Chapter 56. New Senses.

  Water slapped and sloshed while magnificent striders stomped the path. There was no sign of slowing either—not exactly sure where the path was going—he was going home. No longer wanting to stay. No longer wanting to rebuild. He could only stomp. Grip his fists. Grumble and stew.

  Dark bold mustache wiggled with ferocity while teeth gnawed at those lips. Nostrils flared with anger releasing hot breath after hot breath. Face so red the rain practically hissed from his cheeks. Sid was steaming—literally. Oh, how could he be so damn foolish. Walking right into a trap like that. How could he be so na?ve, listening to all that bullshit. Nonsense about a Bear-King—nice try Abram but he was no child to tell stories too. How could he just be so fucking blind to it all—who just said ‘well he only had one eye’… get out.

  Never again. Never again would he be tricked like that—he may just have to crush the next adventurer he sees. All of them were the same—anything necessary for some glory. Faith. Experience—whatever its called, really who gives a shit. It was disgusting the way those people would parade around. They were no better than him. In fact, Sid was better than they were. Had he been like that to those of the adventuring typical. He would have burned that castle to the ground ending as many as he could—only for his god of course, that is how the game is played. He would never be playing. He would never claim territory for one of the Seven. He would never let his son play—or well he wouldn’t have, you know what I’m saying. Oh, those asshole gods. That was a damn good scheme though, almost had him—almost.

  Lifting the pouch of ash from his neck he spoke. “You see, boy.” He clenched the leather obsessively. “You see how easy it is to be tempted by them. I was this close to doing something I may regret.” He fret at the thought—than at the thought of Clayton playing rather instead. “I can hate Xulu for many reasons boy. But if I am going to hold on to both of you, I will not be returning there. I will not be seeking the man. I can’t lose you twice.”

  The wind howled in response. Rain went sideways with hard gusts. How comforting the elements of nature can be at times. Just add that to the list, everything about today—no this whole little excursion. It was all horrible, a complete waste of the last three days.

  He didn’t necessarily think Abram had anything to do with his memory loss—but it was rather suspicious. Great, now he’s suspicious—and you know what they say about the suspicious ‘Seven slay those who are suspicious.’ Today could be marked as a horrible one.

  And Scarlett. How the hell did she know so much about him—was it her class? She was one of that to the magical race—or did the gods tell her. Either way—the conniving little—well, maybe he supposed he shouldn’t be too upset with her, she too, did say she wanted nothing to do with it all. Well than why didn’t she just leave well enough alone? Who knows—maybe Sid was more Sloth-like and apathetic than that of what he liked to believe he was. He hid under the legion of Minyeara for seasons on end. Perhaps he was less than basic. Maybe he was just a mountain drooler—no. No, he would never categorize himself as a hillbilly. Sure, he may not be a tutoring scholar—but he wasn’t one who chewed on pinecones either. He was without a doubt different than those back home. Still how irritating. How could the woman be so knowledgeable about his family like that—or was she? She never mentioned how Clayton died. She even asked if he had a talent, a shifting talent. She said his boy was proud of his father—how could that be so Sid was so abusive with his son. Did Scarlett know as much as she led him to believe or was she just saying the right things at the right time. Oh, how could he be so blind. What a fool.

  Abram was right. He was stupid. So, so damn stupid. It had to because of Minyeara. It just had to be her. The lazy was blooming. The fire-tale is true—never thinking it would be him as he had a role to play as the blacksmith. But also never thinking the Cattlemen were feeding from his—oh how did Abram put it ‘they graze on aura. Draining folks of their glory. Those who play a role never advance further in ranks unless Minyeara allows.’ Perhaps it was true. Maybe Sid was feeding the Cattlemen.

  Producing a heavy sigh from that fat mushroom nose. Thinking of that braindead camp. Slack-Jaw. Such a fitting name for such a settlement too. Maybe he could do something about the Cattlemen—the Cattlemen, why didn’t they come to help. Was it part of one of their schemes—the Seven were very tricky. Was she getting something in return from Briareos—Oh who even cares. Let all Seven of those cowering siblings send their best tokens. Warriors. Players and pawns. Adventurers. Contestants whatever you want to call them—Sid will expel of every single one of them if he must. He would be rebuilding a true Sanctuary. A safe haven with no gods. No glory. No faith. Only a place for those who want to escape the game.

  The cacophony of the last three days graced upon him by Abram and his donkey. The planning’s for his destruction by the gods. The fading of memory—mental tempering was something that just flipped a lever in Sid. He absolutely hated the idea of one controlling another’s’ thoughts. Distorting ideas. Causing others to do heinous acts—I don’t know maybe it pisses him off because his wife Sophie was mentally tampered, walking blankly into the darks of the forest. He genuinely hated Xulu for this reason. Like said though, he would rather hold the memories of Clayton and Sophie, rather than questing on a manhunt for a sorcerer who is rumored to combust hearts.

  To top it all off. He forgot his axe—no wait. Forgetting his axe was bad but the pop that Skeeter produced was getting rather annoying. This day could easily be marked as one of the worst so far. Nearly forgetting his son—only to relive horrid visions of who knows what—he did remember his boy though, just in time too. How awful that would have been too. Constantly clutching a pouch of ash without any wonder of who rests inside.

  No scratch all of that. The worst of all. The only thing that could have made this lousy trip worthwhile—the pint of dark drink. Sid never got that pint of eye-stinging mead, should he go back. Stopping, he actually thought it. Looking at the tall towers of Stallitusk Sanctuary—was it really that bad. Abram preached it to be a hellhole. Only a place of cutthroat merchants and hiding thieves—he didn’t pick up on any of that.

  Should he go find Abram and tell the man he spoke with Scarlett. Should he let him know he still felt the same about everything and would not be participating—nah. If it was anything of importance to Abram he is sure the voyager—or as Abram liked to call himself ‘The Collector’ ‘Captain Collector’ to be dramatic—Sid was certain the collector would be the one to find him in a matter of time. The answer would still be no.

  Sid had told the kook maybe—I want to say a hundred times, but let’s be real, Sid can’t count that high. He did tell Skeeter to scram many, many times. Skeeter though had not stepped into the forest in a long, long time, and would be following as long as he could. Also, Fenrir took his boot. He wanted it back. He wanted to try chewing on it—gumming it, whatever, Skeeter wanted to slobber on it himself though.

  Arieo and Abram, he thought about the two a few more times—don’t you worry about them, they’ll be alright. Both Arieo and Abram are more then capable of shoving before the push. I know. I hear ya ‘but they’re passed out.’ I hear you too ‘shard crash is nothing to leave alone.’ But listen to me, and just take my word for it, the worst of the castle is beyond the fence now.

  Yes, Fenrir too is still following Sid. Right there at the big guy’s side. Fenrir would follow Sid anywhere radiating that peace. Fuming tranquility with each step. Each toss of the boot had even shone with serenity. Each quick retrieval was pure harmony. All of it slightly bringing Sid just that much closer to quiet stillness. That wispy scarf made it easier to spot the shadow too—that bright white scarf, the damnation of it all, was this scarf but only a marking. Something to detect the creature with ease. Oh, how infuriating, he just stood by and let Scarlett tie that around his neck too.

  Unsure of just how Abram knew Scarlett he’d be damned if he let another trick like that fool him. Still absolutely mind blown from the fact that he had almost just lost the memory of his son. That missing a finger hand obsessed at the pouch around his neck. Walking through the tree line he was now very curious as to where this path would lead—could he get to Slack-Jaw from here.

  Those glorious boots came to a stand still. Cranky mustache spoke with a manner so harsh the damp grass under foot started to wilt. “Skeeter go back. I no longer need your assistance!”

  The mustache tried to order the old goof. Skeeter paid absolutely no mind to the finger—or mustache. He was so happy to be wandering beyond the fences. He hadn’t strayed the perimeters in such a long, long while. Everything after the gates was very interesting to him. He wondered how far he could go, and how it was allowed—does Briareos control more now?

  The mustache wiggled again. “Fenrir, you can choose to follow me if you like, or you can continue into the woods on your own path, but I am returning to my home. It is a simple place. But it’s safe.”

  Angry. Depressed. Tired and hungry he was beginning to mentally break. Sid needed time to calm down. He needed to release this rage—oddly, he wanted to find a Widowmaker.

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  Sid took in deep nostrils, following that sniffer. He could still smell that old skin smell. Stepping from the path he walked pass tree after tree. Walking cautiously until he noticed something brand spanking new to his visions. Stopping. He took in this new anomaly of detail.

  A mental outlining silhouette a thin strand before him. The snare glow like that of the silver lining of a grey cloud hiding the sun. The eyepatch. It had to be the eyepatch. It was charmed. Scarlett clearly wasn’t sending him out into the wilds unequipped. She obviously wanted him to have as many advantages as possible—sly old woman. This was amazing though. Sid looked with such a study, before the groan of a branch brought his attention up.

  A shiny black Widowmaker dangled. Slinking. Gently descending closer for the fat man.

  One could hardly see it under that brave mustache, but those lips curled with disgust. He hated these things, but wanted to blow off some of this anger—subconsciously wanting to test these new magical abilities bestowed upon his blade.

  A chilling red shrouded the blade while a thick hand gripped the handle. Same was true for the wraps at his wrists—I don’t know the purpose of the shimmering smoke, maybe it’s mystical. Perhaps it’s cosmic. Or even spectral. Guess he’ll just have to use it to find out. That scorched blade sang upon its release.

  Taking stance Sid waited for his moment. Watching the nasty Fenrir-sized spider drop closer. Pincers juicy. Clacking menacingly. Arms extended. Just in missing reaches of the mass of ugly scales.

  Sid swung Redemption—not just swung but powered such a swing with absolute unadulterated brutality—I don’t know if it was the spell, or some unheard-of star that shined a beacon of What The Fuck.

  What happened in such a motion slowed all momentum. That wide eye and bewildered stone on an eyepatch stared while magic unraveled.

  Right there just before the blade cut into the arachnid, the edging seemed to have cut into the somethingness of nothing. A smoky red swirl opened. Right there. Just then. The blade tore into the fabrics of nowhere. His blade ripped a tear of insane force. A vacuuming pressure. While the blade cut through the exoskeleton of the monster. The smoky swirl devoured the nasty Widowmaker. Not only that. The spider started to dissolve. Particulate. Sid wasn’t sure what the hell was happening, but the creature seemed to be turning to sand. All of such being pulled into that mini black hole of a swirl. Not just slurping up the Widowmaker either, but also the strand it slinked down from. A loud crack from above and the branch snapped free. Crashing down into swirling shroud, pine needles burst while they were swallowed.

  Sid watched with wide eye wonder—what and the actual—. He looked at Redemption, then the swirl slowly closing. Scooping up his jaw from the damp ground. He walked for a small pine. He was more than impressed. He had never used enchanted items before. He was now more curious than ever. Looking straight up. Yet another peculiar thing happened. The tentacles of his hood. Those little immaculate tendrils lifted. Reaching for the sky—were they—they were. The tentacles were collecting the rain. Interesting.

  Looking at the basic pine before him. He gripped Redemption. He swung a mighty two-handed swing. The blade sang, slicing through the air. Just like before there was a wicked pulling of air. The sound was threatening. Smashing like waves of falling water.

  Just like before the blade cut into something. The unseen threads connecting the fabrics of nothing. Again the smoke red shroud opened. A tight distorted swirl of destruction.

  Sid forced the blade of Redemption through the basic pine. The same one that held the spider. The smoky blade of Redemption severed right through. He practically had to run to safety while the tree dropped. Not a sideways fall shouting ‘timber’ kind of drop either. This was a slow stop and turn just to document what you’re witnessing kind of fall.

  Limbs snapped. Breaking at the edging of that odd dark swirl. The tree fell straight down. Sucked into that hole of destruction. Branches explode. All the splintered remains burst into dust, being pulled back into the anomaly. That screaming void of doom. He watched while the furious swirl snapped with electric crackles—like some kind of zapping burp—and closed violently.

  Uncovering himself Sid looked at what remained. All that was left of the pine was a shallow hole. Whatever that swirl was it uprooted the stump and undergrowth too. Leaving behind a shallow pit collecting the rain.

  All three of them. Sid. Fenrir. Skeeter. The three looked at the forming puddle in disbelief.

  The mustache singled Fenrir out and spoke. “Fenrir.” That dim glow looked at that good shadowy boy. “Try to do something with the scarf.” The lip-coat curled.

  Fenrir looked up at the big guy. No words were spoken. Only holding a stare that said. ‘But aren’t I already?’

  Sid was so fixated in the pure whites of Fenrir’s eyes. A memory was replaying. Right there. Deep in those odd orbs of vision.

  He could only watch. It was an empty feeling. Watching his boy rifle through a bush, seeking the ripe purple berries. Both him and Clayton. He was showing his son what berries are good for picking.

  Such a hollow feeling. He held the warmth in his eye for a moment. He remembered that day. Many of those berries were used in trade to Roedic—the woodsman from Slack-Jaw. The man was a decent carpenter and put together some wooden swords for Clayton—of course Sid gave the man a decent head for an axe for the wooden weapons—the timber-terror he left at the castle.

  Sid looked at Redemption. Then to Fenrir. He ruffled those pointy ears and stroked that wispy neck. “Good boy.” He choked.

  “Ya-koo-waa-ee-ee-koo-waa.”

  That stupid noise skull dragged Sid away from the shadow. Away from the memory. Away from his son. Sighing that scaly hood turned. He became upset with his new sight.

  Two nasty, glossy black Widowmakers chase the wrinkly goof. Bulbous butts shooting globs of sticky webbing. All only to fail ensnaring those legs.

  Skeeter was a quick old rascal. He dodged each sticky resin shot. Jumping erratically and dipping behind trees. Hooting and hollering with each springing act.

  Pincers clacked menacingly moist. Dripping with a protein melting oil. They wanted to wrap that kook. Fill him with that toxin and wait for their soup to prep—fun fact, spiders love slurping their soup if you listen closely, you can hear it.

  Sid let out a hesitant sigh before approaching the three. The Widowmakers felt a new presence as Sid and Fenrir stepped closer. Each spider stood on their hind fours. Each clicking grossly. Both taunted him with sharp legs. Both trying to reach. Trying to grab.

  “Eee-ooo-waaaaaaa!" Skeeter took for the woods howling with an obnoxious dramatic panic.

  “Damn it Skeeter. Get back here!” Sid yelled out over the spiders. Both now focused on him and the shadowy pup.

  Redemption glowed with the chilling red. Sid hacked at one, while Fenrir snapped at the other.

  In that misplaced swing, two nasty spider legs fell to the mud. But that’s not what Sid was looking at. After that attack something happened, a new anomaly of vision—it had to be the eyepatch, right? There was no other explanation for any of it. He'd never seen it before, so it had to be the eyepatch. Remarkable. Sid just looked at it. He wondered what it could be. Could he touch it. It was just right there. Did he have one? He kind of wanted to look.

  Fenrir snapped again, barking at the big spider. Sid focused. Found proper foot placements and swung. That second attack ripped through the nothing. Opening that swirling void. The blackness screamed with the tearing. Following with the swing, he cut right through. The monster shred to dust, then being swallowed. Feeding the anomaly. Taken to who knows where—did he really want to know, not really. Wherever it went it couldn’t have been a good place—what’s that? What was Sid seeing? Oh right.

  Sid now seen what could only be described as—as well a thin green bar. It was hovering just above the spiders or well the spider now. Actually, Fenrir and Skeeter had one now too. But when he cut the legs from the spider that green bar flashed. It flashed from green to black. Quick vivid flashes but when it stopped. The green bar shrank practically a third of the green bar shrank. Not just that either it changed color to a lovely bright orange—what the hell is that green bar—yeah that’s pretty damn good guess actually, you must be familiar with this kind of shit—anyways.

  One spider dead—no gone wiped from existence, nothing. Sid faced the Widowmaker jabbing for Fenrir. Approaching he lifted Redemption.

  -SHLUNK-

  Redemption bit down deep. Drawing blood—or well something leaked from that eight legged horror—it was green if you were suspicious. Sid was thankful these Widowmakers had no wriggly hairs—or should I say freaky little babies.

  Pinning the monster that nasty stone looked up. That thin bar flashed. Just like the spider before it. However, this bar shrank under half its size. Now a vivid red in color—how very interesting, what could it be? He ignored the shrieking thing, while he waved a hand through the bar floating right there.

  Honestly he figured as much too. But the purpose of what it was bothered him. It couldn’t be that—could it? No. No way. He was not playing the game. Why would he be seeing that. He had a slight suspicion—damnation there he goes again, being suspicious, somehow…. This was Abrams fault. But yeah, he’s heard fire-tale. All adventurers have one of these.

  Glaring at the flashes in the sky. He screamed while tentacles reached for rain. Yanking Redemption free. He let the smoky blade devour that bug. Swinging wildly. There was absolutely no grace. No form. He was a madman. A complete lunatic. That floating bar of whatever-the-hell was long gone. Sid wasn’t just chopping a spider anymore. He was turning it into puree. Slinging the slop from there to there—the sick bastard.

  Fenrir watched. Peaceful. Staring with only intentions of absolute divinity. Pulsing a soothing melody. Easy sensations. Like petals along a quite stream, while deer and its fawn drink with grace. Carefree. Only waiting.

  Redemption stopped. Sid huffed heavily. Looking at the mess of Widowmaker carapace and… guts maybe. He could feel it.

  That vibration Fenrir was emitting. It was, well, soothing. That’s really the best way to put it. Like warm honey on a sore throat, or cooling aloe on a burn. The energy that shadow produced was one in the same—the only difference is that that comforting pacified something deeper within. Counseling the grief, rather than letting the man deteriorate. Nothing is sadder than a man who mentally falls apart. When the mind fades and slips into darkness the absence takes place. One can never come back from that state of mind. Because when the veil is pulled over hope is lost, and the drive for such diminished—even Minyeara wouldn’t let her Cattlemen graze her braindead followers to such a state of being—and neither would Fenrir.

  Remembering the old kook Sid kicked at the remains. Cursing under his breath. Typically Skeeter would be easy to find. The little creatin left a wafting flakey residue in his path, however, it was raining. That gross skin dust didn’t stand a chance, and honestly Skeeter could have used a little water.