The next morning, Fyn yawned as he stuck his head out of his blankets. The air was crisp, and warming rapidly. The fire had burned out hours ago. The sun was cheerfully trying to scoop out his eyes with overly bright rays of light.
Squinting, Fyn sat up. The blanket, still warm from his body heat, fell away, exposing Fyn to a light breeze. Stretching his arms over his head, Fyn released a contented groan. Dropping his arms, Fyn looked over to see if Grace was awake.
She was and probably had been for a while. Her gear was gone, as was the woman herself. Other than a flat spot in the grass, there was no sign Grace had ever been there.
No, Fyn thought, standing. That wasn't true. There was still a mountain of equipment left dumped where Grace had emptied the inventory bags of her companions.
He pulled on his boots as he stared at the items. He had taken what he could use from Bram and Sophie's gear. Canteens, a bedroll, clothes, anything that looked useful, Fyn packed away.
Anything, but not everything. It wasn't practical to weigh himself down with the bits of spare armor that didn't fit or the shield that was almost as tall as he was. The broad sword was especially tempting, but despite his heightened strength, Fyn strained to lift it. The blade had more heft to it than it had any right to.
Tightening his belt, Fyn made sure the knife he had taken from Lucas was secure at his back, and set his hand on the hilt of the new dagger hanging at his side. The double-edged knife had belonged to Sophie. It was more comfortable in his hand, the hilt narrow and wooden.
With no sign of Grace, Fyn moved around the clearing, collecting herbs and roots. There were no food supplies among the adventurers' luggage. Grace said they would hunt as they went. That seemed unreliable to Fyn. He wanted a few things stocked up, just in case.
He was in the middle of replanting cuttings from a lestiherry plant when a pair of boots entered Fyn's vision. Held around shapely calves by leather straps, the brown boots went all the way to Grace's knee.
There was a break then, showing skin, before the view was blocked by what Fyn could only describe as a leather armored skirt. A thick belt supported Grace's daggers, and her mid-drift was bare. A short-sleeved scale mail top, covered most of her torso, and Grace's long blonde hair was tied back, revealing high cheekbones and round ears.
As always, when he saw her, Fyn was torn between wondering why the armor was so revealing and admiration for the way Grace wore it. She looked good. Standing, or walking, she drew the eye with mesmerizing self-assurance.
And that had nothing to do with Fyn.
He was twelve. Short, and awkward-looking, he hadn't seen his face, but he was sure it was soft with baby fat. His hair was shaggy, and he was dressed in women's clothes that fit loosely. As much as Fyn appreciated waking up from a night sleeping on the ground without feeling stiffness or pain, with Grace in front of him, he hated his age.
"Morning," Fyn cleared his throat and dusted his hands off on his pants, "Did you sleep well?"
Grace tilted her head, "Have you already equipped Map?"
Not one for morning small talk then.
Fyn shook his head. Opening his status, Fyn used the lie as an excuse to change his class to Explorer. While he was at it, he added an improvement point to Sense of Direction, for luck, and just in case leveling up Explorer's passive skill helped him earn experience.
"I have now," Fyn said with a grin as he closed his status, "Are we going to have breakfast?"
Grace handed him a hard square of white bread-like substance, "Eat that while we walk. I want to be as far from here as possible by dark."
Fyn sniffed the ration bar. It smelled like nothing. Taking a nibble, he wished it tasted the same as it smelled. Bland would have been preferable to sour, salty, and stale.
"It will keep you alive," Grace smirked as Fyn recoiled, "Be grateful. If you had run away from home with that in your pocket, you would be an Explorer instead of a Gatherer."
Fyn frowned at the woman's back as she turned away from him. Running away from home was a strange way to refer to flight from a burning village. The story may have been a pack of lies, but a little sympathy would be nice.
"We're headed that way," Grace pointed, heading south and angling towards the river, "…ish."
That way was Southeast, more or less. Fyn's lips drooped farther, "Ish? Don't you know the route?"
Grace rolled her shoulders, answering without turning around, "The way we came here won't work for you and me. I was traveling with a Fighter who knew the area, an Expert Arbalist, and a Stone Warrior. Trying to backtrack over their footsteps isn't a good idea."
Jogging to catch up, Fyn started to ask another question, then closed his mouth. He slowed and stopped, letting Grace get farther away. Turning his head, Fyn saw the waterfall behind him and let his gaze drift slowly to the right.
That was north. Not roughly, not basically, Fyn knew his eyes were fixed north. What was stranger was Fyn knew that he could point north with his eyes closed and yet, that wasn't what had caused him to stop in a daze.
He hadn't moved far, only a few yards or so at a quick trot, but Fyn could tell where he had been without looking back or down. It would be simple to step backwards, avoiding the bush he had dodged around, stepping over the hole some rodent had dug, and arrive exactly where he had started. Maybe that wasn't an impressive feat given his assurance only covered the span of a few steps, nonetheless he couldn't have done it yesterday.
"What are you doing?" Grace called, her hands on her hips, causing Fyn to snap his head towards her.
He waved his hands in the air as if trying to draw a picture of something he couldn't explain, "I know where I am…. And where I've been."
Grace raised her eyebrows at that and then understanding crossed her face, "You have the Sense of Direction and Map passives equipped. Some skills work together to create a greater effect. It's too bad they are both general skills. If you had a class related to either of them, it would work better."
"Come on," Grace turned away, "You'll get used to it, and we have ground to cover."
Fyn followed her. His head felt light as he adjusted to the sensation created by his skills. At first, it was like he was the center of the world, everything stretched out from where he stood, and as his position changed, the world shifted.
The bird flying overhead was going north by northwest. The chipmunk scurrying by was headed due east. The breeze came from the south. For a while, Fyn moved on autopilot, always aware of his place but unable to break free from the hold the constant stream of information had over him.
It was Grace that helped him adapt. The women never moved in a straight line for more than two paces. She sauntered, always alert, swaying with every step. If Fyn was a stone pillar that space revolved around, Grace was a cloud that rejected the dictates of the wind. She drifted and flitted here and there, unconfined and free.
Trying to fit her chaos into the broader picture forced Fyn's brain to accept that some patterns were beyond mapping. His sense of place remained, but it stopped being an overwhelming illusion and started becoming reality.
"Don't we need to cross the river?" He asked, the words sounding loud in his ears after an hour of silence.
Grace jumped and whirled when he spoke, as if spooked. After looking around with wild eyes, she stepped close to him and leaned down, speaking in a hushed voice, "We are not on a walk. Keep your eyes and ears open and button your mouth shut."
Fyn's hand tightened around the ration bar he had forgotten he was holding. He tossed it away, brushing his hand on his shirt, "How are we supposed to communicate then?"
"We don't," Grace poked his forehead, "Your job is to make sure we are headed in the right direction. Unless I start leading us in circles, there's no need to speak. Understand?"
Fyn wanted to complain that he wasn't a kid. That he was more than just a human compass, but he could see that, in Grace's eyes, that was precisely what he was. More than that, Fyn noticed the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes darted around even as she reprimanded him.
Grace was afraid. She was as afraid as Fyn had been on his first day walking through these woods. Fyn had lost that terror over time, transforming it into normal day-to-day worries, and apprehension over the future. He had grown, if not comfortable, at least accustomed to the quiet of the clearing, and in his mind, that quiet had extended to all the forest.
Abruptly, the dense trees seemed to crowd around him. The shadows grew darker and hidden monstrosities gathered all around. Pushing his lips into a mockery of a smile, Fyn swallowed and nodded to show he was listening.
Grace set her hand on his shoulder, whispering, "We'll be alright. Keep close and quiet. There's a narrow point in the river up ahead where we can cross. We can talk more when we make camp, okay?"
Without waiting for him to respond, Grace patted Fyn's shoulder, reassuring a child, and walked south. Fyn touched his dagger, head swiveling as he obeyed her directions. Ever bird call and rustling leaf caused him to shy to the side. Fyn had to make a conscious effort to stay a few steps behind Grace; otherwise he would have been glued to her back.
With Grace in front, Fyn took the opportunity to open his status and increase his strength to 4. All thoughts of holding on to the red and yellow improvement points were gone.
Walking, Fyn scrolled through the class gird screen. A search for classes that used knives suggested a dozen choices, and Fyn browsed through them with a frown. None of them were quite what he wanted.
He hoped for an instant mastery of blades to protect himself. The best option he found was, Rogue. While numerous classes used knives, Rogue was the only one with knife fighting in the prerequisites. Quiet Walking—>Stealth Strategies—>Knife Fighting culminated in Rogue's first passive skill, Concealed Presence.
Bracing for the headache to come, Fyn selected all three white nodes, and closed his status. It was worse this time than before. Along with the gush of new knowledge, came a correction to his posture. His muscles shook as they adjusted, and he stumbled a bit when his feet tried to set themselves differently than he was used to.
For a bit, the careful placement of his feet served to distract Fyn from his nerves. Precisely planting his heel, rolling to the tip of his toes rather than slapping the soles of his boots to the ground, took practice. Combining the steps with the proper posture to keep his clothes from rustling caused new aches in Fyn's shoulders and back.
Even after the pain in his head faded, Fyn lost himself in the motion. It wasn't until his shoulder smacked against Grace's palm that he realized she had stopped and turned to face him.
"You learn fast," Grace murmured, voice a mix of approval and annoyance, "But pay attention. Don't get so distracted you forget where you are."
Fyn shrugged, grimaced and nodded, a little confused about what she was talking about. When Grace pulled his shirt to direct him around a tree, he looked down and saw her planting her feet the same way he had been trying to.
For Grace, it was an easy, unconscious move, a trick she had incorporated into her bones. Fyn smirked, mocking himself for never noticing Grace's way of walking. He had never noticed and yet gotten praised for mimicking it. Maybe, he could have saved himself a white improvement point if he had.
Tugging his shirt, Grave pulled Fyn to stand beside her and pointed, "How confident are you that you can get across that in a hurry?"
Fyn followed the line of her finger and gaped, taking in the sight. On their side, the west side, of the river, the trees were the familiar evergreens Fyn was used too. On the west, the towering giants of that first day, spread an oppressive ceiling of leaves, crowding out the sky.
One of those giants had fallen. It created a bridge across the river, its trunk crushing lesser trees as it ran deeper into the forest. On the opposite bank, roots as thick as Fyn's torso stretched skyward.
Fyn couldn't see why Grace would worry about crossing on the tree. It was wider than some roads he had walked down. Then he took a closer look.
As broad as the trunk was, it was round. The footing should be stable, but the edges were sloped. If your eyes followed that slope, they entered a canyon where the river had cut away at the earth. From a distance, Fyn wasn't able to see how deep the ravine was, but if you added the height of the trunk to it, Fyn began to understand Grace's worry.
"I don't have a problem with heights," He assured her, "I'll be fine."
"You're sure?" Grace pressed him, "We have to cross fast. We don't want to get caught up there if trouble comes along."
Fyn nodded, a firm bob of his head, "I'm sure."
Grace dipped her chin in return, without his confidence, a worried look darkening her eyes. Clearing her throat, she patted his shoulder and took off.
Fyn was startled when she rushed out, but crashed after her heels soon enough. Grace didn't pause when she reached the fallen trunk, jumping up and grabbing on to the bark, she pulled herself to the top, while Fyn was still searching for a handhold.
The curve at the bottom side of the tree trunk was taller than Fyn was. He had to stretch to grab onto the bark. The deep ridges in the outer wood provided excellent support, and Fyn's 4 points of strength showed their worth. He hauled himself up hand over hand and was soon dusting his palms as he crawled to his feet.
Panting, Fyn darted to the west, eager to show Grace that he could keep up. His speed proved unnecessary, though. It was forty feet to cross the river over the ravine. Grace had only made it thirty.
Pulling up from his headlong rush, Fyn panted, wondering why Grace was backing up instead of finishing the journey. The answer presented itself in the form of hair, teeth, and claws. Climbing down from the impressive array of roots came ape-like figures that hooted and jeered threatening calls which echoed down into the ravine.