The creatures let out warbling shrieks as they bounded forward, swinging long arms. Their dark orange fur blended well against the bark of the tree, and when they opened their mouths, yellow fangs protruded from black lips.
Fyn saw three of them, but the way the howls bounced up from the canyon below made those three sound like hundreds. One of the creatures, the biggest, rushed at Grace. The Drifter stood her ground, one knife drawn and held low at her hip. Her left hand was held straight out in front of her, palm facing out.
Why didn't she run? Gripping the hilt of his dagger without drawing it, Fyn stood frozen. Grace was inching backwards, and the biggest of the three creatures covered the distance to her impossibly fast. When it was within ten feet, Grace acted.
"Fireball!" She shouted.
A burst of flame erupted from her outstretched palm. The ball of fire impacted on the howling beast's face. Screaming, the animal dropped to its belly, rolling and sending bark flying as it slammed its limbs down. Its two companions halted, baring their teeth and chattering loudly.
The scene should have proceeded rapidly from there. Fyn expected Grace to rush forward, fire in one hand and steel in the other, burning and cutting her way to victory. Fyn drew his knife, ready to help if he could.
But nothing happened. For a long moment, Grace continued to maintain her pose, and now Fyn could see a tremble in her shoulders. The beast, that had been struck by her spell, rolled to its feet, spraying spittle as it howled.
The dark orange fur on the animal's face was hardly singed. Its red eyes shone with anger, and the claws at the end of its long arms tore out chunks of wood as it prepared to charge Grace again.
A thin film of sweat covered Fyn, as if he had a fever that had just broken. Magic hadn't turned the tide at all. He looked at the dagger in his hand and then at the ape-thing's exaggerated arms. To stab that creature, he would have to step within reach of its claws.
Grace wasn't fighting the trio of monsters. Her daggers weren't much longer than Fyn's. She was hoping to scare them off, and from what Fyn could see, her bluff wasn't working.
The knowledge from the Rogue class had given Fyn some confidence. That faded away now. He was small, he lacked weight, and his weapons had no reach. Those orange monsters would tear into him the second he got near.
It was time to run!
But Grace wasn't moving. She just stood there, holding her ground, silent. Fyn told himself he didn't owe the woman anything, yet his feet refused to pivot away, no matter how he urged them.
There was a saying, that in war, the only people you could count of were those to your left and right. You didn't have to like them, or know them well, you just had to trust that they would stand and fight. A soldier who broke that confidence was a lower form of life than politicians or lawyers.
There was no point in living if you couldn't stand the person you had become.
Fyn tried to keep his hand steady as he sheathed his dagger. His fingers shook as he pulled his inventory bag out from under his shirt. Gripping the velvet, he willed an item out of it. His fishing rod, that seven foot branch of hard wood, filled his right hand.
People had been beating each other to death with sticks and rocks for thousand of years before the first knife or sword was forged. Stepping forward, gripping the pole in both hands, Fyn tried to remember everything he could about using a staff.
Memories of pugil sticks and bayonet training flickered through his head. He recalled drill sergeants yelling and a martial arts class he had taken for a few weeks. In his memories, the person flailing training weapons around was six feet tall, and 180 pounds of muscles, but the lessons could still be applied to his current body.
Fyn wondered how strong having 4 points in the Strength attribute made him as he broke into a jog. The inventory bag hanging from his neck didn't weigh as heavily anymore, but Fyn also didn't feel super human power coursing through him. He would have to ask Grace about attributes later if they both survived.
He was still fifteen feet from joining Grace when Fyn spotted a problem. There had been three ape creatures. Two of them were still facing Grace, swiping at the air and jabbering away in hoots. The third was nowhere to be seen.
Fyn found the animal immediately once he started looking. It had crawled down the side of the fallen tree and was crossing to get behind Grace by scurrying along the underside. Its red eyes locked on to Fyn at the same time as he spotted it.
With a surge of muscles, the animal threw itself into the air, coming down on top of the makeshift bridge facing Fyn. Without barely a pause, its claws dug in, and it flung its body at him.
Using both hands, Fyn swung his staff as hard as he could. The supple branch bent as it connected with the creature's head, but the force behind it was enough to twist the animal's head. Knocked off course, the ape-thing clawed at the tree to maintain its position.
Fyn took a step back and steadied himself. He placed his hands so that a third of the staff extended above his top hand, and below his lower one. Left foot forward, holding his right hand at his hip, the staff close to his body, he waited. He didn't have to kill the monster, just keep it from attacking Grace from behind.
The beast darted at Fyn, swinging its arms to claw at the air as it kept its body crouched. Fyn let the tip of his staff circle around the creature's arm and struck at its elbow. His strike and the momentum of the animal's blow pushed the orange-furred thing off balance.
As it twisted, Fyn jabbed the creature in the ribs and stepped forward, sweeping the butt of his staff up to rattle the thing's jaw. The animal fell back, covering its teeth with one hand and glaring hatred at Fyn.
Fyn heard Grace cast her spell again, and then she called out, "Don't let them grab you! Tree howler's claws have…"
Whatever she might have warned him about was lost as the other two beasts, tree howlers, attacked. Fyn saw Grace draw a second knife and rush to meet the onslaught. Then his focus was entirely on his opponent.
The tree howler came for him in a flurry of swinging arms and snapping jaws. Fyn backed up, step by step, trying to redirect the wild strikes, blocking when he couldn't. His staff bent and creaked, threatening to break as the tree howler's paws slammed into the wood.
The footing was narrow, only five feet of the tree was usable before the slope became too steep to rely on. That wasn't a problem for the tree howler. Its claws enabled it to move freely, attacking from the sides as it willed.
Sense of direction and Map didn't seem to have any combat applications, yet it was the sense of place that the skills provided which kept Fyn from being overwhelmed. He didn't have to look down to see his footing, to watch for obstacles. Where he had been, he could go again. It was all that was keeping him from panicking.
His arms burned, his chest heaved. Sweat rolled down Fyn's face, and the rough bark of the staff chaffed his palms. Breathing through clenched teeth, Fyn's world narrowed to the wild roundhouse swings the tree howler directed at him.
Then that world turned upside down.
An intelligent gleam flickered in the howler's eyes. It screamed at Fyn and feinted another strike. When Fyn moved to parry, the beast straightened from its crouched position, and used its left arm to knock Fyn's staff up.
While Fyn's arms were raised, numb from the force of the blow, the howler struck with its right hand. Hairy, thick knuckles impacted into Fyn's chest, lifting him off his feet and sending him tumbling. Landing on his back, Fyn let go of his staff to grab at the bark before he could roll into the canyon below.
The fishing pole, with his line and hook still wrapped around the end, bounced once and vanished. Fyn's heart dropped with it. Sucking in a breath, Fyn slapped at his waist for his dagger.
The knife was still half in its sheath when the howler leaped for him. Time seemed to stand still, Fyn's vision narrowed to the claws that would rip out his throat. He growled and tried to scoot backward.
The howler landed a foot away from Fyn. Its face planted hard against the tree trunk, and one of the howler's fangs snapped off from the impact. On its back, Grace, her face twisted in rage and pain, drove her thin knife into the creature's side, once, twice, three times. Grabbing a fist full of fur, Grace lifted the animal's head and slit its throat. Blood sprayed as she rolled to the side and kicked the howler from the bridge.
Fyn looked beyond Grace. The bridge was empty behind her. There was no sign of the other two tree howlers. Presumably, they had made the trip to the bottom of the ravine before their smaller friend was sent to join them.
Pushing his half-drawn knife back into its sheath, Fyn looked Grace over. She was covered in blood, most of it her own. Her right side had four deep claw marks just above her hip. A long scratch ran from just below her eye, down her neck. Bruises were already starting to show on almost every inch of her exposed skin.
Her hand shook as Grace put away the stiletto in her right hand. The knife she wore on her left was missing, the straps that held the empty sheath in place, broken, allowing it to flap against her leg as she stood.
Fyn scrambled to his feet, wincing and wobbling dangerously, "Are you alright?" he asked, knowing it was a stupid question.
"Should have taken Sophie's armor," Grace murmured, her eyes worryingly unfocused, "Normally I have Fully Cover equipped but I…"
Grave sunk to a knee, swaying. Fyn hurried forward, grabbing her shoulder to steady her. She snarled weakly as he touched her, but recognized him before her knife was pulled.
Grave wet her lip, "Toxin on the claws… we can't stay here…"
She had trouble speaking, her grip was weak as she took hold of Fyn's arm to pull herself up. Fyn put her arm around his shoulder, helping her to limp for the other side of the bridge. Once there, a new problem reared its head.
Grace was hardly conscious, stumbling along on autopilot with Fyn's help. There was no way she would be able to climb down in her condition. The trunk was thicker at the base, the ground farther away. Falling, with her injuries, would end poorly.
Fyn lowered Grace to the ground. She trembled, groaning, when his hand brushed her side. He apologized softly, but Grace didn't seem to hear him.
Fyn's thoughts raced. He couldn't do anything about whatever substance was on the howler's claws. However, he could make a bandage from spare clothing. He pulled out his inventory bag and brought out a canteen and a shirt.
"This is going to hurt," Fyn said, and carefully took away Grace's dagger, just in case, "I don't suppose you have any medicine?"
He had been talking to himself, but Grace's eyes fluttered open.
"Bram used the last potion," she said, her voice slurred, "I have a skill… switched it out for Fireball."
Potions existed, Fyn thought as he hushed her and began to clean Grace's wounds. He supposed he knew that, he had seen the class Alchemist while he was browsing his status during the storm. It struck him that he had seen another class that could be useful immediately.
Herbalist. White nodes: Herbal Uses—>Common Ailments —> Basic Poultices.
Fyn sat back on his heels, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. He had passed up Herbalist because the class was related to medicine and what he need was food. He didn't hesitate now, opening his status and selecting all three white nodes, regretful that he didn't have a yellow improvement point to spend on the passive skill, Potent Medicine.