbutt brought him to the forest floor.

The scout, dazed, and bleeding from his forehead, crawled in the underbrush before the knight dragged his leg back to him. He kicked and screamed as the crimson wolf’s metallic maw grinned back at him. Each blow of the hammer crippled the man. Broken limbs. Broken ribs. The spike on the reverse-side entered the top of his skull. And there the archer laid still and silent upon the forest floor.

After, Durge had to pry and crack open the skull to pull the spike out. He went over to Ryder who assessed the battlefield. Although ambushed, the might of the Glorious swiftly ended the Vultures. Three were killed and six more of the Verdure guild were wounded. The wagon in front was immobilized. Its driver and horses were slain. Four members that traveled in the wagon crawled into the duo’s.

One stone elf had an arrow stuck in her, but winced and shouted when anyone tried to tend to it. Ryder passed one of his health vials back to the new passengers and she snatched it and chugged it instantaneously. Durge sneered as sat beside him.

“I’m only keeping up the moniker that was bestowed upon me,” he smirked.

“Whatever you say, Sir Scholar.”

After the band of adventurers gathered themselves, orders came to continue onward. After four horizons westward, they made camp again. A camp made not to rest and remove after the next morning, but one to set up operations and fortifications. Shifts rotated often in fear of more ambushes or patrols in the night. Catwood set up a large canopy as a command post and studied the land surrounding him.

While in the midst of drawing a map of the area, an arrow ripped through the canopy cloth and stuck to Catwood’s table. A small patrol of two scavengers risked a lucky shot and failed. They sprinted west but Ryder, Durge, and the guild leader chased after.

Ryder risked his own shot during the pursuit. Between trees, ferns, the lack of light, and his allies in front, his red-fletched arrow made its mark. Wounding one of the Vulture’s in the leg. They fell to the ground with a soft thud. The scavenger’s companion picked them up and continued to run. Knowing they’d be caught at this pace, the two Vultures hobbled to the ruins of the north.

Catwood stopped the chase once they arrived at the mouth of the cave.

“They’re caught dead! Let’s end them!” Durge shouted.

“They’ll face a more vicious end inside. Look around you, hayseeds.” A fresh trail of blood led deep into the caverns of the abyss, but so did hundreds of others. Claw slashes against the walls. Scraps of bone and torn cloth along the floor.

“A colony…” Ryder said.

Deep growls echoed from the void, soon followed by the cries of men. Snarls, yelps, and howls cheered while the Vulture’s would remain silent for eternity. Lost to the darkness of amber eyes and silver teeth that would chew upon their flesh.

A sly grin grew at the corner of Catwood’s mouth, “Now you know the signs of a kobold fortress. Best to never enter unless you seek death.”

The smiles and cheers of Catwood’s victory were cut short as preparations for the siege continued. Stakes sharpened, earth upturned, and lanterns dimmed. The only dirt trail of Sumrall’s fortress that led to the road was sealed.

“Do we strike at sunrise, Cat?” Typhus asked.

The guild leader shook his head, “We cannot risk a full charge. We know not their numbers nor stock. They could bar their gates and survive for months.” He sighed as he gazed upon the map of the landscape. “I need shadows. Bring Salzar, Funmah, Olbif, and…” His eyes drew to the young archer beside him. “You, Potion-Giver.”

Ryder’s entire body tensed. His heart beat faster and his thoughts began to race. “What of Durge?” he asked. Although joyous to aid a Glorious-ranked adventurer, the burden of disappointing or failing a guild leader weighed on him.

“Too big and too noisy with that steel plate. You’re lean and I’ve seen your aim with a bow.”

“I can take the armor off!” Durge exclaimed. “I’m sneaky enough!”

Catwood sighed at the oaf, “Follow the orders. We need fighters here in case of an attack,” he explained.

Durge clenched his shield, but walked off once Ryder reassured him with a look that he’d remain cautious. As Durge left the tent, a sea elf, orc, and scarred scale-beast pushed past him. He stood near the outside of the closed canopy, breathing in the cool summer night. The voice of the guild leader was too muffled and too quick. And soon enough, all four of the scouts exited.

“What are they having you do, Rye?” he asked worriedly.

“Nothing me and some Glorious adventurers can’t handle, oaf.” Ryder bumped knuckles with his companion, gave a final nod, and disappeared into the dark forest outskirts. Absorbed by the forest with the pale light of the half-moon and the yellow glow of fireflies to guide his way to the Fortress of Elimor.