Name: Fyn
Race: Human
Age:12
Class: (please select)
Level: N/A
Strength: .5
Agility: .5
Spirit: .5
Fyn. He had a name, an identity. He existed, was real, and that was comforting. Mostly. It also meant what was happening to him was real. The name cemented things in a way the dirt under his fingernails hadn't.
He tried to remember where the name, Fyn, came from. Had he known someone with it? Liked a character with that name? It was hard to say.
Fyn was 90% certain that in his past life he had had a mundane name. Something like John, or Robert, William or maybe Todd. One of those names that was never in or out of style, but always popped up.
It was strange, but the only reason Fyn was certain he had lived another life was because he had read that message that said he had. There was a dream-like quality to his memories. They were disjointed and confused, fuzzy and distant.
He could remember going to school but couldn't remember the name of the girl who had sat next to him for the majority of his school years. They had been friends, though they hadn't kept in touch once they graduated, and he could almost see her face but he really only recalled her dimples with any clarity.
After school, he had joined the army, and spent years being told what to do, where to go, when to fight, and where to sleep. He remembered having a strong love/hate relationship with that life and missing it when it was over.
He had a sinking suspicion that most of his memories were connected with things he could do, and the rest had been… not erased but dusted over. He could build a shelter, and get a fire going, but when it came to naming the person who taught him those things, the words skipped ahead of him just out of reach.
Maybe that was for the best. He wasn't John Robert Todd anymore. He was Fyn, and he needed to figure out who that was, not recall who he had been.
Currently, Fyn was a scared boy, trapped in a hole. Crawling, forward, he peeked out the "window" he had left open. There wasn't much to see. No search parties coming to look for him or monsters trying to eat him.
He couldn't stay here. On the list of priorities, food, water and shelter, where at the top, and he had none of those. This dugout was no permanent solution, it was a blanket, pulled over his head so he could pretend the nastiness outside didn't exist.
He needed information, and currently his only source of that was his status. All the hints had disappeared from it and the message that had been on the screen when he first became aware was gone as well, but he had been told he required a Class. Would have been nice if someone had mentioned how you got one of those. So far, he hadn't seen any lying around.
Fyn started to pull up his status again, hoping to find a hint that he had missed. Before his finger found the blue mark on the back of his hand, a sound made him freeze. It was a howl, followed by a coughing bark, and a series of snarls.
If the noise came from one animal, it would be terrifying, but Fyn had the sinking suspicion that a dozen throats made those soul-shaking sounds. He heard a yip, followed by a scream that could have been a person as easily as it could have come from an animal. The noises sounded like they were coming closer, and soon he could make out the thud of objects striking flesh and the snapping of jaws.
A… thing burst out from around a tree, trailing blood and howling as it ran. Twice as big as any dog he had ever seen, Fyn wanted to call it a wolf, but no wolf had fangs that big, holding its mouth open in a wide evil grin. No wolf had ever locked on to its prey with eyes that malevolent, filled with a dim glow that shone even in the light of the day.
And it had seen him, Fyn could see its muscles bunching as it lowered its muzzle to charge at him. The dirt and branches he had packed in to make the walls of his shelter wouldn't even slow this killing machine down. It would be on him in seconds and his life would be gone a moment later.
Fyn's mouth was still open to scream when the beast collapsed to the ground with a crossbow bolt in the back of its skull. He slapped his hands to his jaw and forced his mouth closed, holding in any sound he might want to make. The howls and snarls continued, as friends of the fallen wolf monster continued to fight unseen.
Fyn trembled as he balled up a fist and pressed it against his teeth. Whoever the wolf creatures were battling seemed to have the upper hand. One by one the beasts were silenced until the last fled, leaping over the body of the only animal Fyn had seen so far.
This wolf was smaller than the first, sleek, fast and just as dangerous looking as the animal that nearly made Fyn wet himself with a glance. The fleeing creature's speed didn't help it, however. Hard on its tail, a man wielding a sword lunged forward impaling the beast, nailing it to the forest floor, where it struggled for a bit before falling quiet.
Fyn let out a slow breath as the man in rough leather armor wrenched his sword free and then plunged it back into the corpse. After making sure the beast was dead, the man wiped his mouth and spit, calling over his shoulder, "I got the last one. How many does that make?"
Fyn couldn't hear the reply, though the man nodded as he kicked the beast, "There's one down to a bolt over here as well. I'll skin mine, but I sure as hell ain't doing both."
Choosing the smaller of the two wolves, the man was good to his word. Sheathing his sword, he drew a knife and set to butchering the animal.
In a quiet part of his numb mind, Fyn admired the rough-looking man's quick, professional motions. Not a single one of his cuts was wasted as he separated the pelt from the muscles, and cracked the dead animal's jaw to collect the teeth.
Memories of hunting as a child and an adult flickered through Fyn's head. As he compared his experience to the actions of the man, Fyn had to admit his skills weren't in the same realm. If he put himself in the Hunter's place, it would take him twice as long and none of his knife work would be as confident.
From his perspective and without knowing the standards of the world, the man Fyn was watching was easily the most competent hunter he had ever seen.
What was most amazing, though, was that after the pelt had been removed, the man took a small pouch, not much bigger than the one holding Fyn's coins, from his belt and pressed it to the skin. The wolf skin, easily ten times the size of the pouch, vanished and Fyn nearly choked himself sucking in his spit. That was magic, Fyn had just seen his first bit of other worldly miracle, and it was quickly followed by similar marvels as the man deposited other bits of the beast into the tiny sack.
Fyn was on the verge of bursting out of his shelter immediately. He wanted to be closer when the man performed the trick again, to make sure he hadn't missed anything. But a nagging sense of distrust made him sink farther back away from his peephole.
For one thing, what was he supposed to say? How could Fyn explain his presence without seeming suspicious? The hunter was damn good at what he did, but he didn't look like the sympathetic sort that would accept a lost child story and offer help unconditionally. From everything he knew, Fyn was days away from being anywhere an unarmed child had any business being, and if he put himself in the Hunter's place, he'd have numerous questions that Fyn couldn't answer.
The hunter's next actions made Fyn trust his instincts. Instead of turning to the second corpse to field dress it, the hunter stood and cleaned his knife before tucking it away and sauntering over to sit a good distance from the bodies.
That put a stick up Fyn's back. When he had been brought here, the message he'd been left had said he hadn't lived up to his potential and Fyn had to admit that from what he could recall, that seemed true. He didn't study as much as he should have, or exercise more than was necessary. He didn't put in the effort that would have gotten him promotions at work that he would have been suited for because the extra responsibility wasn't worth it.
However, when there was work to be done, Fyn did it. In his eyes, the Hunter, despite his skill, showed a serious lack of character by sitting down while there were still things that needed doing.
The way the Hunter crossed his legs and whistled tunelessly as he waited implied he knew exactly what he was doing and that he wasn't simply resting. He was putting on a show and Fyn was curious who it was for and why.
He didn't have to wait long to find out. Footsteps heavy enough to sound for a good distance quickly approached. Fyn tensed up in his hiding spot, but the hunter smiled and pulled off his right-handed glove. Tapping the back of it with his left hand, his status appeared, and Fyn almost shouted out a thanks.
This confirmed that anyone could see the another person's status, and Fyn was able to scoot to the side enough to read the hunter's, though the angle wasn't great.
Name: Lucas Moody
Age: 29
Race: Human
Class: Fighter
Level: 15
Experience: 0/100,000
Strength: 22
Stamina: 18
Defense: 12
Spirit: 15
(Display Skills)
The Hunter, Lucas, almost lazily lifted his left hand and pressed on the Class section of his status. The displayed page unfolded from the word "Fighter" and showed a different screen.
Fyn bit his lower lip. He wouldn't have thought of that, and he should have. It should have occurred to him the second he closed his status by pressing the ~ symbol. Obviously, the status was a touch screen!
The class page now displayed on Lucas's screen read Fighter at the top and spreading out underneath was what Fyn tentatively wanted to describe as a skill tree. Or skill pole in this case. One long line trailed downwards, interpreted in places by several nodes but no real branches.
Lucas moved his finger up and down, dragging it on the page like he was moving the screen, though from what Fyn could tell, nothing changed despite his actions. He's still putting on a show, Fyn guessed, probably for the much larger man who had come into view.
"Still work to be done, Lucas," the man said, disapproval heavy in his tone as he stood next to the two dead animals.
"Not for me, Bram," Lucas snorted, still pretending to study his status, left hand hovering close to the page as if he were struggling to make a choice. Fyn noticed Lucas's right hand maintained a firm grip on the pommel of his sword.
"I'm here as a guide, remember?" Lucas looked over at Bram long enough to roll his eyes at the man, "I should charge you extra for the fighting, but I'll keep the pelt, and we'll call it even."
Fyn had a growing sense that Lucas was not a man to be trusted, but he had to admire the Fighter. Tearing his eyes away from Lucas's status, Fyn admitted, after studying Bram, that it took nerve to talk to the big man the way Lucas was.
And Bram was big. Granted, from Fyn's height, Lucas himself was a large man, but Bram was easily another foot taller. He was wider than some houses Fyn had seen and Fyn imagined that under the leather and metal armor Bram wore, was a body of hard muscle. The heavy mace that dangled from his waist further impressed on Fyn that this was a man to talk softly around.
Bram didn't answer for a moment, looking at the two corpses through the slit in his helm before saying, "You cracked the skull, Lucas."
"Easiest way to get the teeth," Lucas kept his voice even, but Fyn saw his hand tighten on the pommel of his sword. It was a strange gesture, Fyn thought, almost like he was holding the sword in place rather than getting ready to draw it.
"Easiest way to get the crystal too," a light voice floated into the conversation and its owner stepped forward to stand on one side of Bram, "Twelve blood wolves means a leader at the very least, packs don't get this larger without one. Funny enough, we haven't found that leader yet."
The woman who spoke was captivating. Long blonde hair framed a delicate face, and her doubting words fell out of full lips set under a thin nose. Where Bram's armor was heavy, and Lucas's seemed practical, hers was light, hardly covering much of anything, but somehow still giving the impression that it was armor. Between the look and the two long daggers at her waist, Fyn wanted to call her the thief type.
"Maybe the leader got away, Grace," Lucas tapped his finger against the node on his status that his finger had been hovering over and then he closed everything, "there was only twelve. Leaders can control up to fifteen."
"None escaped," a third voice said, and another woman claimed the spot on Bram's left. She spoke softly but with certainty. Her armor said "hunter" the same way Lucas's had but in a more polished way. The massive crossbow that she carried at her hip, supported by a strap around her shoulders, emphasized that image and the way she kept the weapon pointed at Lucas seemed to dare him to repeat his claims.
"Then the leader is at your feet, Sophie," Lucas turned his head to spit but kept the rest of his body still.
"We'll need to see your bag, Lucas," Bram said in a reasonable voice, "this is the third pack where you've said the leader got away. That excuse is starting to wear thin."
"The hell you need to see my bag," Lucas started, gathering his legs to stand up.
"Penetrate," Sophie said, her finger slipping to touch the trigger of her crossbow.