Forester: Common Trees—> QuarterStaff Use—> Ax Handling
Passive: Persistent Strike
Wood Carver: Wood Selection—> Tool Sharpening—> Stains and Treatment
Passive: Steady Hands
Guardsman: Wearing Light Armor—> Short Staff Fighting—> Crowd Control Tactics
Passive: Standing Ground
Three hours of searching and revising his searches left Fyn three options for his plan. It wasn't that there weren't plenty of classes that used staves. There were too many in fact, and more if you changed the search requirement to polearms or blunt weapons.
Of all of those classes, only Forester and Guardsman had prerequisites related to staves. Before unlocking the nodes, Fyn attempted to put a third improvement point into Sense of Direction to see whether that opened up more of the skill tree. After being told he had reached the level cap, Fyn got comfortable and began selecting nodes.
Spending 9 white improvement points in one go, Fyn left the passive skills alone. Closing his status, he shut his eyes, and relaxed his body. The pain and twitching began immediately. Taking deep breaths, Fyn tried to keep his muscles loose.
He wasn't aware of losing consciousness. One moment he was actively directing air to slowly fill his lungs, and the next he was on his feet, wearing Grace's armored leather skirt, and no shirt. On his head sat a narrow green cap with a jaunty feather sticking out of it, and his right hand held a smooth staff of polished wood.
A tall man with Ricky's head stood opposite him, carrying a fish over his shoulder that was twice as long as Fyn was tall. Fyn had just processed the tree trunk spanning a gorge under his feet when the weasel-rabbit-man-thing grinned. Holding the fish like a staff, the man attacked.
A tail struck Fyn's face, twisting his head. A mouth thrust to the gut bent Fyn at the waist. A knee to his nose straightened him up again, and while he reeled his arms to catch his balance, Fyn took a solid strike to the groin.
His staff dropped from Fyn's hand, but the weasel-man didn't stop. Gripping the fish by the tail, he hammered Fyn from side to side. Battered, Fyn was driven rearwards, unarmed, always on the wrong foot, unable to see straight much less fight back.
A hard blow sent Fyn to the edge of the bridge. The canyon below roared with anticipation, the river flowing through it churning with monstrous forms, all leaping out of the water to jeer at him. A strike from behind propelled Fyn outwards, and he screamed as his feet lost contact with the wood.
Wind whistling past his face, Fyn fell, his mouth open in horror, a cry trapped in his throat. On the canyon walls, tree howlers sat at tables on ledges. They clapped as he went by, nibbling at leaves and nodding knowingly.
Fyn fell and the water below him surged, fish jumped out from the waves, their mouths open to greet him, teeth shining with bloodthirsty intent.
Fyn woke, and his body jerked, giving him the sensation that he was still falling. In the dark, his head bounced off the wooden floor and a barrage of colors flashed before his eyes. Disoriented, covered in sweat, it took Fyn several seconds to remember where he was.
When he did recall, the thought that he was safe from a fate of becoming fish food brought little comfort. Fyn had been staying awake to keep watch. He needed to refresh the scent of noxious grorn every two hours.
How long has he been asleep? Had the protective layer of smell faded? Were there monsters surrounding the tree outside as he lay panting in the dark?
Moving by memory, Fyn's hand latched on to the gourd filled with bead-like mushrooms beside him. His fingers dove into the container and grabbed two of the fungi. In his haste, Fyn exerted a bit too much pressure, and the grorns crumbled between his fingertips.
The consequences came fast and hard. The blanket, hung over the entrance to the hollow to keep the scent out, served to trap the scent inside much more effectively. The remnants of sleep were banished and Fyn had a brief moment of clarity, then it was gone, lost in an assault on his senses like nothing Fyn had ever known.
Things that had no business getting involved in the mess of smell were effected. His toes tasted the reek. Fyn's skin could see it. His testicles retreated into his body in protest, and his eyes demanded to be dug out and thrown away at once.
Vaguely, Fyn heard Grace gagging. Between her retching, she gasped, "What's happening? Make it stop! I can't breathe. Please, please, by all the gods, make it stop."
But the gods weren't listening. There was only Fyn, and he was lost. His skills stopped working. He couldn't tell left from right or up from down. Thrashing around, Fyn found the blanket by accident. Grabbing hold, he tugged as hard as his tortured body would allow.
The blanket tore. The knives, driven into the wood to hold the cover in place, clattered to the ground and slid to the center of the hollow. Light flooded in, and Fyn thought fresh air might follow. He was mistaken.
If anything, the wave of morning sunlight, pushed the smell deeper into the hollow. Fyn thrust his head out and lay hanging, sucking in fresh air, and disappointment as the spores of fungus clung to him, spoiling Fyn's attempt to break away.
Grace flopped beside him in the entrance, spitting, she fixed him with a side eye teary glare, "What did you do?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Fyn wheezed, looking away, "Good morning."
"Tell me this smell isn't because of something you ate," Grace demanded, grabbing on to his shirt and digging her nails into Fyn's shoulder, "Tell me you didn't feed it to me!"
"What the hell are you talking about?" Fyn blew snot into the air and regretted it as his nasal passages opened. He considered pretending ignorance but reluctantly explained about the noxious grorn, "The smell should start to wear off in around two hours."
"Two hours? Start to wear off?" Grace's fingers dug deeper into Fyn's skin, "Get me out of here. Now!"
"Calm down," Fyn tried and failed to pull away from her, "Just breath, and you'll get used to it. You'll hardly notice in a few minutes."
"I don't want to get used to it. I never want to get used to it," Grace growled, shaking Fyn roughly, "help me down, or you won't have to worry about getting used to it either."
Giving up, Fyn assisted Grace over the edge. The drop wasn't far, and she landed on her feet, sagging against the tree trunk. Fyn rubbed his biceps, noticing Grace had reattached her inventory bag to her belt again. He kept his complaints to himself as he dove deeper into the stink to pack his own bag.
After forcing himself to endure the odor long enough for a final check of the space, Fyn hopped out the hollow. He sheathed his knife at his back and handed Grace the stiletto he had borrowed to hang the blanket.
She stared murderously at the blunt tip of her dagger before stuffing it into its holder. Grace then proceeded to ignore Fyn pointedly, which was an interesting accomplishment, given that she had to face him to operate her status without Fyn reading over her shoulder.
"I can still smell it," Grace stabbed at her status with a stiff finger to close the screen, "Why can I still smell it?"
Fyn shrugged, not wanting to explain that the odor came from spores that were coating their clothes and skin. He wiped his nose and mouth with his sleeve, wet his lips, then spit, as some of those spores tried to explore his mouth.
"Healing hand," It was an odd phrase to snarl, but Grace managed. A glow surrounded her palm, which she proceeded to slap to her side, with more emphasis than Fyn thought was strictly necessary.
Once the glow waned, Grace pulled loose her bandage and the poultice underneath. She gave a curious look at the herbal concoction, one that she turned on Fyn briefly, then proceeded to rub at her skin. Dried blood and scabs flaked off under her ministrations. When she was done, the angry open wound was revealed to be closed and looked like it had been for days. Even the surrounding bruises looked lightened.
Fyn whistled appreciatively, "That works better than your fireball did."
"Don't be too impressed," Grace curved her left arm over her head, stretching her side and winced, "It only heals the surface. Stops the bleeding, but the damage beneath has to heal the slow way."
"Let's get moving." Grace said before Fyn could question her, "I want to find water and clean up. If that's possible. The smell feels like it reached my soul."
Fyn didn't argue. He walked behind Grace, trying not to sniffle too loudly. She led him between the trees, moving stiffly, but just as quietly as the day before.
Fyn took the opportunity to look around with eyes enhanced by a Forester's appreciation. The giant trees towering all around were red ironwoods. The trees, so useful in construction and crafting, normally wouldn't get so large. Their location, deep in the blood woods, was all that kept these trees from feeling the bite of an ax.
Fyn wished he could cut a single branch from the trees for a branch. That wasn't likely, though. The closest branch to the ground, that he could see, was fifty feet up.
Tossing a glance over his shoulder, Fyn wistfully thought of the tree that had fallen across the canyon. There would be plenty of accessible wood there, but he was hardly going to suggest they turn back. Not after the encounter from the day before, and a rough start to the day that had put Grace in a less-than-generous mood.
While thoughts of the canyon crossing made Fyn less inclined to retrace their path, they also made his hands began to inch for a longer weapon, than a dagger. His new knowledge of common trees included more than species and where they could be found. Fyn was more conscious of the dangers lurking unseen all around him than ever before.
Foresters preferred a staff as a weapon because they were easily replaced, and using them kept their axes from being dulled by blood and bone. A good Forester always kept his staff on hand because their work often took them places where monsters roamed more freely than men. Even though he hadn't equipped the class, Fyn thought the simple wisdom made perfect sense.
There was no talking to Grace about it. Fyn could feel the Drifter's foul mood radiating from every inch of her body. He didn't blame her. Wounded, woken by a stench that could make the dead cry, and probably hungry, even if her nose refused to let her stomach have its way, Grace had a multitude of reasons to sulk.
Maybe because of the spores that still clung to them, the two travelers had a peaceful morning. Breezing along, they made good time, undisturbed by beasts or bugs. Their interaction was limited to Fyn occasionally nudging Grace when, according to Sense of Direction, she threatened to veer too far off course.
When Grace suddenly pivoted hard to the right, Fyn was close to correcting her before he realized her action was too deliberate to be accidental. Sticking close, skin crawling, Fyn snapped his head back and forth, searching for any sign of what had made Grace change directions.
It wasn't until they stepped around a red ironwood and the view opened up that Fyn realized it wasn't a threat that had promoted Grace to head to the south. Fyn stumbled to a halt, confused.
The meadow was out of place. It reminded Fyn of Ricky's clearing, suddenly appearing where the ironwood stopped. While Grace kept moving forward, Fyn looked suspiciously at bushes and shrubs, trying to spot any animal that didn't belong.
No uniques came out to question their presence. A brook babbled happily, coming from the south to shift abruptly west so sharply that if Grace hadn't led them here, they would have walked on without ever seeing the small stream. All around the meadow, wildflowers grew in defiance of the shade of the ironwood that surrounded their home.
Smaller trees, willows along the bank of the brook, ash farther back, stretched for the sky in the gaps where the red ironwoods canopy didn't reach. Dazed and a little wary, Fyn drifted towards one of the ash trees. The change in scenery was too quick, the meadow a young patch among ancient growth, it made his senses reel.
His hand brushing the smooth gray bark of an ash made Fyn smile. Ash wasn't the best material for a staff, but it was close. Strong and lightweight, it for Fyn's needs. Maybe in the future, he would want something heavier, but for now, this was perfect.
The trees of the meadow were stunted. No matter how they tried, they couldn't outgrow the massive cousins that penned them in. For Fyn, this meant the branches he could reach without climbing were long and thick enough to be cut into a staff.
He drew the heavy knife from his back and began to hack at the base of a fairly straight limb. He managed three strikes before the blade was plucked from his fingers and Grace grabbed him by the shoulder to whirl him around.
"Do you have any idea how far sound can travel in the woods?" Grace hissed, leaning in close to Fyn's ear.
Not very far, Fyn wanted to argue, there are too many objects to deflect and absorb sound…. But he didn't say that. Fyn merely pressed his lips together and shook his head.
"What are you doing?" Grace asked, forcing patience into her tone.
"I want to make a staff," Fyn explained, patting the tree behind him, "I'll be quick."
"Not with those arms you won't," Grace considered Fyn, then her eyes traveled to the branch. Hefting the knife in one hand, she said, "Deep Cut."
A glow built on the blade of the knife. Similar to the shine of Healing Hands, but somehow darker, the light took two seconds to reach peak brightness. When it did, Grace slashed at the ash, blade coming down near Fyn's shoulder and slicing through the tree limb in one smooth motion.
"Uh," Fyn swallowed, looking at the fallen stick and then at the knife Grace offered back to him, "I could use a couple more as backup."
Grace rolled her eyes but cut where he pointed. Fyn noticed, each time she used her skill, she waited for it to build. Then, she only cast the skill again when the glow faded entirely. Fyn counted as she cut, and frowned when he recognized Grace could only use Deep Cut once every five seconds.
He hid his expression when she turned back to him. Fyn held up a hand before she could return the heavy knife. Drawing his dagger, he lined up the branches next to each other and marked them all in two places.
Grace stared at him blankly, when Fyn nodded his head at her.
"They're too long. Think you could…?" Fyn made a chopping motion with his hand.
Growling at the back of her throat, Grace cast Deep Cut six more times. Afterward, she shoved the hilt of Fyn's knife against his chest, her eyes wide and eyebrows raised in a nonverbal display of, "Good enough?"
Fyn nodded solemnly, waiting for Grace to turn her back before gleefully grinning at the three hunks of wood. The longest was six feet, the shortest four, and the third fell somewhere in between. With a little work, they would become exactly what he needed.
Storing them in his inventory pouch, Fyn hid his smile again, and trotted after Grace.