Belly down on the ledge at the edge of the pool, Fyn held his breath as he dipped a hollow gourd into the water. As soon as the container was full, he jerked his hand back, spilling some water as he scrambled to his feet. Knowing things with teeth lurked out of sight, Fyn wouldn't be dunking his head into the water again.
Carrying the gourd back to the fire, Fyn set it next to the other two he had already filled. Beside the gourds was a pile of chopped roots, shredded leaves, and two messy filets of fish, one of which had been cut into chunks.
Cleaning his foe had been a chore. His knife wasn't made for making thin slices. Fyn had hacked the flesh into submission rather than neatly separating the meat from the bone. Fortunately, the fish had plenty of flesh to spare.
Fyn began dropping pieces of fish and plant matter into the gourd. Water splashed over the edge as he packed the hard shell full of fish and lestiherry, adding berries and herbs just to see how it would taste.
Once all three gourds were full, he set them on the embers of his fire. Sitting with his knees hugged against his chest, Fyn peered at his pots, looking for any sign they were burning. Surprisingly, instead of charring, the gourds seemed to dry out, getting wrinkled and harder yet not going up in flames.
Setting his chin on his knees, Fyn relaxed as his idea played out. He had read it was possible to boil water in bowls made from certain types of bark, but he had never tried it before. Whether the fish would cook was unclear, however, from now on, Fyn could look forward to meals of boiled leaves, roots, and grass.
Fyn's eyes closed, and he forced them back open. It would be easy to fall asleep, too easy. He couldn't afford to do that, not while his dinner was cooking. He also needed to cook the other half of the fish. Preserving it was out of the question, it was either cook it or toss it out.
Unfolding his legs, Fyn stretched. Standing, he went to where a fish head and a pile of entrails lay on a piece of bark. This would have to be buried. The fish's bones were shockingly tough, Fyn had plans to carve new hooks and maybe needles from them, but the rest had to be disposed of before it attracted bugs or worse.
Bending, Fyn grabbed the bark by the edge closest to the fish's mouth. He remembered the sharp teeth in that mouth and his fingers tightened, his arm shaking. Hating himself a little, he looked to the side, and his eyes passed over the back of his hand.
His blue status dot was blinking.
It was slow, once every ten seconds, slow enough you might miss it if you weren't looking for it. Letting go of the bark, Fyn let his hand drift back towards the fish head, keeping his eyes on the back of his hand.
The blinking increased as it got closer to the fish remains. When his palm settled on the fish's head, the dot blinked once every two seconds. Reaching to the side, Fyn grabbed a flat rock he intended to use to build up his fire pit.
Raising it above his head, Fyn smashed the stone down. The rest of the fish was hard, the skull, was not. Underneath the rock, bone cracked, and fish bits splattered, leaving a trail across the floor.
"I'll have to clean that," Fyn said, squinting as he flipped the flat stone over. Taking shallow breaths through his mouth, Fyn picked through goo and scales, fingers closing around a hard object, the size, and color of a pearl. Once it was in his hand, the strobing blue dot on his skin began to pulse quicker. Transferring the pearl to his left hand, Fyn held it next to the dot and watched as his Status absorbed it.
"Improvement point gained," Fyn pursed his lips, "So, white points can come from animals too. Or only fish? Does it have to do with size? White from smaller animals, yellow from big ones?"
"And red from leaders, whatever they are," Thinking leaves might do to wipe up the mess, Fyn turned around. A pair of blue eyes stared at him from beside the fire.
"I wasn't talking to you," Fyn assured the weasel-rabbit, "unless you know. Hell, maybe you're my wise hermit, huh?"
The weasel-rabbit didn't answer. It lowered its nose and sniffed the filet that Fyn had left out. Ignoring Fyn completely, the creature walked by him, and sniffed at the squashed head and entrails. Fyn turned his body to follow it with his eyes, as the animal paced to the pool and looked down at the water.
Fyn thought it looked, not afraid but… uncomfortable. Stubby tail twitching, hackles raised ever so slightly. The weasel-rabbit turned and walked back, sauntering casually, as if to tell him any unease was all in Fyn's head.
With grace and dignity, the weasel-rabbit, began to lick up the splattered mess strewn across the floor. Once all the bits were gone, and the rock was polished, the creature moved to the bark plate of remains, nibbling the guts and organs with neat, tiny bites. It chewed the shattered head, not sparing the bones.
The spine and ribs that Fyn had set aside were next. A long, rough tongue stripped the flesh from bones, far better than Fyn had managed. Then it crunched and chewed until no piece of fish was left. Fyn shuddered at that.
Not from disgust. In the back of his head, Fyn had thought, if it came to it, the weasel-rabbit would be easy to fight off. Standing on all fours, the animal didn't come as high as his knee. Seeing the ease at which the animal broke and swallowed bone his knife couldn't scratch, Fyn decided to stay on the weasel-rabbit's good side as much as possible.
Finished with the skeleton, the weasel-rabbit proceeded to eat the leftover filet. It's long, rough tongue licked and flicked, ripping off chunks and carrying them into its mouth.
It wasn't until the animal cast its eyes on his fish filled gourds that Fyn spoke up, "I need those! I have to eat too."
The weasel-rabbit tilted its head at him. Its cold eyes drilled into Fyn for a moment, then it gave a significant look towards the western path. Fyn thought it was telling him to leave at first, then its gaze drifted to the pool, and back to him.
"You want me to catch you some more?" He guessed, he reached for his pole and began to bait the hook, "I don't suppose you'd be willing to make a deal? You get the meat, I keep the improvement points and bones?"
The creature gave no sign it understood him. A well-fed weasel-rabbit was less likely to attack him though, Fyn reasoned, so he went to the pool.
Dangling his line into the water, Fyn let his hook float on the top, occasionally lifting it, causing ripples to spread over the pool. The creature watched him from ten feet away. Keeping one eye on the water and one on the weasel-rabbit, Fyn fished.
"They might be sleeping," Fyn said after ten minutes went by, "or they have already figured out what's happening. Animals are scary smart around here."
"Just look at you," Fyn kept up a stream of conversation, uncomfortable in the silence, "I'd swear you understand me. An animal like you probably has a name. Like Ricky. You look like a Ricky to me."
Ricky didn't respond, its eyes glued to Fyn's line, muscles tense.
"I could be doing this wrong," Fyn confessed, "maybe I should look into the Fisherman class, what do you think?"
While Fyn was adding Fisherman to the growing mental list of classes that might be useful, his hook touched the water again. A shadow darted out from the bottom of the pool and hit his bait like a missile. The fish's momentum carried it out of the river briefly, throwing a spray of water into the air.
Fyn cursed as the fish completed its jump and dove back down for the depths. His rod was almost yanked out of his grasp, but Fyn tightened his hold and pulled hard, walking backwards as he grunted and swore.
Fyn's line suddenly went slack, then the fish burst out of the pool, its tail sweeping the air as it came right at him. The hook fell out of its mouth as the fish's jaws opened. Fyn, half expecting this, started to swing his pole, prepared for another fishy wrestling match.
Fyn caught a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. Before his strike could land on the flying fish, its head separated from its body and dropped to the floor. The body should have followed, but it never arrived.
Frozen in place, Fyn tried to process what happened. Turning his head, he saw Ricky. The white weasel-rabbit was dragging a fish almost as large he was by its tail. Seeing Fyn staring, Ricky let go of his prize, walked to the fish's head and with one claw sliced into the fish's skull. A flick of its forepaw sent a white orb spinning through the air to strike Fyn's shin.
Fyn let go of his rod and scrambled to grab the improvement point before it could roll away. Clutching the pearl in his hand, it was a long moment before he brought it to his status dot to deposit.
Ricky was smart. Ricky was fast. Ricky was far stronger than Fyn was, and his claws would shred Fyn's skin easily.
And Ricky was not tame.
Fyn repeated that in his head as he stood up and watched the weasel-rabbit swiftly devour the yellow fish. Leaving behind a few of the bones in a neat pile, Ricky finished his meal in minutes. The animal ran its tongue around the outside of its mouth and then stared at the pool again.
Ricky was a big eater. Ricky was still hungry. Ricky was getting impatient.
Numbly, Fyn retrieved his rod. Inspecting the thorn hook, he found it and the line undamaged. Even the bait remained.
In silence, Fyn began to fish again. It took six yellow-scaled fish in total, before Ricky yawned and stretched. Instead of giving Fyn the nod to continue, the weasel-rabbit padded to the western path. He noted that the animal hugged the wall as it went, trying to avoid the spray of the waterfall.
Ricky glowered at the rain for a moment, then darted out of the grotto. Fyn put his rod away and went to fumble the gourds out of the fire. They steamed as he put them on a flat rock to cool.
Fyn ate his dinner with his fingers, watching for Ricky's return. The boiled fish and leaves that should have been a welcome change tasted like ash in his mouth.
He felt powerless. Even the fish in this world were more capable than he was. It had been a struggle to kill that first catch, and that was after the fish had left its natural environment. In the water, Fyn suspected he would have no chance to resist.
Out of the seven fish he had caught today, three had provided improvement points. It brought his total to six. With four, he could bring his Strength attribute to 1, which he had been told was the starting point for a class holder. Or he could use the points to unlock knowledge that might improve his situation slightly.
Either way, it wasn't enough to leave the clearing. He needed weapons, stronger skills and, ideally, some idea which direction he should head in.
Ricky's return interrupted Fyn's thoughts. Finished with his weasel-rabbit business, Ricky reentered the grotto in a rush. Inside, it shook its fur, coating the walls with a spray of water. The weasel-rabbit seemed truly unhappy to be even slightly damp.
Ricky likes fish. Ricky does not like water.
Fyn noted down the odd behavior of the creature, once again wishing for a notebook. There were so many things to keep track of. Classes and skills, the habits of weasel-rabbits, how many lestiherry roots can one eat before a digestive emergency of epic proportions occurred, the lists Fyn could make were endless.
Finished with his dinner, Fyn built up his fire, and worked on cleaning out the last three gourds. Ricky watched him from the side, sometimes shooting angry glances at the opening in the ceiling where water dripped through.
Ricky really hated water. Hopefully, the rain ended soon. Fyn didn't want to be trapped in close quarters with a disgruntled weasel-rabbit.