Chapter 31. Self-doubt.

  Ohhh—how he was going to smack him. Not just smack him but slap the hell out of him. Gaahh—that son of a bitch. Bringing a nasty thing like that to the area.

  Lucky it was low tier, that thing was freshly summoned literally just moons earlier, but still. Then tears off into the woods. Of all the things too be chasing after too—chasing after a fucking shadow. Making him use the last of his bolts.

  Those weren’t ordinary bolts either. They were a one-and-done kind of bolt. You just can’t go jamming any basic bolt into the Threading-Crossbow. Just another little fun fact, they can only be used against monsters of ill creation; beasts that had been summon with hatred and darkness in mind… anyways.

  It requires something special; it will literally reject anything than that of a Blessed-Bolt. And he had too use his last 10 to take that monster down. Not just that but Maybel had to get dirty in the process.

  She was a showgirl not a warrior, not that she didn’t have a tasteful bite to her, but he didn’t like getting her messy. Just look at her, that stain it will probably never fade.

  His boots too! Gods he was going to slap him twice. Trousers—well that’s fine he’s got more in the chest. The boots though. These were his only pair, and a lot could be told about a man just by his boots. How would people think of him now? Ohh he was going to slap him.

  They too were some mighty fine boots. They could have used for a good polish, maybe a new lining of felt, but they were nice trust me.

  The toe-box—well its usually polished but just work with me, I know they’re filthy but just imagine. A polished sheen that glare even down here in the night of the pines. It curled the toe, not in a goofy dancer kind of curl. It was a flush piece of iron that hugged, but it did have design.

  Detailed engravings of full crashing waves. Each looking to smash like the riptides that inspired. Ripping a new curl with each step. Like he was kicking the currents back at the gods.

  Beautiful leather or jade rest behind the waves. Don’t ask me how but the color of that leather would alter in pigmentation. As if those walking waves washed over. Much like the rapid drying sands of a shimmering beach. That deep green shifting with each pull of the step.

  Okay it wasn’t jade—but it wasn’t leather either. Hydra? Yeah it could have been. Merfolk tail? Maybe. Cthulhu beak? Don’t be absurd—honestly if one ever found out what that material was, their stars’ just might dim permanently.

  The quarter of the boots embroidered with an octopus. The stitching of such held incredible attention, and maybe a pinch of magic. Because the creature of thread seemed to breathe and undulate. Powerful tentacles wrap the sides, reaching gracefully up for the collar. No eyelets, no speed hooks not even laces. Those glossy black appendages tighten for comfort ensuring that the footwear won’t slip free.

  Not only that but they had a Quick-Dash ability. There was also a Wake-Skip ability—don’t know if I should have said that—just ignore that last ability. Yes, fine boots they used to be. Just a mess now. Those waves would hold that crimson tinge for years. Gods damned butcher—fucking Sid.

  Abram grumbled to the timbers while he followed a ripped trail of grass. Hoping winds of commiseration would comfort him. The soft soil and deep imprints forced a misplaced step, like it was the only response the forest had for him.

  That route of hoofmarks was anything but a subtle path. That ground was torn up. Like a fat worm was doing cartwheels, no, it was more like all these trees lifted their roots like a dress and took a step this way.

  Crap flung from there to there. Arieo left behind a busted path of loose dirt, shredded grass, and rock practically stuck in the tree barks. It was a mess, and absolutely nowhere in the direction he told him to follow.

  Looking at the mountain he was walking away from—where was that donkey going? Nearly twisting his ankle with that last step, his irritancy swelled.

  Even with his dulled senses he could have followed the smell of that fresh soil, his fuzzy buddy was really digging in with those hooves, and folks say to shoe your work animals, Abram would never.

  Gods he probably seen that damned shadow again. A Howling-Shadow. Legendary creatures. Creatures of fire-tale myth. Huh—he thought they were all hunted. It might be one of the last, if not the last. Ultimate predators were those wolfish shadows.

  Master hunters. Pioneers of the art actually. Strategizing pack formations with a howl only the species could hear.

  Ever wonder why dogs howl for the moon, its remembrance, stitching the memory into the winds. Dog and those extinct wolf are descendants of the Howling-Shadow, living statues if you will, more so the dogs anymore but regardless.

  Inspired elders, living ancients, and walking gods alike lifted the dog and wolf from the echoes of the creature. Only to turn their backs on the creations.

  Those marvelous things had other interesting properties. Who gives a crap though. It was all in the past, or well it should have been at least. This was now—and gods damn it. His coat. That beautiful coat of his. His ruffles they now blushed. Like that of those doughy eyed tavern lasses, how embarrassing—

  “Ye gotta be shittin me!”

  Those 5 words screamed—he was not having fun.

  He typically liked adventure, monster fighting, and the rewards that came with, but gods everything since Sid has just been ass backwards.

  He voyages with a donkey he would know.

  This though, this just tops it—and gods damn it all he was missing a few of those silver buttons too. Oh—he was going to slap Sid. Abram looked a mess.

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  Like the slow suspicious dimple caused by a curious stick. Not just any curious stick, but the one that presses and presses. Until that suffocating expired flesh burst like a sickly bubble made of evil. Spewing a slick of something formulated in a dark place. Molesting that stick with a bile crimson carnage—yeah he was the stick that caused the bursting puncture.

  Counting his buttons twice over. Including the few along his cuffs. It was true he was missing some—how depressing. He might as well just trade that wagon for a plow. Damn coat is nothing but bleeding dress now. The tail stained with a splash of gore. Taking just that much more of his dignity. He shook his head—how very, very irritating.

  Also why has he not received a new quest or update. He collected the big man. Kind of. Sort of. He got his name at least. Well some of it-'just Sid'-two words that lingered. It was what only 2 moons earlier now, had he met the man. Odd fellow too. Great mustache—he scratched his stubble—maybe he should grow one.

  Sid though was short fused, he had a viciousness to his tone. Like a predatory afterbite that hunkered down. Waiting to snap with the next response. He was also headstrong.

  He may have started their greeting with a ‘I don’t want any trouble’ crap, but who the hell punches folks after a bad dream. Not only that but he did something to 6 vampires. A certain something that just left a stank of resonating memory.

  He looked at his hand. The palm juicy with black purpling hives. His pinky shriveled and frail, like a dirty root of undergrowth. He winced with a curl of the fingers. It ached to the pits of his core. Just that single clench, it was a queasy feeling. That hot sensation of infection was still in there—what was this? Would he be okay? He didn’t want to lose his hand—how would he crush shards. He would be doomed. The rest of his days—forever as far as he’s concerned. They would be nothing but grey. Grey blindness and withdraws. A cold wash of peril forced a tight jaw. His steps slowed to a stop and he peered up at the twisting colors of the night sky.

  Maybe Sid wasn’t the one he was looking for. Was it possible that man was just a shifter hiding. It’s a chance. Many of them hide, forgetting the principle of the ritual. Losing touch with that gift. Cant blame them though. Mankind is anything but understanding of what is different, and splitting ones skin shifting into a beast is quite different isn’t it? So, the shifters would hide, just wanting to live out their lives. Yes, shifters still roam the lands in secret, others more blatantly blunt. I mean vampires are an arch type of the shifter, some can take shape of bats and snakes. Perhaps that’s the reason as to why he never received the next piece. No—that was horse shit, just look at his hand. That is the same infection Tyriell produced centuries ago. This is the rash of a Were-Bear. Not just any bear either, this was classic Rot-Claw afterbite. And this infection wasn’t an ordinary infection. This was living erosion.

  “C'mon Lakora be me rights, is it him? Shows me something. Anything… please.”

  He plead to the magnificent hue of color twisting a dance like astral ribbon up there. His shoulders shudder with a cool breath of that fresh pine air. Completely overlooking the message in his hand. It was a bold all in caps message too. It was a sign so clear that the next best thing she could have done was show up physically and tell him.

  “Just—just don’t let it all be for naught.”

  He swallowed once. Twice to get that knot to go down. Letting those odd swirling eyes speak for a moment. His blinks were slow paced, practically drying before the next. Peppery brows twitch, slowly coming to a furrowed stare-down. Like he was waiting for a booming voice to come trumpeting through. Or maybe some symbols of text. Something, anything to let him know.

  “Fucking useless like always. We just be tokens ain’t we!”

  He mumbled before screaming. Wings of the moon turned their heads and mocked the man. Even the insects roared. The tree tops craned in the wind, watching a man unravel. He kicked the loose dirt. Spraying soil and grass with each motion.

  -Thud-

  The dirt did not fly, instead, a horrid ripple electrified his leg. His eyes bugged. One of them nearly overflow while a few words slipped under his breath. He bent down and grabbed that big rock—The Bruising-Rock. It had a gods damned title? His face twitched with annoyance. He gripped it with both of those splintered hands. Lifting with a spin. Slinging it with a twirling hurl. It could be heard bruising a tree before landing with a muffled thud. Grabbing for more, he let them all fly with no direction in mind. Cursing at this Lakora like it was ritual. Like it was a flight destination. Collapsing to his knees he shook with exasperation. Those odd swirling irises pushed a riptide over. Storm-current eyes held once more against the sky, while translucent waves crashed against course stubble.

  “Anything at all—he couldn’t finish the prophecy Lakora. Yer own brother—how is it ye expects me too! Look at me!”

  His voice cracked like a rusted blade. Tarnished with time sharpened with fading history polished with adventure; then buried and forgotten.

  “Just tier 2.—2. Lakora outta an infinite amount of numbers me managed 2. The game be hard—it’s more than just monsters and prophecy.”

  He pushed away that warm slick that tickled his jaw. Swallowing tightly he watched the clash of colors up there. Sounds of forest were ignored while that man waited for a response.

  “And me star is denting. It be getting duller each time Lakora. I’m sure ye knows already—ye know being Pioneer and all—but it’s true. Me thinks tomorrow could be the day me rank drops.”

  Eyes slowly crawled down the tree while he commiserate with the timber winds. The pines groaned with annoyance. Nobody—especially trees—wanted to hear a grown man woe-is-me on his knees. The context of this mans emotions was an illness he fed. A dieses he caters. The man was an addict. A path that would crumble in time, laying another token on its side, allowing the Seven just that much more control—specially if any one of them got ahold of that beautiful chest he kept in a speed wagon. A speed wagon that was unknowingly closer then what was led on.

  “It be a hard thing to compete against. Temptation. Influential desire. Me justs a man Lakora. Not no beast. I aint gots no strength to me. No powers. No great talents. Hell cants even lay salt patterns correctly.”

  He spoke slowly. Picking the bits of grass, his donkey pal missed. A snort of snot chilled his sinuses. While hot blink ran anew with a gentle overflowing trail. There was a quiver of shame lurking in his pits. That disgrace rippled. It somehow matched that tremor of dread that wakes him every morning.

  “Just be a blind man who don’t age.”

  Directing that glossy gaze up, he stared. It was a hard look, probably one of his sternest yet. His swirly orbs really investigating the shimmering dust of astral who knows what. Traded aura? Possible glimmers release when folks crack single shards of desire. Loved ones the game used up? I’ve heard fire-tale about lost souls drifting through the stars. Who really knows though. I don’t even think the sky is real so what would I know—but Abram studied the colors like the pulses were communicating in a lost language. Maybe it was the comedown from that adrenaline spike. Maybe it was the cool relaxing scent of cut grass and pine needle. Hell, it could have even been the lovely dance that beautiful dust up there performed, but he calmed. Honestly what would it change—crying out here to the sky. He would still collect. He would still tamper, disrupt, and be an absolute nuisance to the game.

  “Alright me hears yas. Me be listenin now. Truly.”

  He cleared his throat pushing to a respectable stand. Even in his mess and low tier there was still a clinging thread of dignity, it was deep in the fraying of loose ends, but there was still a line of clarity. Plugging a nostril he let the other one scream, blasting the most amazing gooey thickness that was worthy of its own tale. It twirled like a bola on the chase, the heftier end even shimmered in the moonlight, refracting a radiant silver hue, before catching the side of a blade of grass then dripping into the hoof print. Wiping his nose with a thumb he examined the residue. Remembering how chunky his boogeys used to be—when he first learned to crack a shard. He reminisced with that slick between finger and thumb before smudging it against his trousers. Completely ruining his moment of regal uplifting.

  Abram lost count long after 100 trees—just on his left side too—before he seen him.