To Fyn's ears, "Penetrate," sounded like a strange word to choose to stop an argument. Lucas disagreed, shutting his mouth and ceasing all movement instantly. Fyn's eye bounced back and forth from the frozen fighter to the massive crossbow. He wasn't sure, but the head of the bolt seemed brighter after Sophie's declaration. Maybe that was what convinced Lucas to keep still?
"Let's slow down," Moving deliberately, Lucas untied his belt pouch and tossed it between himself and the trio, "Even if we haven't found a leader yet, you hired me to help you find a unique. Not going to try and say that little thing is one of those, are you?"
"Nope," Grace skipped forward with a giggle, grabbing the pouch without ever crossing in front of Sophie's crossbow, "but we hired you as a guide, not a thief. We can't have you stealing the best loot, can we?"
It didn't take her long to search the bag, and her brow furrowed as she looked at Bram, giving a short shake of her head.
Lucas started to smile triumphantly at the gesture, but his lips curled into a snarl as Bram said, "If they aren't in his pouch, we'll need to search him. One, I'd let go, Lucas. Three is too many."
The next few actions took place in a blur that left Fyn breathless.
Lucas, having already gathered his legs to stand, didn't bother to respond to Bram and lunged for his feet. Before he was halfway there, Sophie murmured "Headshot," in a soft, but clear voice as her finger pulled the trigger of her crossbow. There was a crunch and a thud, then all movement stopped.
Fyn, looking at Lucas, saw the crossbow bolt pierce his forehead cleanly. The bolt nailed the man to the tree he had been sitting against, supporting his body in a half crouch. It was as far as he had made it before the bolt took his life.
Lucas's corpses twitched, and his hand finally fell away from his sword. The pommel he had been holding in place dropped and landed on the ground. Three red crystals, about as long and thin as an index finger, slid out of the empty sword hilt and plopped noiselessly out to fall beside the pommel.
"Going to be difficult to find a unique without him," Grace was unfazed by the death, strolling over to collect the red crystals, grabbing the dropped pommel and Lucas's sword almost as an afterthought. "He did know the area."
"That was the problem," Bram pulled off his helm, revealing a ruggedly handsome face under unkempt brown hair, "he knew the area but wasn't strong enough to hunt here. He probably could have found us a unique days ago but decided to use us to kill leaders instead."
"Reputation," Sophie reloaded her crossbow with smooth motions as she uttered this baffling statement.
While Fyn couldn't understand, Bram seemed to, answering, "The man's cheated enough people that his death won't hurt us. We'll say he got clipped by a unique, and we were unable to save him. It won't build our reputation, but no one will question it."
"Then the question is, do we head back or keep looking?" Grace screwed the pommel back onto Lucas's sword and put the weapon into the dead man's pouch, which she then secured to her belt.
"We keep looking," Bram ran a hand through his hair and put his helm back on, "you'll have to handle the tracking, Grace. A dead guide won't hurt us but failing a quest would set us back hard."
They kept talking as they moved away, discussing directions, and ideas. Once, Fyn saw Sophie staring in his direction, but he thought maybe she was looking at the crossbow bolt she was leaving behind; the one that was still pinning Lucas to a tree. Either way, she didn't say anything and before long the trio was out of sight.
Fyn wasn't sure how long he waited once they were gone. The sun was still up, which was good, Fyn didn't want to be moving around in the dark, and he couldn't stay here. Part of him wanted to chase after the trio of hunters or adventurers, or whatever they were.
He had been on the verge of calling out to the three after Lucas's death. Fyn wasn't sure where he stood concerning the morals behind the man's death, but it hadn't been entirely undeserved. The man had been cheating his companions, and he had seemed to attack them when it was suggested he be searched. There might have been other options available, but Fyn wasn't in any place to judge.
On the other hand, the following conversation strongly suggested that while the trio wasn't bothered by their guide's death, they wouldn't welcome any witnesses. Maybe they weren't the bad guys in this situation, but the casual way they executed Lucas didn't make Fyn want to test their benevolence.
Scrambling out of his hole, Fyn didn't bother to brush himself off and quickly approached Lucas's body. He had been building his nerve for this and quickly went to work. Grace had taken the man's sword and pouch but his knife, that wonderfully sharp knife, carried scout-style on the back of Lucas's belt, was still there. Belt and knife were soon in Fyn's hands, and he felt a surge of confidence. There was a lot you could do with a good knife, it changed everything.
He didn't stop there, though. The trio hadn't bothered to search the body properly, probably because, from all signs available, they didn't need anything from Lucas. They had already taken the best of what he had. Fyn had entirely different priorities.
Fyn tried to remain detached as he pulled off Lucas's boots and stripped the corpse of its clothes. You had to be thorough. Lucas had been a greedy man, a thief. Liars expected you to lie, and thieves expected you to steal from them. Lucas had already carried a sword with a hollow hilt; he certainly had other hiding places.
Prying off the heel of one boot, Fyn found a white metal coin the size of his palm, that had the slightest rose tint to it when held up to the light. Tearing the seams of the shirt and pants, Fyn found five more coins, small gold ones half the size of the first white one. All the coins were marked with a crown on one side and a sword on the other.
Other than the coins, all Fyn found was a strange square pedant and a thin metal rod, hanging from a chain around Lucas's neck. Having stripped the man, it was a disappointing haul. The leather armor that seemed so impressive at first glance was old, worn, and much, much too large. Bundling it up, Fyn considered carrying it with him and found it was shockingly heavy.
In other circumstances, the coins, which were probably a considerable amount of wealth, might have been welcome, but what Fyn needed was food, water, and directions.
Fyn chuckled to himself as he put the coins, pedant, and rod into his pouch. What had he been expecting? A hidden map? A secret supply of rations hidden under a left butt cheek? Lucas has concealed things he thought were valuable, money he might need in an emergency. It was pretty reasonable, and perfectly useless to Fyn.
Still, Fyn thought as he attached the all important knife to his belt, the weapon/tool made everything worthwhile.
Knife in place, Fyn gave a small nod of thanks to Lucas, and briefly considered pulling the bolt free. He couldn't stick around to burry the man, but leaving him hanging there naked was heartless.
Looking up, Fyn decided that the almost completely naked corpse would have to stay as it was. He was unable to see the sun well through the canopy of branches, but it had to set eventually. He needed to be somewhere else before that happened, somewhere far away from the corpses of men and wolf creatures. Hopefully, somewhere secure, near water, and a convenient source of food.
However, there was one last thing he could take from the scene. People ate dogs, maybe not where Fyn had grown up, but it happened. Fyn remembered hearing a rancher in his hometown talking about the taste of mountain lions as well. The meat was lean, greasy and not very appetizing, but it was edible.
Turning, Fyn faced the corpses of the wolf creatures. His hand went to the knife on his belt and then froze there. All thoughts of food were immediately set aside, at the sight of a crow, or at least something that might very nearly be called a crow.
Once again, like the wolves, it was too big. The pitch-black bird with the red eyes was nearly three tall. Those red eyes, all three of them, blinked at Fyn rapidly before its razor sharp beak began to hammer at the corpse of the wolf it stood on. Ripping off a large section of muscle, the bird lifted its head towards the sky and began to swallow. Fyn could see tiny, sharp teeth shredding the meat as it was sucked into the bird's beak.
Birds with teeth. Fyn wanted no part of that. His blood ran cold as a second three-eyed crow landed on the body and tore off a hunk of meat to swallow down. Vaguely, Fyn could hear the cawing of birds out of sight, possibly the rest of the flock, already disposing of the rest of the vanquished pack.
No, Fyn thought, slowly backing up, a group of crows wasn't called a flock. They were called a murder. Fyn absently remembered that he had once heard they could also be called a storytelling. At the time he had thought that was a lot more pleasant, but now, faced with birds that had teeth, a murder of crows felt very fitting.
He backed away until he hit a tree trunk, which he slowly skirted around, sidestepping until the crows were out of sight. With a deep breath, Fyn moved forward deliberately, forcing himself not to run and resisting the urge to look over his shoulder.
Fyn had meant to travel in the opposite direction that the trio of adventurers had chosen. Thinking that the Bram and his companions were still searching for a "unique," whatever that was, Fyn felt the chances were the trio would head deeper into the forest. With no other information to base his decision on, left seemed better than right in this situation.
With the appearance of the crows, all careful choice of travel disappeared. Any which way would do when murder was in the air, or in this case, gathering for lunch behind you.
Fyn tried to stay calm, but subconsciously he started moving faster. Soon, he was almost running, his head swiveling as he went. His hand occasionally reached back to touch his new knife as his breath started to come heavier. Fyn jumped at every sound, from a bird call to the snap of twigs under his feet. Half of them he was sure he imagined, or at least he told himself he imagined them.
He saw nothing besides towering trees and the occasional sapling. The forest seemed empty and lonely, but then, he hadn't seen the wolves until they were fighting Lucas a dozen feet away from where Fyn had sheltered. And Fyn hadn't heard the crows until their beaks were already stripping away flesh.
The forest no longer felt like a well-groomed park. It surrounded and oppressed him, cold, ancient, and alien. Fyn didn't consider himself a fearful person, yet he could feel the terror building in him. He felt small and exposed, the world around him violent and strange.
He tried to keep his imagination under control, but he couldn't help but wonder what else lived in these woods besides giant wolf monsters. It was a world of magic. There could be dragons and gryphons sleeping on the forest floor. Goblins and orcs could be hiding behind every tree. For all Fyn knew, the trees could come to life to attack him, merely bidding their time until he was too tired to fight back.
He had too little information, too few sources for fresh knowledge, and no helpful hermit seemed ready to pop out of the foliage to offer him advice. There was only one source Fyn could trust presently, his status, but he needed a safe place before he could spare the time to examine it.
A safe place and water, Fyn thought, as he paused, leaning against a tree trunk to catch his breath. His mouth felt dry, his skin hot, even in the shade. Sweat soaked his clothing, and the humid air seemed to push him down.
His hand, that ridiculously tiny hand, formed a fist, which pounded against the tree bark, once, as Fyn's breathing eased. He was tempted to sink to the ground, to rest for a bit and gather his thoughts. His fingers itched to open his status and maybe do something productive, something to fight against the images of wolves, crows, and crossbows that kept intruding into his thoughts.
He was on the verge of sitting when his ears caught the low, light sound of water splashing on rocks. Fyn blinked and let the sound guide him. Turning on his heel, he rushed forward, sprinting now as the light crash of water became heavier.
Breaking out of the tree line, Fyn found a clearing, three or four hundred meters wide and just as long. Thousands of wildflowers in vibrant hues of purple, blue, and white were nestled in low green grass. Bushes, covered in red and green berries, fluttered their yellow leaves as Fyn brushed by them, moving slowly so as not to step on any of the delicate blossoms in the clearing.
The sound of water came from a creek that ran through the center of the clearing. No, not a creek. A stream or even a small river, Fyn thought, as he padded towards the water. It was too big to be a creek, and standing on its bank, Fyn realized it was probably too deep to be a stream. Definitely a river then. Most likely.
As his mind argued over the proper term for this particular body of water, Fyn's knees knelt and his hands dipped into the river, scooping out mouthfuls of the cool, refreshing liquid and carrying it to his lips. A small part of his brain stopped arguing with itself long enough to remind Fyn that you should really boil untreated water, but he didn't listen as he gulped out of his cupped hands and splashed his face.
The cold sensation on his hot skin and lips snapped Fyn out of the growing panic that had been building in him. He took a few more drinks directly from the river, telling himself that fast-moving water in remote areas was unlikely to carry disease. Dehydration was the bigger threat here. Dehydration, and dragons, not to mention crows and wolves.
The last thing Fyn should worry about was tainted water. As his thirst was gradually quenched, Fyn snorted a chuckle. It would be just his luck. Transported to a fantasy world, and Fyn dies, not in the cruel jaws of a monster, or from a sword to the gut, but violently emptying his bowels while squatting against a tree, wishing for a water filter