Aftermath

I wake to find that the feast is over, the Berserker is no more. Except a stain on the tree’s roots and me. I collect the spirit from the Blackroots’ corpses, a dirty white light that is hungrily swallowed by my skin. I survived the fight, it's all a blur in my memory. My face is a swollen and battered mess from the pummeling. Larynx burns with each raspy breath, but I'm alive. The Reaver’s fury at my tactics was worth it, the penance will eventually be paid and these men’s spirits will be a good start. The elixir would sort most of my troubles out in a flash, but without my gambit, I would never have been able to take on four killers at once. My struggle paid off as runes announced an increase in my Neuo upon waking, now 3/10 Ash rank. An indication of physical athleticism considering the hardship that goes into those numbers changing.

I take my rewards.

Loot added to inventory

Arming sword

Antler helm

Skinning knife

Leather garments

Steel pauldron

Steel greaves

Iron hatchet

Blackroot insignia key

4 Shillings

11 Pennies

More currency in case I have to trade with other people will be useful, discovering their value might be tricky. The other looted items appear unfortunately normal, any metal that warped during the fight has returned to its original shape. Once the power’s master has his insides hollowed out, it must leave the material.

There is a fair amount that I can trade with Livingston, though I am sure he will mock me for its quality and lack of magic. I hold the heavy iron key, the insignia displays an upside down tree with black roots that dig into the sun, and the tree trunk leads to swirling leaves that make up a screaming skull, how edgy. These Blackroots showed more professionalism than those bukkehorn addicted hunters, Uke watched over me during that fight, even with my cheating plays.

I stow all the weapons and gear away in my inventory and make for the village. I proceed with caution, the other men and Thorns will easily strike me down in my current state. Wrist possibly shattered, shoulder stiff, face and neck bruised and swollen. My stumbling gait is slow through the ferns, banking from tree to tree, vigilantly watching my surroundings for movement.

The mushroom farm is gone as if a locust swarmed the fungus. Only churned soil indicates where the bulbous colonies once were. I keep going for a few branch falls, believing I’m lost until my foot kicks a pile of burnt wood in the foliage.

I’m right in the middle of the village, or where it once was. They managed to pack up and leave while I was unconscious. Amazed by their efficiency, I wander around the area looking for more evidence, or anything to use. Amongst the green, a single brown structure stands.

“Thank you Mother.” I say aloud.

It’s my tippee.

Either they condemned it as tainted or Piia argued it should be left behind for me. I stifle a cry at the simple act, lack of shelter will kill me quicker than hunger or thirst. I stretch my crooked back out, imagining sleeping in my bedroll and not against a curving tree root.

I dip inside and find only one bedroll, and Honey.

The ugly yellow slug glows on the ceiling, its crisscrossing trail of slime is glistening everywhere. Why would Artur abandon Honey?

I place the slug on a nearby root, hungrily gobbling down the sweet droplets as my mind mulls over her abandonment.

What if he was forced to leave Honey? What if he never left?

“Artur!” I yell out.

The place is clear, no chance the other Blackroots would hang around for me, they have bodies to sell.

A crashing of foliage reveals the young Satyr boy, he leaps into my arms with a grin. The embrace tempers my smouldering anger, allowing me a small moment of joy and being reunited with a friend. One less Satyr for their slave markets. I squeeze him tightly, thinking of the terrible life he just escaped.

“Artur. How did you know?” I ask looking into his red eyes, he’s been crying.

The youngling shakes his head, not sure what I mean.

“The Voice, the Shepherd and his men. They’re all slavers, it was all a trick.”

A fresh stream runs down his furry cheeks as he processes my words. He didn’t know. Which means he only stayed for me. I hold the lost boy for a time, feeling him sob into my poncho.

“We will be okay, my guy. I’m going to save them all, I promise.” I whisper, not allowing the inner rage to slip into my voice.

Suddenly he leaps back and tugs at my arm with filthy hands trying to pull me along. Mud crusts under cracking nails, dirt is matted into fur to his elbow.

He leads me across the village, over a clearing of packed ground and towards the chimney of green motes. They still swirl into the air from the hubris stump, a fresh carpet of jade moss explodes like lava from the top, flowing down to eat up the unblocked sunlight.

Artur pulls me past the sanctum and on towards the pit.

Cane.

“Cane!” I yell out and run to the edge of the deep hole, his dirty pink hide barely visible in the shadows.

A moan echoes up to greet me. I see a shallow groove has been dug out by hand, the younglings work at helping my friend. In my shell shock and fury, I had completely forgotten about my trapped hippo. The Voice’s sneering face and the cries of chained Satyrs clouded my mind to the present.

The lad starts to dig again, beckoning me to help him.

“Leave it, Artur. It’ll take tree falls to dig down at the right angle for Cane to walk out. Time we don’t have.” I say now deep in thought trying to assess the problem.

He stares at me with depressed worry.

“We aren’t leaving him, just need a faster way to get him out.”

A crane would be ideal to lift his giant frame, I could rig a series of ropes to a tree. Use an army of Mirrored Images to pull him out. That would need a lot of blood and flesh. The Chaotic Will tends to knock me out after two successive uses. A blood clone of Cane could work, however, the rope would need to be incredibly strong to lift him. He’s certainly larger than a normal hippo, ranging above two tonnes I imagine. I could fashion a pulley system with Ferrum wood, but I don’t have the carpentry skills or tools. Looking around at the nearby trees kills that plan, the overhead ferns are far too flimsy to support any weight.

His meaty legs won’t be able to climb a ladder, what if I fill the hole with blood clones that he can climb atop? No, again I will never be able to produce enough. I mull over the idea as Artur watches me from the dirt.

The tweeting orchestra of birds in the canopy sing to another new day. In the far distance, a guttural howl from a creature causes me to listen out and watch my rear. Whatever that beast was scared the muk of the birds and killed their morning songs. Only the tepid continuous gurgle of the river can be heard now.

Water.

“That’s it.”

I grab the youngling with glee and pull him to the river. Its meandering watercourse flows around the village edge, the banks now submerged as the recent rains threaten to flood the area from another rain.

The Blackroots arming sword forms into my hand and I use the point to trace a direct line to the pit, only two small tree trunks in length. As I finish the guideline, Artur looks up at me in horror as he realises my intentions.

“Oh shush, he’s a hippo! He’ll float to the top and enjoy every moment of it.” I point out. Of course, the child doesn’t know, he never watched Animal Planet.

I remove the looted hatchet and hand it to him.

“You churn up the ground, we don’t need a deep trench to start the water flowing. Then dig with this”- I withdraw a steel pauldron, its concave shape a better spade than anything else I possess.- “I’ll be back right.”

I leave the child and set off back to where the Blackroots died. Their corpses are now cold and bloating with death. My Riptails bronze edge saws through the naked flesh with ease, only slowing at the dense femur until I snap it with a few kicks. The brutality of the situation is lost on me, these aren’t men, they’re slavers. They see the Satyrs as property, I see them as wasted meat. I chop limbs off them all, storing them away in my inventory space then head back to the pit.

I find Artur has hacked the ground into a loose workable form and now skoops mud away with ease. The soft ground is saturated from the rains and soon a trench starts to form.

I compliment the lad on his hard work and he smiles with pride, eagerly chipping away with rejuvenated energy. As he turns back to the trench, I toss the meat into the pit. Little thuds announce their landing and soon the crash of Cane's munching maws.