Fyn held his tongue between his teeth, bandaging Grace's wounds, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. When he finished, he tore a rag from the remains of the shirt he had used for bandages, soaked it with water, and wiped the blood from Grace's exposed skin, checking for any hidden cuts.
Fyn frowned, tossing the bloody rag aside. His head still raged. Herbalist was making connections with Gatherer, the knowledge from the two classes greater than the sum of their parts. That made sense, given his experience with Map and Sense of Direction.
What was troubling, was that, for all the information the two classes provided, it wasn't enough. Fyn was still a novice, not an expert.
He pressed two fingers to Grace's neck, checking her pulse. It was faster than it should be, but not dangerously so. Her skin was hot. That could be a good sign, it might mean Grace was fighting off the toxin on her own.
Fyn could think of a dozen herbs that could help wounds close or relieve pain. Some of them he had on him, picked because they are also edible. The problem was the poison from the howler's claws. He knew nothing about it, and his new instincts said mixing herbs with the unknown was unwise. The best thing to do was consult a Doctor, Healer or a better Herbalist.
"Even herbs come with a warning," Fyn lowered his head and scratched his scalp with both hands, "Use only as directed. Side effects may include projective vomiting, warts and explosion."
Grace coughed, her eyes fluttering open, "What?"
"Talking to myself," Fyn told her, reaching out to hold her down as she tried to sit up, "Just rest."
"Can't," She fought against his restraint but was too weak, "Can't stay here… the blood will bring wolves… the sounds will have alerted other howlers."
"Unless you have a flying carpet," Fyn said, "We aren't going anywhere. Not in the state you're in."
Grace's eyes rolled like she was looking for an escape, "Howler poison isn't deadly… it will wear off in a few hours."
"Then we'll see what happens in a few hours," Fyn pressed her shoulder against the tree trunk, "You'll start bleeding again if you keep moving. No wolves or tree howlers yet. Maybe there aren't any."
Grace shook her head, the motion weak, "Tree howlers are a type of forest troll. Trolls form colonies spread out over miles. Families of three but colonies of… dozens."
Fyn's skin went cold, his stomach flipping and hopping. Dozens of those things? They had trouble with three. Fyn hadn't been able to beat one.
Cursing, Fyn stood up and scanned the surroundings. He expected to see swarms of orange apes converging on the fallen tree, howling for vengeance. There was nothing. No monsters, no wolves, not even a fat songbird, singing to give away their position.
"Get me to the ground," Grace insisted, "I can walk."
"But not climb," Fyn ran a hand over his face. A thought struck him, "How strong is an Attribute of 4?"
It was satisfying to see Grace's face go blank at his words, "Stupid questions? Now? Really?"
"My strength attribute is four," Fyn explained, "If I tie a few weavers' vines together, I could lower you to the ground. But I'm not sure I could support your weight."
"Were you dropped on your head as a baby? Or did a bandit hit you when you were running away?" Some energy came back to Grace as she squinted at him, "How could you forget how attributes work?"
"I don't feel four times stronger than I was," Fyn said, talking over her insults, "but it's hard to tell."
"You aren't," Grace said flatly, fingers tapping at her side, "Attributes do effect you physically, but they have more to do with skills and equipment. 4 points should be enough to allow you to help me down."
Fyn considered that explanation, that didn't really explain anything. Her tone had been impatient, turning sly at the end as she averted her gaze.
"Alright," Fyn began to remove vines from his inventory bag, "If you say so, we'll give it a try."
He began to tie the vines together, not pushing her for more information or pointing out her lie. If she were mistaken, Grace would be the one to pay the price in pain, and possibly blood if her wound reopened. The woman obviously didn't want to stay here, and her anxiety fueled a nervousness in Fyn.
When all the vines were connected, Fyn held a rope around thirty feet long. He helped Grace to her feet. After she checked his knots, nodding with grudging approval, he looped the rope around her waist, weaving it through her belt.
Grace walked towards the sloping edge of the tree, lowering herself onto her belly with a pained grunt. Awkwardly, her body shaking as the movement stretched her wounded side, Grace began the crawl down. Fyn braced himself, supporting her weight as much as he could.
Fyn definitely wasn't four times stronger. His eyes bulged, and he began to pant as Grace disappeared over the side. Grunting, and straining, he tried to lower the rope slowly. Leaning back, Fyn thought his arms were going to be ripped out of their sockets, but he clenched his teeth and tightened his grip.
Inch by inch, Fyn let the rope ease through his hands, using the knots he had tied every few feet to secure holds. He tried to imagine how far Grace was from the ground as he attempted to keep his breathing even. Muscles sore from fighting the tree howler screamed at him, demanding to know he was thinking.
Just when Fyn allowed himself to believe this plan was going to work, the weight on the line suddenly doubled. Fyn gasped as the vine, normally soft and flexible, bit into his palms. Fyn was irresistibly dragged forward by the change, his eyes going wide as he was unable to halt himself.
There was a moment of clarity as his feet left the firm foundation of the tree trunk. Of course, Grace wouldn't be the only one to pay if the plan went wrong. They were tied together by teamwork, the bonds of camaraderie and, oh yeah, a literal rope.
Fyn tried to comfort himself. It didn't matter that he hadn't let go of the rope. Once he was in motion, this was always going to happen. There was absolutely nothing he could have done to prevent it.
Except, maybe, by stabbing Grace to death when he had the chance.
Fyn met the ground like he was encountering an old friend. An old friend who liked incredibly painful practical jokes. An old friend who said hello by smacking you in the chest with a golf club and kicked you in the crotch while you were lying on the ground.
Fyn heard a sob through the ringing in his ears. At first, he thought it came from himself, and he was okay with that. Go ahead little buddy, have a good cry, you've earned it. His entire body hurt. There was too much pain to confirm or rule out broken bones. Blood filled his mouth from where he had bitten his cheek. Even his palms burned where they had been assaulted by the vine.
When he realized that he wasn't crying and that he hadn't had the air in his lungs for the solitary sob, Fyn lifted his face from the dirt. His vision swam for a moment, and he blinked until the world settled a bit. Pushing himself up, Fyn knelt on all fours, and then gathered his legs, standing up.
Spitting out a mixture of blood, saliva and dirt, Fyn wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He tottered on his feet, slowly moving his neck and shoulders. Shuffling in a circle, he faced the tree.
Grace lay on the ground, her body curled up on her side. Her head rested on the ground, attached to a limp neck. Stumbling towards her, Fyn saw her chest moving. Her breath wheezed in and out of her lungs in labored gasps, but she was alive.
"Where do we go from here, Grace?" Fyn staggered towards the unconscious woman, "You won't be…"
A high-pitched shriek interrupted Fyn. He straightened up, turning his head to look north, his neck protesting the sudden movement. The call that echoed up the canyon sounded like it came from a distance, but there was no telling for sure.
"Can't stay here," Fyn pinched the bridge of his nose, "Can't run. Can't fight. That leaves hiding. Know any good hiding places, Grace?"
Bending down, Fyn rolled Grace into a sitting position. Her head hung limply, chin against her chest. Squatting down, straddling her legs, Fyn wrapped Grace's arms around his neck. Exerting whining muscles, Fyn walked forward.
He had thoughts of pulling Grace onto his back, carrying her piggyback, but he was too short, too thin, and too tired to manage that. Hunched over, Fyn hauled the Drifter along. Her long legs stretched out behind them, her boots dragging across the ground.
Pointing himself east, Fyn headed deeper into the forest. Old trees looked down on the pair as Fyn huffed and panted. He tried to keep his head up to scan for a place where they could hole up, but Fyn found that increasingly difficult.
"You are as heavy as you look, Grace," Fyn griped. He felt a warmth on his back and a trickle ran down his leg, "Enough of that, you hear me? Blood will bring the wolves, remember?"
Grace didn't respond. Not with a groan, or a whimper, or a threat.
"We could… have stayed… in the clearing," Fyn paused, wiping his forehead with Grace's arm, "We could have made plans, crossed the river through the grotto… avoided this whole mess. Why didn't we, Grace?"
Fyn trudged on for ten minutes. Another howl sounded behind him. Shuddering, Fyn fell on to his knees. They were too slow like this, and his legs weren't going to get them very far.
With no other option, Fyn held Grace's hands in place using one arm, and placed his right palm on the earth for leverage. The thick moss gave way to his weight and a crack sounded from underneath the ground cover.
A stench rose into the air, a strong sulfur odor, like a hundred rotten eggs, that made Fyn's eyes well with tears. Gagging, he hurriedly pulled his hand back. A surge of adrenaline brought Fyn to his feet, Grace's weight no longer enough to hold him down.
It was no good. The smell rose with him and with it came a name, noxious grorn. It was a type of harmless fungus, you could even eat it if you were desperate.
While Fyn was desperate, and he did like mushrooms, this was one he wouldn't be adding to his fish soups anytime soon. The smell, crawled into his nose, and made itself at home deep in his nasal passages. Tasting it on the back of his tongue, Fyn retched.
Dragging Grace with him, Fyn stumbled as quickly as he could to the base of a nearby tree. Lowering his burden gently, Fyn stretched his back, and then reached for the inventory bag on Grace's belt.
Untying it, Fyn grunted as the heft of the bag pulled at his arm. He scowled at it, and then at Grace.
"We should have tossed this down before we tried to lower you," Fyn said in a hissing whisper, tying the bag to his belt. Taking out one of Grace's grey blankets, he spread it over her and tossed the hateful inventory bag on the ground.
She still didn't look like a rock. Grace had insisted that the grey blank, combined with a skill, would fool most people. It hadn't worked on Fyn because he knew she was there.
Fyn couldn't say whether it was true, but without a skill, the disguise wouldn't work at all. He began pulling up handfuls of moss, and gathering bundles of leaves, all the while searching for noxious grorn mushrooms.
Looking like small puffballs, no bigger than the tip of Fyn's finger, the mushrooms weren't easy to find. They liked the damp and dark, growing underneath moss, in areas where water could puddle. After ten minutes, Fyn managed to collect twenty of the fungi.
Burrowing under the blanket and leaves that covered Grace, Fyn lay next to her. A howl sounded, this time definitely close. Sticking his arm out from under the cover, Fyn crushed a grorn between two fingers.
"It might work," Fyn told Grace, coughing into the crook of his arm as tears filled his eyes, "Animals depend on scent to hunt. Trolls are a type of animal, right?"
Listening to the shrieks and calls getting closer, Fyn shut his eyes, pulling the blanket tighter. The trapped air quickly grew stale, but Fyn wasn't tempted to open a vent. If this didn't work, breathing wouldn't be a problem for much longer.