"Water."
The weak voice, barely above a whisper, made Fyn jump. He bit his lip as his hand slapped at his dagger. He was halfway to his feet, and on the verge of smacking his head against the curve of the wall when he remembered Grace existed.
"I've got something for you to drink," Fyn carefully felt for the empty cubbyhole and reached inside. His hand closed around a gourd filled with liquid that he had prepared earlier, "I'm coming closer. Don't get scared and stab me, okay?"
Grace made a feeble noise that Fyn took for assent. Closing his status, he scooted across the floor, feeling his way until he touched Grace's arm.
"Can you sit up?" Fyn asked, finding her shoulder, "There's a wall behind you to lean against."
"Why… is it so dark?" Grace managed to push herself up along the curve of the wall with Fyn's help.
"It gets like that at night," Fyn held her hand and wrapped Grace's fingers around the gourd, "Drink this, all of it. You won't like it, but you need it."
"Full moon," Grace muttered, bringing the gourd to her lips. Feeling the shake in her hand, Fyn supported the bottom of the container, "Shouldn't be this dark."
"We're up a tree, in a hollow," Fyn started to explain, when Grace spluttered and tried to push the gourd away.
"What is that? What are you trying to make me drink?" Grace's voice was outraged, but she was too weak to stop Fyn from taking the gourd and pressing it back to her lips.
"This is medicine," He insisted, "You've lost a lot of blood. You need this."
"You need… to get stuffed," Grace shot back, turning her head to the side, "I'm not drinking that."
Fyn sank back onto his heels. He had hung a blanket over the opening to the hollow, mostly to keep the smell of crushed grorns out. The cloth did its job fairly well, but it also prevented any light from reaching the hollow. Fyn couldn't see the expression on Grace's face. Having tasted a sip of the herbal concoction he had tried to feed her, Fyn knew she wasn't wearing a smile.
"My mother had a saying for times like this," Fyn rolled his shoulders, stretching his back, "She'd say, drink your medicine, or I'll punch you in the throat. But hey, you're all grown-up. You can make your own choices."
Grace was quiet for a moment that seemed longer in the dark, before finally saying, "My mother would put sugar in medicine for me."
"Your mother sounds like someone my mother would kick the shit out of," Fyn found her hand again and touched the gourd to it, "I don't have any sugar. Are you going to drink this or not?"
With Fyn's help, Grace brought the gourd back to her mouth, and with his insistence, drank all the contents.
"It would be best if you chewed the bits at the bottom," Fyn told her, moving back to his side of the hollow, "But it's up to you. The herbs have been seeping for a long time, so the water should help get you on your feet."
Settling back on his blankets, Fyn opened his status again. The blue screen didn't cast any light, but it was readable even in the dark. Flipping through the screens kept him occupied, and the countdown next to his class and skills let Fyn keep track of the time somewhat.
Listening to Grace's lips smack as she chewed soggy leaves with forced enthusiasm and the occasional "ughh," Fyn felt mildly vindicated. He could practically hear Grace regaining energy as the herbs dulled her pain and cleared away the fog from her injury.
The smirk growing on his face became a wince as the hollow was suddenly filled with a soft glow. Blinking, Fyn saw Grace holding a small lantern in her right hand. Her left dipped into the gourd on her lap and brought a mess of herbs to her mouth as Grace looked around.
"Where are we?" Grace asked, teeth working in exaggerated chomps.
"In a tree," Fyn wiped tears from the corners of his eyes, "Probably the home of the howlers you killed."
"Tell me you're joking," Grace's lips curled back, revealing a leaf stuck to her front tooth, "Tell me we are actually miles away from tree howler territory."
"Wish I could," Fyn explained what had happened after Grace had fallen at the bridge, "We're fine here. It's been twelve hours and nothing has bothered us."
"Damn it, we…" Grace struggled to stand and fell back against the wall, "We aren't going anywhere until morning, are we?"
"Not unless you have a miracle up your sleeve," Fyn turned his attention back to his status, "Or I can figure out how to increase my strength. I'd say leaving in the morning is optimistic. You are going to need days to recover."
"Four hours until I can change my skills," Grace said, opening her status, and frowning as she checked it. "Two hours after that, we should be on our way."
"How does that work?" Fyn asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I switched out Healing Hand for Fireball this morning," Grace shifted uncomfortably, "When I change it back I can heal myself, not completely, but enough to get moving."
Grace looked at him out of the corner of her eye, obviously expecting him to say something, but Fyn leaned back against the wall, tapping his head against the wood.
"What are you doing out here?" Fyn said abruptly.
"What do you mean?" Grace's nose wrinkled, "I came to hunt the unique."
"No," Fyn drew out the word, still looking up, "that's why Bram and Sophie were here. Lucas came as a guide. You? You don't fit. Not from what I've seen."
Grace's nostrils flared and her brow furrowed. She sucked at the front of her teeth, and Fyn thought he might not answer.
"You… aren't wrong," She said at last, lowering her chin to her chest, "I wouldn't be in the Blood Woods at all on my own. Neither of us should be here."
"Drifters and Gatherers aren't too different," Grace sighed, still looking down, "You might even be better off. Gatherers start lower, but you can join a permanent team to level up."
"For Drifters," Grace continued, "It's different. If I work with the same people, or travel in the same areas for too long, I stop earning experience. I'd been stuck at level 8 for two years when Bram hired me as a temporary."
"Why?" Fyn asked when she paused, "Why did Bram hire you?"
Grace laughed. Taking a canteen from her pouch, she swished a mouthful of water around her teeth before answering, "Bram and Sophie have been a team for years. Good reputation, solid performance, but they are only two people. For long jobs they need people to help set camp, stand watch, fetch water, and clean the kills. When you're as strong as they are… were… it's cheaper to hire someone like me than to split profits with a Hunter or Scout."
"They didn't seem that strong compared to Ricky," Fyn muttered, Bram exploding in a spray of blood under the weasel-rabbit's claws flashing through his head.
"Bad match up," Grace hunched her shoulders, drawing her knees up a bit, "They set their skills to fight something small and fast, not…"
Her wrist twirled in a circle, and Fyn filled in, "Big, bad and unpredictable?"
"Something like that," Grace looked around, "Have we got anything to eat?"
"What about those biscuits of your?" Fyn asked, already reaching into the cubby for a second gourd, this one filled with lestiherry roots and berries, soaking in cold water.
"I gave you the last one, and you threw it away," Grace took the offered gourd, one corner of her mouth drawing up, "Is there anything better?"
"My mother had a saying for times like this," Fyn folded his arms across his chest, "Fyn, she'd say, shut up and eat, or I'll punch you in the throat."
"Hard woman, your mother," Grace rolled her eyes, and fished out a root, "Your father must have had it rough."
"Dad was a Farmer," Fyn stretched out his legs, crossing his ankles, "He was of the belief that if you had the energy to complain, you weren't working hard enough. He was tougher than mom was. They got along pretty well."
"You must miss them," Grace said softly, popping a berry into her mouth.
Fyn didn't answer. He was surprised to find that the backstory he had been creating for himself had summoned up images. A tall brunette in a starched uniform standing next to a man in overalls with salt and pepper hair. His throat felt tight as he tried to remember their names, and failed.
"Ten pounds per point."
"What?" Fyn shook, his head snapping towards Grace.
"At your size a single point in the Strength Attribute probably means you can lift an extra ten pounds beyond your base. Give or take," Grace cleared her throat, and took a sip of water, "That will increase as you grow. If you reset your class to a combat one, and pick up an Attribute like Power, or Robust at level 10, you'll probably be as strong as your mother suggested you could be."
It was an apology of sorts. Not quite an admission of guilt, but an acknowledgment that things could have been done differently. Inspired by sympathy, pain relief and the fact that she was still alive, Grace was willing to take some of his questions and opinions into consideration.
"What would it take to make your Fireball spell worth a damn? Is there an Attribute for that?" Fyn challenged, filing sway the term "base" while tapping his right index finger against his left forearm.
"I learned that spell for starting campfires," Grace shot back, tossing her head, "It's good enough to scare off low-level predators most of the time."
"But not tree howlers," Fyn sucked his upper lip between his teeth, "Is there a spell I can learn that would help us?"
"Not unless you can reach level 5 by morning," Grace tossed the empty gourds at him, "Or you have a spell book, and a talent for magic you've been hiding. You would also need to be the incredibly rare Gatherer that has a Mana Attribute instead of Spirit."
From her tone, Fyn translated "incredibly rare," as "does not exist." He was tempted to change his class to a magic one immediately to see if his Attributes changed as well. Fortunately, the cooldown timer on his class still had six hours to go.
"Do Drifter's have Mana," Fyn asked.
"No, I use Spirit to cast Fireball," Grace closed her status and Fyn followed her example before he could waste an improvement point on a Magic Basics node from the Red Mage skill tree, "Which is one of the reasons why my spell singes hair instead of melting faces."
"Then what can we do?" Fyn drew his legs back and tucked his feet close to his rear, "You make it sound like there's no way for us to fight at all."
"That's because we can't," Grace suddenly looked tired, her hand pressed against the bandage on her side, "This deep in the Blood Woods, tree howlers are considered weak. I have one skill, Deep Cut, that can hurt them. We survived today because you managed to distract one, and I got lucky. I…we… don't want to be in that position again."
But they wouldn't have a choice, Fyn thought, rubbing his chin. There was no way to become all-powerful overnight, but he might be able to become a better distraction. If he could occupy the attention of whatever they faced, Grace could be the quick-stabbing solution to their problems.
"Get some sleep, Fyn," Grace settled back and pulled her blanket up to her chin, "no point in standing watch. We'll need rest if we want to make it out."
Fyn grunted noncommittally. Grace fiddled with her lantern, lowering the light output without killing it completely. Fyn would have asked about that, about Drifters who were afraid of the dark, but he let it go.
The glimmer of an idea was forming in his head. The way classes worked together, how skills and knowledge from one skill tree could complement another, bounced around his skull.
Pulling up his status, Fyn began to search and prepared to spend improvement points.