“That’s as far as the ship goes. All’s ashore that’s going ashore!” Captain Grildek shouted, the seaman moving easily with the shifting ship under their feet. The Nereid’s Wink had been Sigmar’s world for the last few weeks, a fragile abode of wood and cloth, floating on emerald tropical waters. It had been a pleasant voyage, untroubled by storms or sea monster, merely simple sailing from one Shackle Isle to another. Sigmar had a feeling he might miss it, as their destination loomed large ahead, less than half a mile from the ship.
It had first been a dark shape on the horizon, little more than a black line. Over the past day it had grown however, slowly resolving into a large island whose shores curved well out of sight into the misty realms of the unknown. Green blobs became verdant forests, brown specks revealed earthen hills and yellow streaks turned into broad, sandy beaches. Raptor Island.
The crew of the Wink had, over the past few weeks, done their best to terrify their passengers with stories of the island. Ravenous beasts, wild storms and gangs of hardened criminals roaming the landscape. A place where death came speedily and without warning in a hundred forms. It was hard to take such tales seriously however, when faced with a seeming tropical paradise. It was, to Sigmar’s somewhat untrained eyes, the idyllic ideal of a pleasant island. There were no signs of human habitation, not a shack, a dock or road. Just green trees, wide beaches and floating clouds above.
How bad could it be?
“This is as close as you can get?” A stern, cold voice said nearby. Sigmar glanced toward the formidable seeming speaker, Ismet Vrilu, the ‘Company woman’. The supposed leader of this little expedition, the tall human woman had the grace and demeanor of a toothache, with a reputation to match. She seemed to revel in renown, wearing long black clothes, embroidered with the company seal. Behind her was the ever present guardian cum servant, a squat wood golem, made of polished tropical wood that gleamed in the harsh sunlight. Silent and sure, the construct was constant as a shadow, and just as unsettling.
“Do you expect us to swim?” Vrilu added frostily, shifting her dark gaze from the island to the sea captain. Her dark cloak seemed unmoved by the tugging sea breeze.
Captain Grildek laughed, shaking his head, his small punch jiggling with the motion. Clearly the Shackles man was not intimidated by Vrilu, at least not here on the open sea, on the deck of his own ship. “No, but there are reefs and rocks ‘head. This far and no further, unless you want us all to swim. Your company has paid for the longboat. Have the machine row, it’s not far.” Grildek waves a hand at one of the ship’s smaller whaleboats, lashed to the gunwale.
“Yes, have the machine row. Not me!” Said a new voice, bright spring tones to Vrilu’s winter grumble. Sigmar turned to see the third member of his group (if one did not count the golem), appear on deck. Oyok Tchorru, master of wilderness and expert tracker. Or so the tengu claimed, at least. His words had convinced the Company anyway, and the flamboyant birdman looked the part. Belts and sashes hung from every part of his body, laden with all manner of gear. Ropes, traps, leather bundles, all of it hung at improbable angles from Tchorro’s lean frame. It seemed as if it would all fall any moment, but the tracker moved easily despite it, whistling as he approached the rail near Sigmar.
He took a long look at the island, over the sparkling waves. His dark eyes gleamed like a pair of wet rocks, feather flicking in the breeze. “Not every day I see a new land! A thing to be celebrated. Still, it does not look too formidable. Might it turn into a disappointment?”
Around them the sailors bustled doing…whatever sailors did. Battening the mizzenmast or some such. Despite this trip, Sigmar still only had the vaguest grasp of such nautical matters, but the men always seemed busy climbing up masts, coiling rope and slathering tar onto planks. Strange way to make a living. Still, the crew had got them to the island safely, and that counted for a great deal.
Sigmar had needed to get here safely for his chance at glory, of course.
“Do you expect us to swim?”
It wasn't the first time. It certainly wouldn't be the last. But this didn't lessen the sting for stern Vrilu as her severity was undercut by the company’s newest contractor with impeccable timing, an almighty splash punctuating her query and turning it from whip into wit.
*SPLASH*
“Wooo!” whooped the teen upon resurfacing, his grin brighter than the twinkling water. ”Finally! Oi, Oyo!” he called back up to the tengu still standing by the railing he’d just somersaulted from. ”I’m giving you one minute to get your feathered butt down here before I leave you and Ms Pouty behind! C’mon in, water’s great! Let’s go!”
Finally. Finally! The young man had been watching the sea for weeks now, waiting for this rock to lumber over the horizon, and every day he’d felt more and more like a jack-in-the-box, his spring wound tighter with every aimless sunset. Waiting did not come naturally to creatures like Sigmar Darastrix. Like songbirds or tigers, to cage them was a contradiction; the songbird behind bars would not sing just as a tiger confined could not hunt. Captivity then, could only hold the beast, not the soul. Even under open skies, the Nereid’s Wink had felt like a floating casket to Sigmar.
But then, finally, it had crept into sight: Raptor Island. Not a moment too soon. He hadn’t slept well the past few nights, heart pounding, instinct roaring for adversaries and glory. Dragon blood had its demands. An island full of megalithic reptiles would suffice. Sigmar punched the ocean surface like a toddler in his tub, just to feel the impact in his fist. Even in the water, he felt his skin thrumming.
“Not every day I see a new land! A thing to be celebrated. Still, it does not look too formidable. Might it turn into a disappointment?”
"Don't you dare jinx this for me!" the teen yelled back, the sailors' superstitions regarding tengu having rubbed off on him.
The water was so warm it felt like bathwater...or blood. Bright and clear, it rippled around Sigmar creating a thousand shifting mirrors, each only existing for a moment. Near him the hull of the ship loomed up like a wooden cliff, making his jibe to Oyok echo strangely, as if he was shouting down a wet tunnel.
Above the tengu laughed, and shouted back "I'm no duck! I'll take the boat lad, as should we all." Farther down the rail Ismet Vrilu gives a look so cold, the monk is surprised the water around him doesn't freeze to ice. Ah well. So could learn to lighten up.
Sigmar glanced down and saw seaweed clinging to the underside of the Wink, green tendrils trailing off into the water. Around it tiny fish darted, flashes of bright colors amid the plants. It put him in mind of the tropical birds ashore, flitting among mangrove trees. It was all so...alive. And he felt alive too, bursting to the skin. Instead of cooling him off, the sea had seemed to fire him up.
He looked past the ship into the depths beyond, searching for larger shapes. the sailors said sharks often followed ships for many miles, hoping for garbage and other detritus. He half-hoped to spot one now. What could be a better challenge then the toothy monsters of the deep?
Alas, by fate or chance no sharks appeared. Instead Sigmar merely treaded water as the longboat was loaded and then lowered into the water with a heavy splash. As expected Vrilu's golem took the oars, silently bending to the task. After a few farewells to the crew, the little boat began to make way.
Oyok sat in the stern, turned toward Sigmar with a whistle, "Come on lad, into the boat. Swimming half a mile will just tire you out." The tengu freezes though when Vrilu's voice slices through.
"No, let him remain in the water a moment." The tall woman leans over the side, casting a shadow right onto Sigmar. The water suddenly feels less warm.
"I would ask you to listen, boy, but I doubt you have the ability. So at least remain quiet." The Company woman says tersely, eyes flinty, "This is a delicate mission, one is which my own personal record is at stake. I will not abide foolish gallivanting or stupid antics. You will follow orders or I will make the rest of your life so miserable, even your mud-filled mind will tire of it. I am in charge, and you are here as an mere employee. If you do not agree, or do not understand, simply stay in the water and feed the fish. See if I care. I have no tolerance or need for fools."
With that she sits back into the boat and gives her golem a nod, adding, "Let's get this boat moving, we don't have all day." With a audible creak, the construct bent to the oars.
"I'm no duck! I'll take the boat lad, as should we all."
"No, you're a chicken is what you are!" came the reply. The smile with which it was delivered could be heard over the lapping waves, only to sour. "Fine. Hurry up then! Don't have me turn as wrinkly as Vrilu's frown!"
Said Vrilu just managed to catch a cheeky glint of pearly white before the youth dove beneath the water. There he amused himself while the crew prepared their longboat, swimming laps along the ship's length, chasing tropical fish, and every now and then climbing the hull halfway up before leaping back into the welcoming waters, just to practice his diving. He sounded like an entire village of children down by the mill pond at the height of summer.
Only the more perceptive among the crew thought to wonder how exactly the teen was scaling the algae-slick hull.
Not that any capable sailor would stop to speculate such a matter when there was work to be done. And their practiced hands saw this work complete when the longboat settled into the water. Foregoing any goodbyes with the crew altogether, Sigmar butterflyed his way to the vessel immediately. "Finally!" he said in gripping the railing.
Vrilu's shadow falling upon him impeded any further progress as surely as were it a solid wall.
"Whoa, slow down, lady!" he laughed, a gesture anyone but Sigmar could have recognized as not likely to mollify the woman. At the very least he had let her finish her lecture. "Don't worry about it!" The teen didn't take offence. His confidence was too great for words to erode it. Besides, he'd heard worse.
"We'll find your..." The smooth features scrunched in thought. "... Dwarf? It was a dwarf, right? Listen, just put some trust in this company you want to impress, yeah? They didn't just pull me off the street to... Well, they actually kinda did, I guess, but point is I was brought on 'cause I get results. Even if I did agree to this mostly for the novelty." Like a solar corona peeking through an eclipse, his pearly grin twinkled even under the taller woman's looming shadow. "And hey, if nothing else, me only being here for the experience means you won't have to suffer me for long. I'm no 'company man'. After this, I'm out."
Sigmar reached up with his other hand, open for Vrilu to grasp. The wet palm looked surprisingly soft.
"Whaddaya say? Can we try to make this work? Boss?" he added.
Nothing in the youth's boyish face revealed this as anything other than a gesture of conciliation. And why should it? After all, Sigmar hadn't decided whether he was going to pull the bullish woman into the drink with him as soon as she took the proffered hand.
When Sigmar half forgets the mission, Vrilu closes her eyes in an obscure sort of pain. A tiny sigh of distress might have been audible, but the monk isn't quite sure. it's hard to hear over the sloshing water. When Sigmar finishes talking, the imposing woman turns to Oyok, ignoring the proffered hand, like one might ignore a rotten fish at a market.
"Master tracker," She says to the tengu, who seems to merely be enjoying the exchange, "I pass him into your keeping. One bit of wisdom among the dross is true. The sooner begun, the sooner ended. Let us make way."
With that Sigmar is hauled into the boat by Oyok. The wooden golem is between them and Vrilu, a situation that does not seem to have been entirely accidental. The woman turns away from them and faces their destination, perhaps contemplating a different turn of events. One without Sigmar.
In the stern, Oyok passes the time by telling Sigmar what little he knew of the island. The thick forests, the history of marooned castaways and the famed savage beasts that lived here. Sigmar didn't pay much attention, instead looking around at the scenery, impatient. Did all boats row so slowly? You'd think a mindless hunk of wood would have a better turn of speed.
Looking down, the monk could see why Grildek didn't bring them any closer though. The glass-like water was shallow here, and Sigmar could easily see the sandy bottom, dotted with shells and various crawling creatures. Here and there rocks poked through the seafloor, coated with barnacles. Some of these rose above the surface, creating jagged pinnacles that the water played against, creating tiny whirlpools and eddies.
Sigmar wonders what this must look like when a true gale blows in, whipping these shallows into a frothing frenzy. Now that would be a proper entrance, riding a storm among cresting waves and sharp stones. Maybe on the way out they'd be so lucky.
Finally, finally they reach the shore, the golem driving the longboat onto the sandy beach. Sigmar is the first out of course, jumping into the water when it was still knee deep. Everyone else waits for a drier exit but soon everyone is on the shore, the baggage unloaded by the golem.
The beach is broad and flat, made of pale yellow sand that warms Sigmar through his boots. Ahead lies a heavy forest of tropical trees, green as a painter's brush. A hundred yards to the left a goodly sized river leaves the trees and empties into the shallows, creating a small delta with dozens of small gulls hovering over it.
Oyok takes this all in with a practiced eye before shrugging, "Another island, eh lad? I've seen worse."
Vrilu seems to look through the idyllic scenery, like a miner sizing up a likely mountain for a quarry. She does a full circle before saying, "How shall we proceed Master Tracker?"
"The river, I imagine. Stands to reason anyone here lives farther inland." Oyok says, "I wonder if the longboat might actually take us up? Depends how deep the water is, I guess."
Still treading water, Sigmar smirked to himself as the taller woman rebuffed his little peace offering. That is, if he'd understood her right. Vrilu's response hadn't included more venom spat his way, exactly. Heck, she'd even sorta agreed to move forward. Could this be what begrudging agreement looked like from her?
The teen had no idea and acknowledged that he probably never would. Sigmar wasn't much good with people. Oh, he could get along with most anyone the same way one got along with a stranger at the tavern, exchanging the common sentiments of the day and sharing a joke never to see each other again. But actually forming that elusive connection with another, building and maintaining relationships? That was beyond him. Sigmar couldn't relate to others. He was too different, too... other. He felt it. And sooner or later, they felt it too. Maybe Vrilu was a little like that as well. But where he plainly didn't get people, she just didn't like 'em. Two roads to the same destination.
Oh well. Not worth musing on. Like a dodgy knee, the youth had reconciled himself to that little bother years ago. Not that there was anything wrong with the Elysian piece of perfection that was his corporeal form. There were stone golems out there less chiseled than Sigmar Darastrix.
Besides, the woman was completely off mark, he thought in gratefully grasping Oyok's hand and heaving himself up into the boat. 'Sooner ended'? What sort of twaddle was that?! Nah, Raptor Island was set to be his playground, and Sigmar had every intent of wringing it for every bit of fun possible. The toothy grin grew wider.
"Go on, Plank," he called to the wooden construct by the oars. "We don't want to be late for the party!"
The remaining half-mile passed peaceably enough. Reclining in the stern into the sort of sprawl only achievable by teenagers, Sigmar half listened to the tengu's tall tales about the island, his mind thinking on the beasties supposedly living there. What were they called again? Dinosaurs? Dinosaurs were kind of like dragons, right? Big, scaly, strong? Sounded like dragons to him. 'Course, they couldn't be as strong as one of those winged terrors. Nothing was stronger than a dragon. Still, those dinos sound like a decent stepping stone for him.
These were the idle thoughts Sigmar amused himself with as the golem rowed them ever closer, one hand hanging off the boat and playing with the calm ocean. Unseen, one of the fingers thereof wasn't a finger anymore. The single claw cut a crest through the crystal clear water.
"Good job, Plank!" Once their vessel was beached (at last!), the teen gave the construct a chummy - and quite forceful - pat to its ligneous back in passing. He liked the thing. Sigmar appreciated the silent types. One smart mouth was enough in any company and he preferred it to be his own.
"Another island, eh lad? I've seen worse."
"Yeah? You'll have to take me there." Sigmar smiled. He couldn't help it. Standing on the beach, hands at his hips, bare chest thrust proud and peering into the shaded unknowable that was the tropical jungle, he felt eager as a greyhound on game. He took a deep breath. Oh yeah. There was danger and excitement here. He could smell it.
"River, huh?" he said, almost distractedly, to Oyok's reasoning. "We gonna find any of those giant lizards there?"
Oyok whistles, shaking his head. "I hope not. I am hoping they are all gone or were only stories anyway. I've seen the bones of such beasts in taverns and such. Trust me, we don't want to fight one." The tengu could speak for himself, Sigmar felt otherwise. How else was he to rise to fame except by overcoming such foes?
The air did have a scent of overripe fruit, rotting leaves and a humid heaviness Sigmar could not quite put a claw on. Was it old wood? Some sort of animal? Perhaps the soil itself. In any case it promised exotic adventure to the young monk and his blood thrilled with it.
"Let's scout a bit, before getting the boat over." The tengu said, 'I want to see how the river mouth looks-" he took a single step to Sigmar's right, bright eyes peering ahead.
Then the world exploded into sand and wind.
Under them the sunny beach erupted into plumes of spouting sand, flying higher then Sigmar's head. A dust storm? No, the problem lay downwards! The ground itself was shifting, sliding as a instant sinkhole started to form! The longboat groaned and started to slide on the sand, baggage flying as it picked up speed on the sudden downhill slope.
Sigmar is caught off guard and stumbles into the growing pit, as Oyok falls beside him. He can't see the golem or Vrilu among he blinding sprays of sand but he does see something else, dead ahead down the steepening slope. A thin whip of an arm, like an octopus, covered with barbs and suckers. It wraps around his halting legs, tangling him up. Clearly some beast was at the bottom of this, in both senses of the word. He doubted it wanted to make friends.
Where did the island go?!
It was a reasonable enough query, what with Sigmar's surroundings turning from blues skies and lush greenery one second to the inside of a sandstorm the next. It got more disorienting still as suddenly said island made its reappearance by jumping up and striking him in the back. "Oof!"
That a sliver of blue told him the sky was now somewhere to his side didn't help matters. What the hell is going on?! The young man had been, in a word, ambuscaded.
Only when the dust plumes settled just a bit did he notice the octopus-like limb grasping one leg. Only then did the pieces fall into place. Only then did his customary grin return. "Ooh ho ho, cheeky!"
Sigmar wasn't the most well-read of peers. In fact, he could only just about spell his way through signage to the nearest tavern. But, as the most progressive of school masters would argue, there are more than one form of intelligence. And surely the youth displayed some variety of smarts in now quickly assessing the situation and acting accordingly.
Raising his free leg up high, Sigmar brought it down again like a headsman's axe onto the offending tentacle. It squirmed at the blow upon which he pulled himself free. Reaching out for the undulous appendage, the teen then used it for leverage in pulling himself upright. True to his nature, he allowed himself a second to laugh. From gliding over the ocean in the darn thing to skidding alongside it in a sandpit; who was it who said he wasn't to drift beside the longboat earlier?
Letting the sinkhole swallow him further, Sigmar skated over the rushing debris with remarkable surefootedness. He wanted this trap to take him deeper. After all, whatever monstrosity that tentacle belonged to, it was sitting in the center of all this, waiting. He wasn't about to disappoint.
"I appreciate a forward dance partner," he bellowed in drawing near, "but you should know I like to be asked first!"
Sigmar leapt forth, fist first.
Sigmar rids himself of the clinging tentacle and is soon sliding down the sandy slope on his own two feet. He heard once, in a tavern, that men in the north strapped bits of wood to their feet and slid down snowy mountains. Sigmar had laughed at the time, assuming it was drunken story-telling but now, part of him believed. He could see the appeal!
At his side, Oyok also manages to stand upright. Unlike his rather more bellicose partner however, the tengu throws himself the other way, away from the curving pit. Sigmar can't blame him and he thinks the hunter made it to firmer sand beyond, but is unsure among the spurting spray of sun warmed sand that grits his eyes and mouth.
Alongside him the boat rumbles downward, bouncing wildly. An oar is bucked free in the haphazard freefall, spinning toward Sigmar's head.
It just misses, the heavy wooden implement flying past the monk.
The sand partially clears and then Sigmar finally sees it, the creature causing this ruckus. It is like someone took a noxious city street puddle and gave it life. A fleshy brown hole, filled with dozens of inward curving teeth takes up the bottom of the growing pit, a baggy throat farther in. Five waving tentacles rise around it, moving with snake-like speed. One is still reaching for the escaping Oyok but the other four move on the falling Sigmar.
The first is blasted side by the monk's iron fist, hit hard enough to bend the attacking thing. The other three try to grab however, sliding over his shoulders and legs with barbed insistence.
Only one makes any contact and the damage is slight. Sigmar grins. He has heard himself shaving worse then this. Then the tentacle twists and thrashes blindly, like a drunk man trying to find the last pickle in the jar. This might be a bigger problem.
But Sigmar is too cunning a wrestler and slips the hold, pushing it aside. He is still free.
"Hah!" Another tentacle burst out of the sandscape that formed the pit's everything, but Sigmar dodged it deftly. "Ha hah!" And then a third. "You're gonna have to do better than that, you noodl... Gah!" The fourth caught him in the cheek and sharp though his jawline was, only one of them looked worse for wear.
Alright, so this thing has a lot of those calamari arms.
This thought didn't worry the dragon-blooded youth, of course. No, it just meant that he had to keep his wits about him... Like right now when another tentacle swiped at him from a blind spot! "Missed again!" Sigmar taunted in stepping back. Back onto yet another appendage waiting to clamp onto him like a beartrap. Leaping in place to draw his legs to his chest saw him avoid this one too.
Alright, alright, he assessed again in landing, so it has...
A fifth arm undulated through the air, giving up on chasing the fleeing tengu to wiggle its way towards Sigmar. ... has more noodles than Tian Xia. Dang.
Still no cause for worry. But perhaps cause for caution. Nary had the thought formed before Sigmar's amber eyes were drawn to the longboat, still half sliding, half crashing its way down the pit. Before he could consider it, the strong legs propelled him over the cascading debris to clamber onto the vessel. There the teen placed himself at the bow like a captain going down with his ship, caught in a whirlpool of swirling sand. Hopefully the vessel's railing would provide him just a bit of cover.
But then there was no defense like a good offense. Sigmar drew back one hand and spat an incantation into the gritty air. It wasn't the Hurricane King's fabled cannons, yet it still made for quite an image when a great gout of fire spewed forth over the boat's gunwale.
Sigmar stands up in the careening boat's prow, looking for all the world like a carved figurehead, arms outstretched. Suddenly the swirling pit of flying sand is engulfed in gouts of rushing flames. The fiery maelstrom did not touch the impetuous monk however and it danced around him in a blazing aura, instead burning the pit beast and the wavering tentacles.
The creature did no howl or bellow, but rumbled, a guttural roll that shook the sides of the sandpit. The flames flew higher as Sigmar's hellslide picked up speed and pace. He wondered when-
Wham!
The boat hit the bottom of the sand pit.
The boat cracked under the impact as it bottomed out, threatening to throw Sigmar headlong into the creature's still open mouth just ahead, but the monk remained upright, moving with the impact. Around him smoke and sand mixed together to create a noxious swirl, filling his lungs with dirty grit.
The creature rumbled again, the mouth working as it tried to shove the cracked boat aside. Two tentacles grabbed the watercraft and started heaving it back and forth, dislodging it. The other three once again attacked Sigmar.
This time instead of grabbing him to devour however, the creature merely battered at him, trying to slay this pest. It was in danger of being truly injured, and wanted this fight over with.
Fromt he side another shape flies at him. Another tentacle? Sigmar is ready to scream but instead he sees it is a heavy rope. Looking up, he can see Oyok at the lip of the sandy pit, holding the other end.
"Grab it, lad! It's a dust digger. It can't move, we just need to get away from it."
He was bruised, he was battered, but he was still standing. Nothing but this last fact mattered. Sigmar stood tall at the longboat's prow, having rolled with the impact of the vessel crashing to the pit's writhing core, and then endured a fair few more impacts as said tentacles whipped across his svelte physique. Heh, this thing was getting serious, the teen thought upon noting something resembling fatigue in his lean muscles. Good. That only meant this oversized calamari platter had acknowledged his power. Proving his strength to the monsters of the world - proving his strength to himself - this moment was what Sigmar lived for.
You're not as dumb as you look, uggo.
He flashed a superior smile in looking down at the tendrilled maw, thrashing and gnashing beneath the boat's keel.
But then whatever god shaped you would be real cruel if that were the case.
He only looked up again at Oyok's call. A scoff turned into something more like a cough in the dust bowl. The tengu was alright. Sigmar liked him. But what he offered - the chance to survive, to fight another day and all that? - it just drove home how different they were. How Sigmar was different. Survive? Nah, the dragon-blooded young man wanted to live. And what was a life without pride?
"Yeah," he laughed. "Yeah, I noticed how it can't move earlier."
Let's exploit that, shall we? Flickers streamed from the youth's fingers.
Bleeding and battered, the young man ignored the (quite literal) life line at his feet and turned back toward the gaping maw of the dust digger. The tentacles waved around it, barbs glinting in the tropical sun. He wasn't going to flee from a creature that was more plant then animal. What was next, running from fallen trees or roadkill? No, he was going to make a stand.
Reaching into that well of draconic power, he unleashed another gout of roaring flames into the pit. Once again his fire outshone the sun, throwing everything else into shadow while he burned the beast. The visible parts burned and melted, and the scent of charred flesh filled his nose.
The inferno only lasted a moment and when he ended, Sigmar threw himself into crouch, ready to dodge and fight off the incoming tentacles. Instead though the digger left out a rumbling grumble and started to sink, vanishing into the ground. Shifting sands soon covered it and in a few moments the toothy circular mouth was gone. In short order the waving tentacles followed it underground and Sigmar was left in a empty sandy pit with a slightly smoking longboat.
Oyok whistled loudly from above, "Nicely done, lad. You save the boat, that'll come in handy. Still, let's get going, in case it comes back. Tie the rope to the boat and get up here to help me haul it out of that blasted pit!"
Once more the sand pit turned fire pit, the smell of searing flesh absurdly adding to the image of a beach excursion complete with grilled meat. The gurgling rumble that followed dispelled such pleasant pictures; the beast sounded like a walrus hacking from a wet cavemouth. Mercifully, however, this grumble grew ever fainter.
"Ey," Sigmar objected once he noticed the tendrils retreating, "where are you going? Our song ain't over! What, did I step on your toes? Did mama give you a curfew?"
Like a proud skipper on his craft, the teen looked on as the creature withdrew into the dirt, slinking away from what it recognized as a superior foe. He looked more than a little pleased with himself. "Should I be looking for a glass slipper or sumthin'?" he taunted. Many invectives had been spoken over Sigmar during his short career as ruffian and general thug for hire, from both victims and employers. 'Hare-brained idiot.' 'Loutish brat.' 'Hotheaded thrill-seeker.' 'Ass.' Yet even those most vexed by him had to admit this: that the young man was no homicidal savage.
While Sigmar enjoyed fighting, what spurred his fists, claws and fire was the desire - nay, need - to prove himself. Bloodlust never entered the equation. As such, murder was not a matter of course, merely a tool of necessity. Which was why he was perfectly content to watch the beast sink beneath the sand to lick its wounds, blisters and all.
Of course, the youth wasn't altogether unscathed himself. "Yeah, I did alright, didn't I, Oyo?" he concurred humbly, finally grabbing the tengu's tether and tying it to the longboat's mooring cleats. This done, he clambered up the rope to tumble back onto the beach.
"Didn't I tell you?" The grin was boyish as could be, like a lad after his first horse ride. "I told you this island was gonna be fun!" He brushed sand from his jacket and bare chest, entirely nonchalant about the bruises and welts blooming there.
His act wasn't entirely convincing.
When Sigmar rolls, rather ungracefully, onto the firm sand of the beach he spots Vrilu. The Company woman is seated on some of the baggage, golem behind her as always. He hand is cupping her chin, eyes thoughtful. Sigmar guesses that, if she craned her neck slightly, she could have seen the whole fight from her safe vantage. The woman is hard to read but Sigmar guesses there is at least slightly less disappointment then usual on her cool features.
Oyok whistles low at Sigmar bravado and says, "Come on, lad. Fun is one thing, getting blood all over is another!" The tengu reaches a taloned hand out, and touches Sigmar shoulder. He mutters some mantra under his breath and a surge of warmth fills the monks.
And, just like that, most of the damage of his two-step with the dust digger vanishes, leaving only the odd twinge here and there. Seeing this Oyok lets out his trilling laugh.
"Now that you are fit again, let's get this boat up!" Together the two of them manage to manhandle the boat out of the pit. It is lighter then usual, since it has no baggage. Soon the tracker is going over the vessel with a keen eye. Finally he turns to Vrilu, who remained silent during all of this.
"I'm no waterman, but I think she will still serve. The cracks are high in the stern and prow. if we don't load her too much and we take it easy, she can still carry us. Good job on the lad here to save the boat, I thought we were going to have to walk the whole way."
The Company woman considers this, favors Sigmar with a single glance and then says, "We travel till nightfall. Let us continue."
The taloned hand might look dangerous, but it proved as nurturing as any nun's. Deep blue bruises faded into dim blemishes. "Oh hey, thanks, Oyo!" The gratitude in the youth's smile was as sincere as only the young and simple's could be. "Not that I wouldn't have managed, 'course..."
Rolling his newly refreshed shoulders and hopping in place like an athlete warming up for his next great feat, Sigmar then grasped the rope. Hauling loads wasn't his idea of proving his mettle - that was dragon, not ox blood in his veins! - but cooperation was a two-way street or however that one matron had once phrased it. The teen wasn't sure he got the metaphor, but he was happy to help. Cooperation was a beautiful thing.
Though on that topic, the 'company woman' wasn't looking too pretty right now.
"Aw, come on now, Vrilu," Sigmar laughed through a huff as he pulled, his legs struggling against the sand. "If you're not gonna get off your flat butt, at least let Plank stretch some. I can see sprigs growing on the poor guy!"
In truth, the sentiment was doubly selfish. Sigmar didn't just want the construct to help shift the boat, he wanted to get a measure of its strength. A worthy sparring partner was darn tempting.
Vrilu looked unmoved by Sigmar's plea at first and seemed content to watch the ranger and monk pull at the rope. But the boat was heavy, down a slope and the beach sand provided no purchase. It didn't matter how they strained and sweated, the boat simply refused to move.
Finally the company woman let out a tedious sigh that said Do I have to do everything myself? and gestured wordlessly to the wood golem. It stalked forward with the creaking silence. Ignoring Sigmar and Oyok it jumped down into the pit, sliding down the sand with a rather pleasant swishing sound. Once at the bottom it grabbed the longboat with wooden hands and started to push. With two men pulling and one golem pushing they, with much effort, finally got the blasted vessel onto the beach proper.
Sigmar guessed the golem was a trifle stronger then himself but not by much. More importantly, it worked without concern for torn ligaments, sore muscles or sweaty palms. It had a deliberate constant force that reminded one more of a machine then man. With the boat manhandled (and golem handled) to the beach, it retreated back behind it's master.
In the silence Vrilu coughed and stood up, looking very tall and grim, "Before we continue, a few things need to be said, now that we have no eavesdropping sailors."
"First, Orsen Griet is a known liar and thief. Like any such rascal, he will say any lie, make up any story to escape capture. Be on your guard for such tricks, spread either by himself or any other dweller on this cursed isle. The Gods only know if we will have fellow confederates here. We must assume the worst. "
"Second, and just as important, it is vital we take our quarry alive and unharmed. It is unknown what the Company may require of him, upon our return, so we need Orsen in full control of his abilities, both mental and physical. Maiming him is as bad as not finding him at all! I cannot overstress this." The woman seems oddly stressed on this point, her voice rising above the usual glacial calm. Instantly she is herself again.
"Master tracker, you suggested we use the boat to go upriver?"
Oyok shrugged, "It is better then walking," The tengu's mobile head flicks toward the river, "If anyone lives here, they will live near the river. News, sign, home, anything will be found at the water's edge. It also gives us a path we can't loose among the trees. Hard to get lost on a boat." he let out a small laugh and his feather's ruffled.
No one asked Sigmar his opinion.
Oh yeah, thought Sigmar in catching his breath, admiring the arboreal automaton over the stern of the rescued longboat. Definitely a worthy dancer partner.
It wasn't that he wanted to see the construct broken and splintered at his feet. No, not exactly. Nor was it the youth's ego, bruised at merely recognizing a peer in prowess, that made him want to leap for the construct fist first. No, he readily acknowledged - nay, welcomed! - that there were others in this wonderful madhouse of a world with capabilities far beyond his own. This was good! Such individuals only served as goal markers, mountain ridges to be traversed in reaching the snow capped summit that was his own potential . Why should the young man envy other's power? In his veins flowed the blood of dragons, the pinnacle of creation. His potential wasn't just great; it was total. Within those precious drops was the promise that Sigmar Darastrix would one day surpass... everyone.
Everyone? Yeah, he decided. Just about everyone.
So no, he didn't begrudge Plank his oaken brawn. Rather, he wanted to fight the construct for the sheer pleasure of fighting. While Sigmar had met the odd exemplar or two that might make for a worthy sparring partner, he had never propositioned these for such. After all, breaking your toys put something of a damper on one's fun. Gouging claws and crackling fire were not something the average opponent would relish testing themselves against more than once. The teen himself took no pleasure in maiming playmates either.
But Plank! Ah, stout Plank. Here there were no such concerns. The golem was very literally made of sterner stuff. Surely he could stand up to him and live - if indeed he was alive - to fight, fight and fight again. He was perfect. Or rather, he would be if not for being shackled to Vrilu, this human equivalent of a tax bill stapled to a bear. Of course, Sigmar had never paid taxes before, but the point was that she'd sooner swallow a hedgehog than let the two of them go at it for a bit of fun. What was her problem with fun, anyway?
It was, to the brash youth, a salient question, one that kept him from acknowledging that his fondness for 'Plank' might stem from reasons beyond boyish play. Reasons such as the automaton being unable to contradict him, or make demands of him, or indeed require the emotional vulnerability that is a prerequisite to any genuine relationship. Such are the foibles of the socially maladjusted.
Instead he simply smirked as the company woman made to speak, content to let her say her piece. Anything else wasn't worth the hassle.
"Orsen..." Sigmar said, nodding sagely before looking to the tengu. "See, that's the dwarf, Oyo."
Sigmar's remark, perfectly timed to fill the silence after Vrilu's little speech, hung in the tropical air for a long, long moment. Then Oyok burst into whistling, hooting laughter loud enough to startle several macaws out of the nearest coconut tree.
"The dwarf! Yes." The tengu cried, his feathers rustling loudly. He only slowly took control back, sighing heavily, shaking his head. "yes, lad, yes. The dwarf."
Vrilu does not laugh, although he jaw works silently. It reminds Sigmar of someone chewing on the last bit of gristle, in a steak. Trying to wring the last fragment of flavor out of something useless.
When she does speak, her voice is the usual cool tone. "Yes. The dwarf. I only add this. if you act the foolish dog, do not be surprised if you are beaten like one."
And with this encouraging and uplifting pep talk, they get back to work. Sigmar and Oyok get the longboat back into the water and half-walk, half-push it toward the river. It is slow but not particularly difficult work, and Sigmar has time to admire the scenery of golden sand, rippling seagrass and multi-colored seashells. Once or twice Oyok points out a scuttling crab and gives Sigmar the name.
The small creek empties into the ocean in an intricate but miniature delta of shifting channels, sandbars and tidepools that probably gets remade with every change of the tide. A tiny kingdom of mussels, barnacles, crabs and climbing starfish.
The river water itself is dark, reminding Sigmar of the tea people drank in the nicer parts of the city. It flows placidly into the seawater, leaving a fading stain that reaches out into the jostling waves.
Oyok nods, "Dark water, means deep jungle ahead." The tengu says knowingly adding, "I doubt it will be very deep. I am not sure how far we will get in this little boat. We go until rapids or nightfall stops us?" A glance toward Vrilu who climbs silently into the prow. The company woman nods firmly.
Onward.
When she does speak, her voice is the usual cool tone. "Yes. The dwarf. I only add this. if you act the foolish dog, do not be surprised if you are beaten like one."
No urchin promised some sweetmeat in return for not behaving had ever looked so simultaneously surprised and delighted. "Ooh, don't threaten me with a good time, Vrilu!" The amber eyes were glinting with delight and mischief both. He meant it too; nothing would please Sigmar more than if the directrix sicced Plank on him or even - dare a boy dream? - revealed some hitherto hidden martial prowess to trounce him herself.
He would have to think on how to provoke her without getting himself stranded on an island full of megalithic beasties. And preferably paid.
Though on the topic of said island, its beasties awaited! The teen wanted to see whether its dinno-sars lived up to the hype. Giant, flightless reptiles without the ability to spit raw elemental matter had sounded like a perfect stepping stone for a fledgling dragon like himself. "C'mon, Oyo!" he said, grabbing one side of the longboat. "Let's introduce this thing to freshwater!"
Dragging the vessel through the pliant beach wasn't too cumbersome. The tengu even provided some entertainment via naming the local flora & fauna encountered along the way. Granted, the brash teen didn't give a toss as to the designation of crustaceans, but his competitive mindset could admire any and all skillsets, martial or scholastic. Oyok's capabilities as a ranger might not compare to the draconic awesomeness that was his own birthright, yet they were still impressive! You know, in their way.
"We go until rapids or nightfall stops us?"
"Or one of those dinno-sars." Sigmar looked into the shaded maze that was the jungle with starry eyes. One could only hope. He leapt into the boat and snapped his fingers upon which invisible bands of force overlaid themselves onto his trim physique. Yes, let's hope.
Oyok clacked his beak sharply, but his eyes shone, ”You have it backwards again, lad. We want to avoid monsters, not find them. That dust digger not enough for you?” The tengu waved his hand toward the greenery upriver, ”Let us hope this island is very boring.”
Sigmar did not actually mind hard work, despite what some of his former employers might contend. Granted, he preferred a showy display of strength to anything else. Lifting a lass over his head, juggling full mugs of beer, or even taking a few punches on the chin to show he could. That sort of thing the monk reveled in, but even tedious work like stacking crates or manhandling a team of horses, Sigmar could do. He bored easily, but he could do it, if needs must.
But that first day in the jungle was worse labor than any day at the docks or in a factory. For one thing the conditions were terrible. As soon as they left the open beach, the world became a rank, overgrown jungle. The air was heavy and humid, full of biting flies and other insects. Sigmar’s sweat poured off him and created literal puddles in his boots, making him squelch with every movement. Even gripping an oar became tricky and unpleasant.
The work itself was tedious and difficult, the worst possible combination. The jungle river was slow here and broad enough that Sigmar could not have jumped across it, but even that current was difficult to contend with. Sigmar and Oyok rowed hard on the oars, knowing that for every stroke they lost at least half their momentum to the current. It did not take long for even Vrilu to bend, and allow the wood golem to help. Still, even with the construct’s unflagging assistance, it was slow, unrelenting work.
Not that they had any other choice. All around them the jungle pressed close, providing no alternative path. The trees were gigantic, easily the largest Sigmar had ever seen, many so large a whole family could not have reached hands around them. Some had gigantic, flaring roots, twisting down like ribbons into the soil, or arching higher than he was tall. From the huge trees thick vines hung down, many laden with flowers or brightly colored fruits. Very little sunlight came through except directly over the stream, a thin winding path between outstretched tree branches. It all looked wild to Sigmar, who had barely set foot in a park before, let alone a forest.
But Oyok muttered otherwise. The tengu talked of signs of habitation, of old farms grown over or girdled trees. Of burn marks and old harvested stumps. Sigmar saw none of this and slapped at the biting bugs. At least it wasn’t raining. Or maybe that could keep the bugs away?
Even Sigmar couldn’t miss the village though, when they crossed a bend in the river. It sprawled out on the right bank, a dozen or so simple huts with thatched roofs and stone ringed fire pits. A simple log dock stuck out into the water. Even at this range it was easy to see the damage, however. Most of the huts were missing roofs, or bore obvious signs of fire and destruction. It was not brand new destruction however, whatever had happened here. Plants were springing up in the doorways and vines had started creeping onto the empty buildings.
There was no movement or sign of life.
Oyok whistled slowly and turned to Vrilu, saying, ”Bad signs, bad signs. But we best stop. Might still be some that live around, we can get news. Even if all are dead, we might learn something from the ashes. At the very least, what kind of people lived here.”
The company woman surveyed the empty village briefly, then shrugged saying, ”Do not take too long. Our task lies elsewhere. ”
The tengu nodded and turned to Sigmar, pointing a feathered hand at the human, ”Nothing too foolish now. Who knows what lurks in there.”
”You have it backwards again, lad. We want to avoid monsters, not find them. That dust digger not enough for you?”
Sigmar could not have looked more flatly bewildered had the tengu opened its beak to let forth a shower of rosewater with accompanying rainbow. "... No?"
Enough fighting? Was there such a thing as enough light for the sun? Enough flow for the current? Enough pull for gravity? These were simply forces of being, just as supremacy was for the dragon-blooded young man. No arbitrary amount of flight sated the eagle; flight was its capability and purpose made one. How then could any one fight quench that very animating spark at his core? In a phrase, kicking ass was not what Sigmar did; it was what he was.
The question made no sense to him. Especially, the teen pondered, as it was Oyok himself who had set him right after the dust digger scuffle! Of course he was ready for more! But then, an errant neuron made him realize, this was merely another example of how he differed from the average mortal. The average mortal did not have this need to throw themselves into the - oft literal - jaws of death just to prove their own superiority. The tengu didn't have this drive. He was, in a word, normal.
Just as Sigmar had accepted that he himself was abnormal. Which could feel rather lonely, being divorced from much of mortal-kind. Fortunate then, that his abnormality was so damn fun in practice. This was what let the youth's expression of confusion bloom into a smile in clarifying, "I mean, a growing boy needs to be kept occupied, you know? No tellin' what these hands'll get up to if left idle!"
----------
Yet there was no room for idle hands on this expedition.
"This suuucks," Sigmar whined in smacking one such hand against his cheek, killing another biting fly. One among millions it felt. Who would have thought trekking through uncharted jungle could be so laborious?!
Not Sigmar, city boy that he was. Upon hearing Raptor Island described, he had rather imagined white beaches and palm trees. Having never experienced much wilderness more untamed than a dirt road, this green hellscape of thousand-year old trees choking the ground, sky and each other in a war measured in further millennia had been quite beyond his juvenile mind. It was like stepping into a wholly hostile environment, one alien to you, like a fish hooked up to the surface. He took another gasp of air that felt like hot oatmeal in his lungs. The teen had never considered testing himself against a terrain. He mulled the idea in slapping at another fly.
No, he concluded. Just not as satisfying as standing tall over an actual flesh-and-blood opponent.
Although thinking of whatever monsters tough enough to thrive in such harsh conditions sent an anticipatory jitter through his hands. He gripped the oar tighter. Thank the gods for Oyok. The youth had never quite appreciated the tengu like he did now, feeling like said fish in a new world he could hardly navigate, breathe in nor even comprehend. And thank the gods for this ruined hovel they came upon now as well, anything to take away from the monotony of the river.
”Nothing too foolish now. Who knows what lurks in there.”
"I know, right?" the young man replied excitedly, vaulting from the boat onto land. He felt entirely refreshed at the mere idea of encountering something, anything new. Sauntering nearer the dilapidated buildings like a dandy down Absalom's high street, he called out:
"Hellooo? Anyone home? We're travelling door-to-door slave merchants! We have a special offer on this one chick we'd like to get rid off. She's an awful grouch, but along with the temper of one, she also has the health and size of an ox! Ideal kitchen wench material! Any takers?"
No? Well, Sigmar wasn't surprised.
"Quiet!" Oyok's voice is sharp and cutting, nothing like the usual musical trill. The tone a man uses for a well loved but often troublesome dog. Sigmar glances at his friend, who is also lightly jumping out of the boat onto the muddy shore.
"We do not know what lies here, lad." The tengu moves differently then Sigmar has seen before as well. The tracker moves with careful grace, delicate and reserved, eyes constantly sweeping back and forth. Here is a man in his element, on the edge of his skills. The tengu might not expect trouble, but he is ready for it.
There is much to see, even to Sigmar's untrained eyes. The village is a mess. Quite apart from the burned and blackened buildings, there are holes smashed in some of the walls, torn by brute force. Other signs of violence pile up as the man walks among them. Here a smashed drying rack, there a torn bit of reed blankets. Cracked drinking gourds lay in the street, covered with moss and mushrooms. A feathered headdress lies moldering in a corner, damp and pathetic.
Their feet seem loud among the fallen leaves and mud of the village, and the vast trees towering around are watchful.
"A month maybe." Oyok says, eyeing the debris.
It is then Sigmar sees the first remains. Slumped against the outer wall of a small hut, the monk first assumes it is a pile of old leather and sticks. Then he makes out a withered, dried up hand. It is a human body, or what remains after a month in jungle heat. The barest scent of aged meat and smoked reached Sigmar's nose, oddly fragrant.
He sees others. there a femur, there a bit of curved skull. Sprinkled about with abandon, as if left by some horrid child bored by their broken playthings.
Oyok finds a stained necklace and holds it the fading light.
"Grippli." he says confidently. "Frog people. Not bad sorts, although they can be strange to outsiders." He gently returns the necklace to the ground where he found it, and moves on.
Next they find a bloody flint handaxe stuck in a tree stump, the handle made of carved bone. On the ground around is a smeared sign, faded and blurred. Oyok looks carefully at the axe and the sign but shakes his head.
"I have no idea what this is. " The tengu sounds more thoughtful and surprised then concerned, let's out a sighing whistle. "No Shackle people I know makes an axe like that. What do you make of it, lad?"
"Of the axe?" Sigmar was surprised the tengu bothered to ask his opinion. Most 'team mates' he'd ever worked alongside had only bidden the teen shut his trap. An awful shame he didn't have anything clever to contribute for the occasion. "Looks pretty cruddy to me." Wanting to at least give the tracker an honest opinion, Sigmar hunched down before the weapon and twiddled his fingers through a familiar gesture; a brilliant light bloomed from one of the neglected jacket buttons. But even illuminated, the crude axe revealed nothing notable to the kid's eye. "So, what? This thing wasn't made by the frog guys? You thinkin' it was left here by whoever murderized the whole lot?"
That was weird. The youth could admit how his weren't the sharpest marbles in the drawer or however the phrase went, yet even he thought it odd anyone should leave behind what was evidently a perfectly capable murder weapon, especially on an island with presumably limited resources. Weirder still was how it'd been left within this ring of chicken scratches.
There was some intent behind this tableau. A nonsense intent, probably, but an intent nonetheless.
This wasn't one of those arcane symbols, was it? "Hold on." Sigmar twirled his fingers again and hissed a brief incantation at this thought. The young man wasn't much for magic. Which was to say that he was all for power, but didn't care for the study of it. Although it very literally flowed through his veins, Sigmar didn't have the foggiest as to how his magic functioned. And much like the construction of this axe, he didn't particularly care as long as it wrecked one's opponent.
Even so he now opened his senses to the arcane so that he might at least be able to say whether some force - perhaps a vestige of the ritualistic - hung about the arrangement.
Oyok's head bobs sharply Sigmar's interpretation, like a water bird nabbing a fish. "Exactly, lad. I think that's exactly what may have happened." The tengu steps back at the monk's casting.
Sigmar focuses on the sign below, reaching past usual sight and into the arcane. Around him the world flares slightly as it always did, strange pulses of natural magic beyond his ken. At first he sees nothing about the blurred imprints left behind, just dark splotches of blood and mud. Just as disappointment welled however he saw something, the vaguest trace of divine magic about it. Faint as possible, on the edge of sight like the luminescencent algae he had seen at sea.
When he relates this to Oyok, the tengu looks even more intrigued, "God magic....hmmm." He bends down toward the axe and sign. bright eyes bent downward he says to Sigmar, "Go see if you can find anymore, lad. I want to stay here and look at this. See if I can learn somewhat of it." he waves a feathered hand distractedly, "Just don't touch 'em."
Sigmar ventures off, leaving the guide alone. It is slightly off-putting, moving among the empty and silent homes, with only the leftovers as window-dressing. Sigmar's spirit isn't easily effected but even he feels a bit....sorry (?) for the people. Didn't seem like a fair fight, whatever happened here.
He rounds a crumbling village hut, and finds himself in what was probably once a garden. A low fence surrounds it, made of thorny branches and the ground has been cleared of trees and jungle undergrowth, instead covered with knee-high grass. But the grass is brown and dead, patches of it burned away and the fence is smashed in many places. Worse of all, there are bones scattered among the grass, slender graceful bones, white as teeth.
The monk hears something, a twig snapping or a rustle among the undergrowth ahead. Glancing out of the horrid garden, he spots s shape among the trees. A sleek, graceful four-legged creature, with a long tail. A cat! But this is no housecat, it's nearly as big as Sigmar, with yellow fur spotted with dark circles. Amber eyes gleam in the low light, focused entirely on him.
The monk is deciding what to do when something very unexpected happens.
The dead grass at his feet suddenly flicks to life, waving in a sudden chill wind, that cuts at Sigmar's heart. Without warning the fronds lash themselves to Sigmar's ankles and legs, seizing him as tight as any fisherman's net. The stalks are surprisingly tough and soon the monk is firmly stuck in place from the knees down. The creeping, unwholesome cold follows, seeming to flow upward from the soil.
Beyond the big cat takes a careful step forward, eyes narrowing and tail lashing the brush.
Sigmar let out a pained yelp. "Gah! Undead grass!"
Was there such a thing as undead grass? No, there was no time to consult the ol' brainbox on what the feet assured him was patently real. The teen had long since acknowledged that his head served a largely cosmetic purpose - and handsomely so! Why, no part of the well oiled machinery that was Sigmar's body performed its function quite so effortlessly as his pretty face. And so what? Thinking was what scholars did while the 200 lbs. illiterate who answers to 'Brick' brought a blunt instrument on their oh-so-clever noggin. Action, that was what the situation called for!
Specifically, the young man's course of action was to swiftly and fluidly bend down to arc both hands over the dark fronds entwining his legs. It was a curious motion - smooth as a saber's swing - made more curious still for the canny observer. For there was a brief moment where the hands were not hands at all. On this point, the dead stalks fell to the ground as if having encountered the reaper's scythe.
And not a moment too soon as far as newly freed Sigmar was concerned. That unearthly cold - it was like stepping into a rime-encrusted lake, a sensation almost welcome in this sweltering heat right until it numbed your everything. Clearly something supernatural was at work here. A consolation then, when a far more tangible threat glided out of the jungle like a spotted shadow.
"Oh hello, beautiful," Sigmar whispered through pursed lips.
The youth held a special fondness for all the natural predators of the world. After all, he was one of them. Before him now slinked one of the southern hemisphere's most famous ones, a... jaguar? Leopard? Cheetah, maybe? Sigmar had to admit the finer distinction between these great cats eluded him. Bah, who cared? It was a big ol' beast of prey against which he could prove himself the bigger beast! And like the greatest beast of them all, the matchless dragons, perhaps the deciding factor lay in him being a thinking beast. His amber eyes, locked with the cat's yellow slits, momentarily flickered down to the writing earth. Maybe the brainbox should get a chance to prove itself after all.
Sigmar broke away, leaping backwards as quickly as his strong legs allowed, never looking away from his furry adversary. "Here, kitty!" he taunted. "C'mon, what's the hold-up? Don't you want a piece of this? Don't even try to claim you've ever had a meal as pretty as me!"
He wasn't sure how smart one of these cats were, but surely the grass was dumb as dirt. He guessed it grasped at whatever stepped on it. Which included the eponymous kitty should it try to make a beeline over the distance he'd now made between them. And should it get stuck there like he had... well, then tonight's meal was roasted feline with veggies a la Sigmar.
The cat watched Sigmar carefully, clearly trying to make up its feline mind to attack. It seemed in doubt but when Sigmar stumbled, every so briefly, on the swaying grass, it grew more intent. When the monk nimbly jumped backwards, it seemed to spark some instinct. Even as Sigmar taunted it, the predator burst from the undergrowth in a single, fluid leap that landed it right in the grasping, twisting grass.
Which ignored the cat entirely.
Sigmar had just enough time to reflect on how monumentally unfair this was, before the cat was on him with a blizzard of teeth and claws.
While Sigmar manages to slip some of the attacks with quick reflexes, several of the long sharp claws slash open his shoulders and upper arms. Soon the monk is shedding some of his own blood on the hungry, jungle soil. The cat lets out a victorious growl as it presses home the attack, hoping to snag a quick meal.
'Better to leave a little than eat in excess.' This bit of homespun adage had been harrumphed at a young - well, younger still - Sigmar by one of his caretakers once. How long had he lasted in that place? Two months? At the time this had been a record. Regardless, he hadn't understood what the old bat had meant by it back then. Why couldn't people just speak plainly, like him? He had taken it as a jab against his appetite. Those foster parents types were somehow always so concerned about the cost of the tykes they took in. Why adopt at all if money was such a problem? It had never made any sense to Sigmar. Especially as his waist was as svelte as a swan's neck! Of course, the sweet six-pack only came later...
The young man thought he understood now, though, as said abdominals were sheared through by the great cat's claws. 'Don't take on more than you can handle.' It was a message easier to appreciate when you had a jungle predator carving blood soaked gutters into that corporeal shell you were so proud of - a predator you yourself goaded into attacking. He got the message now.
He just didn't agree with it. 'Don't take on more than you can handle?' The teen set his legs wide, weathering the storm of tooth and claw bearing down upon him. Please, he was Sigmar Darastrix. There was nothing he couldn't handle! And if there was, he reflected in looking straight into the beast's yellow eyes - the eyes of a hunter - then he had to try regardless. Because if he didn't then he wasn't Sigmar Darastrix. And that'd be an awful shame 'cause he was the coolest cat in this whole darn carnival.
This was how the youth swallowed what might have resembled fear to answer the jungle predator in kind. At the first opening, he leapt at it with what had been hands, now red-scaled facsimiles of a human digit. Beast vs beast. That was how it should be. Yeah, screw his brainbox, trying to be all tactical with the undead grass and stuff. He really should know better than to take advice from himself. After all, he was terribly dumb!
Sadly, he was not the leopard's equal in brawn on this occasion either.
Sigmar's claws are not as effective as the cat's and do little more then muss the beast's sleek hair. The creature gives a hissing spit at his attempt however and the mouth gapes wide, revealing quite a number of razor teeth. The monk is bracing himself for the attack when a shrill whistle sounds, ringing in his ear. Sigmar winces at it, loud enough to cut through the pain of his bloody shoulders. The cat reacts as well, but differently. It seems distracted, ears turning toward the new sound.
"Oi, Sigmar!" There is Oyok, rounding a crumbling hut. The tengu is moving fast, jumping over a jumbled pile of leaves and rot. He stops not far away, feathered hands raised. He seems relived, "Just don't move lad!"
He whistles again, even louder, a shrill whine that fills the air. The leopard snarls but seems uncertain, shaking it's head back and forth. Slowly, slowly it relaxes, the killer eyes widening. Then, like a trained dog, it sits back on its haunches, tail lashing the unmoving grass.
The ranger nods, hands still up "All right, you big beaut. Off with you! We aren't food, not today! Go hunt elsewhere!" At this the cat shudders slightly, lets out a low whine and then leaps back into the jungle with as much grace as it pounced. In a moment it is gone.
Oyok runs up, turning a sharp eye on Sigmar and the grass. 'We are even now. You saved us with the dust digger, and I saved you from that overgrown housecat." He turns toward the grassy field, tilting his avian head.
"Haunt, I think." he declares, shaking slightly, "I think it is time to go, Sigmar. We have found out enough, and I do not wish to be in this place after dark. Gods only know what might turn up." And indeed the late afternoon sun, already well behind the trees, seemed to be fading fast and the shadows under the towering trees was creeping out from them, advancing fingers of inky blackness.
Like a red-hot sword, fresh from the forge, dropped into a hoary winter pond - that was how Sigmar felt when an unwelcome tengu burst onto the scene to drive away his adversary. The amber eyes, almost uncomprehending, watched the cat slink away. No matter the quality of the steel, it could not adjust to such radical shifts in temperature. Once worked into a weapon, fiery heat had to be allowed to dissipate slowly or - better yet - be put to purpose. If not, as with the sizzling steel steeped in ice water, it would rend asunder the very tool it might otherwise empower. The teen felt something crack inside.
"Saved you?"
Those brazen eyes with easy smile turned onto the ranger, but there was a spiteful jeer to them he hadn't seen before, an aspect that turned the youth from cheeky scamp to schoolyard bully.
"Don't kid yourself, Oyo," Sigmar went on, breathing slowly leveling yet molten fire still hot in his veins. "The spaghetti monster - that was just a bit of fun. Saving anyone was just a - whatchamacallit? - side effect to my play time. No offense, but you weren't exactly on my mind in jumping at the thing! This stuff is what I live for!"
It was. Thinking wasn't the young man's forte at the best of times, and this was not him at his best. Yet if there was any thought at the forefront of his boiling mind it was this: that the tengu had denied him his life's purpose. A serious crime when you carried all the pride of a dragon.
"And you didn't save me. Don't flatter yourself. I had it. If you hadn't interrupted our date, I would have that cat flat on her back by now. All you did was take away my toy."
The smile was still there, false as an addict's oath. It faded the second Sigmar turned to walk away, blood spatters and all. His gait held none of its usual swagger.
Oyok looked puzzled at his friend's attitude and opened his beak to say something but confronted with Sigmar's back, shrugged silently.
The trip back through the village was uneventful and they found Vrilu and the wood golem still sitting in the boat. It was firmly twilight now, and the river looked dark as pitch, the currents unseen. Around them the sounds of the jungle, which Sigmar had only just started adjusting to, changed. Deep hoots and bellows sound in distant trees, echoing through the canopy. A chorus of frogs seemed to start up and the bird calls shifted. The biting bugs seemed to, if any, somehow increase in number and ferocity.
The world sounds very big and very, very alive.
Vrilu raises a silent eyebrow in question when they arrive. Oyok gives a quick summary of the village and Sigmar's battle with the haunt and the jaguar. Sigmar notes, with surprise, that the ranger fails to mention his own role in the little fight, and instead focuses on Sigmar's bravery and capability.
The tengu then moves on, his bright voice sharp in the dark, "I do not know what happened here. My guess? The grippli were killed by some of the castaways, using some tools from a distant land. But that is a bad guess with many holes. All I know is, we need to move with caution."
The Company woman shrugs, "The fate of some villagers does not interest me. Any sign of our quarry?"
"No dwarf made that axe." Oyok says firmly, "Of that, I am sure."
Vrilu shrugs then and looks upriver, eyes scanning the liquid darkness. Somewhere a fish jumps and the splash sounds very loud.
"We cannot spend the night here, obviously." Oyok says, stepping into the boat, "But we cannot go far tonight. Traveling in the dark would be foolish, if exciting. Just a bit farther and we can make camp."
And so they do just that. The golem does most of the rowing, as the little whaleboat slides through the inky murk, its creaks seemingly louder then ever. A few moments later the air is suddenly full of movement and noise, a vast rustling. Distant high-pitched squeaks fill Sigmar's ears, just on the edge of hearing, masked by the velvet shuffle of ...something. Another fight?
Oyok softly answers the unspoken question.
"Bats." Bats? Bats making that much noise? It would take....well, more bats then one cared to think about.
Finally Oyok guides them to a small bit of sandy shore, where they tie the boat to a tree branch and set up a quick, improvised camp. To Sigmar's surprised, Vrilu elects to sleep in the boat, along with the golem.
"You two keep watch." She orders, then rolls herself in a blanket in the stern.
Oyok softly chuckles and builds a tiny fire with delicate and practiced skill. The soft orange light dances and swirls, making the shadows pull back, ever so slightly.
"First watch or second?" The tengu asks, eyes bright as beads in the firelight. He pulls out a bit of preserved fruit and tosses it to Sigmar.
"You two keep watch."
'Myou moo meep ma...' No, no, he couldn't even be bothered. Tempted as Sigmar was to flippantly mime the woman's command back at her, it caught in his throat. He wasn't in the mood for jeers. And not just due to that lead balloon of a fight earlier. Well, not entirely. Honestly, it'd been like lighting a great big firework only for a thieving crow to swoop down and make off with the sparkling fuse...
Nah, it was hearing said crow speak so highly of him that was plaguing the young man now. Oh c'mon, man! he thought. Why do you have to be so nice?! Sigmar wasn't used to generosity. And socially maladjusted as he was, he certainly didn't know what to do with such generosity. Perhaps it was the proud dragon blood, perhaps it was plain teenage rebellion, but beneath the charm the youth had a combative spirit like few others. He had been ready and willing to aim this verve at Oyok, he (wrongfully!) depriving him of the other four-legged outlet. Now, however, a cooler head prevailing and realizing that the tengu only meant him well, his disrespect earlier came back to haunt him. And that combative spirit, still looking for an outlet, turned on himself. The fire was still burning inside. Except now it had no fuel but the teen.
Sigmar felt something approaching shame, an unfamiliar and no less unnavigable sensation. Bah, this was why he preferred working alone. People were just confusing.
"First watch or second?"
"First," he replied, catching the dried date in flight. He felt too high-strung for sleep right now, anyway. And, perhaps, some part of him wanted to give the ranger a break for now, literal or otherwise. Tossing the fruit up in the air and catching it with his mouth, he wandered over to the supplies to make himself a makeshift meal. The resulting fistfuls of jerky were enjoyed with a flask retrieved from one of his jacket's inner pockets. Sitting in front of the fire, the ragged claw marks left by the jaguar faded with every swig. Deep blue bruises replaced these, stark black in the orange light.
Sigmar cleared his throat, a sound scarcely audible in the low cacophony of the dark jungle. This was new to him. Didn't this place sleep? It was louder now than during the day! He hopped back onto his feet. Well, that suited him just fine. Simply waiting wasn't exactly the young man's forte, especially now, still worked up as he was. He'd walk a few rounds about the camp. As soon as he left the flickering glow of the campfire, he felt the mosquitoes back on him. Stupid bugs.
Oyok nods at this, seemingly happy to get some sleep. Clearly the time in the ruined village sat uneasily on the tracker. As he unrolls his bedding, not bothering with a tent, the tengu adds, "Wake me, if something odd happens. We do not know this jungle, strange things may be about."
Sigmar does a pace of the little camp, careful to not go too far. Around him the jungle blackness settled in, the dim firelight seeming to only enhance the vast depths of the shadows. The huge trees and hanging vines became carven grotesques slinking at the edge of his vision. The plant life was so thick it blocked out the sky except for a small strip away over the river, a swath of gleaming stars.
The smell of the jungle filled his nose, that mixture of old leaves, rotting wood and fresh earth. Other smells trickled in as he tramped the tiny camp. A sweet scent of opening flowers somewhere overhead, delicate and faint. Nearer the water he could make out the water-logged scents of river grass and algae, invisible in the gloom.
When Sigmar was at his farthest point from the fire he heard something. A scuffling among the leaves. Instantly the monk froze, cocking his head toward the sound. Another leopard, come to finish the job? Or one of these frog people Oyok was talking about? Would Sigmar even hear such people, or would they be silent on their home territory?
Then again frogs weren't very quiet.
The scuffling came again, faint. It sound small and...not sneaking. It wasn't the sound of someone trying to suppress noise, it was the the sound of something not caring about making much sound. Odd, in such a hostile environment.
The colossal tree trunks, older than civilizations. The wildlife, all-pervasive and uncaring. The darkness, deep as any ocean trench's. The forest canopy, so thick it choked out the stars. Even the hot and heavy air that weighed one down. It all made Sigmar feel small. Sigmar did not like feeling small. Man, what was it about the wee hours wandering nature that inevitably caused existential dread?
The prospect of plain old physical harm was a relief, really. Thank goodness for the shuffling something lumbering ever closer. The teen turned towards the yet unseen intruder. Now what sort of jungle dweller didn't even bother hiding their presence, he wondered? A far more interesting question than any engendered by mortal minds faced with the immortal universe. Some big bastard with nothing to fear, he hoped.
Maybe he could teach him a thing or two. Sigmar flicked a finger against his belt buckle and the steel flared with silvery light.
"So am I going to have to introduce myself first, or... ?"
What could it be? What monster roamed these jungles at night, uncaring of making noise? Was it some type of lion or bear? Or maybe whatever made those weird axes Oyok was worried about. Bone axe, that promised a fun dance partner. Or dare he hope, was it one of those scaly brutes the sailors went on about? A dinosaur, complete with scales and spines and teeth long as his hand?
Oh boy!
Sigmar's arcane light flared, lighting a section of the jungle floor. Shadows flew back, darkness dispelled. His eyes adjusted, searching for his new foe. What could it be-
It was a deer. A forest deer. The monk's heart slid right back into his boots. Could nothing go right? Why couldn't it have been several tons of scaly, angry dinosaur?
He looked closer at the deer. Why didn't it run away?
Ah
The deer, facing away from him, was stuck in a trap. Someone had bent a young sapling nearly double, and attached a noose to the downward facing end. Probably baited, the noose had caught the inquisitive deer's neck as tight as a garotte wire. Something had gone wrong then though, the tree had fouled in some jungle vines, so instead of spring straight up, jerking the deer right off the ground (and probably snapping the thing's neck) it instead had merely tightened the noose.
The deer still had all four feet on the ground, but was hopelessly snared. The scuffling Sigmar had heard was the pathetic creature's hooves trying to gain purchase on the leafy forest floor. The thing would eventually, he assumed, starve to death or perhaps provide a meal to that hungry leopard.
Even as he watched the animal thrashed slightly, trying to free itself of the suffocating snare, but to no avail. Whoever had made the noose had done a proper job.
"Oh, deerie me. What do we have here?"
Sigmar gave a chuckle at his own pun seeing as no one else was around to appreciate it. And what was wrong with that, anyway? Seeking approval in others was for desperate losers. He knew he was funny and that was enough. "Hang around here often?" So funny.
He traipsed up and over a tree root thicker than his thigh in nearing the creature. So there were deer in tropical jungle islands too? Huh. Who knew? Certainly not Sigmar. And since he was already speculating, who'd left this trap here? Maybe those frog people Oyo mentioned? That'd explain why this sorry sight was still dangling here, the youth considered. After all, there were no frogs left to come fetch it.
"Hanging around... Only for deer life, right?" White teeth glinted in the conjured light, his smile as easy as only that of children and fools can be. Actually, he decided, he was downright hilarious.
What he wasn't was the type to look a gift buck in the mouth (Another one!). Which was why when the young man stood by the snared prey, one of his hands was that of a predator, a red-scaled hook-clawed facsimile of a dragon's paw. Sigmar had never quite understood the expression of 'throwing someone a bone', but if providence saw fit to do so for him - especially after a day like this - then he wasn't about to reject the offer. Marrow was good eatin'. As would this deer be. The claws gripped the doe by the throat. He would make this quick.
Except... Well, the teen didn't know much about field dressing animals. He was, elementally, just a city boy. Oyok surely knew, but the tengu was fast asleep by now, and Sigmar wasn't about to pull him out of his bedding for this; the jaguar episode was still on the young man's mind. He didn't want to bother the guy for now. And besides, they'd only just landed on the island. They had a full boat of provision, one he'd only be adding to with this deer's carcass. More weight to lug around this jungle...
Sigmar looked into the creature's black eyes. "Alright, don't mistake this for mercy, yeah?" he sighed. "This is probably just my full belly talking, but I'll cut you loose. Calm down now." The claws let go of its neck to travel up for the noose. "See, what you gotta understand is that I'm a dragon. Nah, it's true, honest! And we dragons don't accept others' handouts! We're proud! We hunt our own prey! So it just feels plain wrong to kill you, that's all."
"Don't you dare fawn over me 'cause of this." Another chuckle escaped the youth as he managed to maneuver a talon beneath the rope and pulled. It snapped as surely as it would before any dagger.
The jungle creature seemed to still as Sigmar approached, the hooves no longer digging into the leaf carpeted ground. The monk wasn't sure if this was due to his calming words or simply due to exhaustion. Or maybe acceptance it was about to be eaten. The liquid dark eyes looked at him, wide and round, full of raw animal emotion.
With a single swipe, Sigmar cut the noose free. The tree, free of the weight, flung itself straight again, wood creaking loudly in the darkness. For a moment the animal stood still however, staring at him. What did the deer make of all this? Did it think Sigmar a friend? A remarkably bad predator? Some sort of helpful god?
He would never know. Even as these thoughts flickered through his mind, the deer jumped away into the woods, vanishing into the undergrowth in a twinkling. Sigmar was left with no sign of the strange little encounter except a length of tough, rough looking rope. He was about turn back when a voice made him jump.
"That was well done of you." It was a deep, sonorous voice, strangely echoed, as if the speaker was shouting down a wooden tunnel. Sigmar turned and found himself confronting a large shadowy shape emerging from the dark wreathed tree trunks.
It was one of the tree trunks, or at least reminded him of one.
It towered over Sigmar, being at least twelve feet tall. It was as if someone had made a man, but only using tree parts. The body was covered with thick cragged bark, furrowed and lined with age. The fingers and toes seemed branch-like, irregular and nonsymmetrical. Leafy branches sprung from the shoulders and head, creating a dark green halo that shifted and rustled. Long vines hung down in coiled ropes, some dragging onto the forest floor.
The face was crudely formed, like a drunk lumberjack had decided to take up carving after a long day. The mouth a hard gash, the nose a sharp point, the eyes deep sockets.
"And you even saved the tree." It said, obviously talking to itself. 'Very good." A moment of silence passed at this....creature bent down to get a good look at Sigmar.
"And what are you, exactly? Are you moving into this jungle? My jungle?" It waited intently for an answer.
"And a howdy-do to you too, bramble-locks." The words might be as irreverent as ever, but they were delivered through the gaping grin of a child encountering the fabled unicorn, all wonder and wide eyes.
Oh. Oh wow. Sigmar grew more impressed by every degree he had to crane back in order to look into the gnarled tree hollows that passed for eyes on this visitant. Could he beat it? It was the question that inevitably bubbled to the surface of the youth's mind upon meeting anyone physically imposing, and this was the most impressive physique to ever loom over him. Maybe, he answered himself. Maybe with enough fire. This giant, whatever it - he? - was, was clearly related to plants somehow. Those tended to not appreciate fire.
But it'd been a long day and the primal power that fueled Sigmar's flames was depleted. A nervous quiver went through his muscles like the oscillating strings of a violin. Fear and anticipation were the closest of siblings in the young man's mind, difficult to tell apart.
"I'd ask how you managed to sneak up on me, but I imagine this is one of those 'not seeing the forest for the trees' situations. Or the other way around. Whatever. That's on me." The teen strolled casually about the tree creature, hands on his hips and seemingly at ease, yet unable to hide an awed smile in appreciating its dimensions. "As for who I am, mind your manners! Don't you know you're supposed to introduce yourself first? Well, I say that, but I get your mamma may have been an oak and not all that talkative, so I'll forgive you. Besides, only makes sense you wanna get to know me. Everyone does."
Sigmar planted his feet wide and brushed back the coattail of his open jacket. He liked the sound it made. Reminded him of wings.
"I'm Sigmar Darastrix. As for what I am, do you have moss growing in your ears? Like I just told the deer, I'm a dragon! And I gotta say, it's a pleasure to meet you. Man, you are big!" The amber eyes, all a-sparkle, travelled up and down the trunk of the giant. "But nah, I'm not plannin' on moving in here. Just visiting. Hoping to see a dinno-sar or two, although I really came here to find, er..."
His brow furrowed in thought. What was the name of their target, again? Vrilu had mentioned it at some point in between all her grumblings... Hmm. Nope, the teen couldn't remember.
"... to find a dwarf. Don't suppose you've seen one of those about? Well, I ask, but you're so big you're no more likely to see one of those than a gnat in the grass. Anyway!" Sigmar hurried on to more interesting topics, "You say this is 'your' jungle. What makes it yours? Did you beat some other giant for it?" The image of this titan launching haymakers at a similarly gigantic opponent - maybe a dinno-sar! - tugged Sigmar's smile just a bit further. "And why didn't you help the deer yourself if you wanted to see it saved?"
Ooh, he wondered whether this guy knew Plank!
Sigmar's tidal wave of words washes over the towering tree creature, the balle filling the night air of the jungle. Questions, claims, half-truths and slang pile together in a jumble worthy of a master wordsmith. Maybe the day alone with Oyok and Vrilu was getting to him more then he thought. Talking to trees?
The creature didn't seem overly bothered by the torrent but also not pressed to reply quickly. It leaned down slightly, creaking, to get a better look at Sigmar. Silence fell like a curtain, more palpable after Sigmar's talk. Somewhere a night bird gave a long, chattering call that reminded Sigmar of a dying chicken.
"Dragon?" The creature said slowly, bright eyes gleaming. "Dragon indeed. Hmmm."
"As for your first question, that is fair. You can call me Scorchroot, which is close enough for your language." The creature turned slightly and Sigmar saw a long black scar running up one of the thick legs, charred wood. "As for sneaking up on you, that is not shame. Few can hear a treant in his own woods, few indeed." Treant? Was that a job or a race?
"Don't know anything about dwarves, but there are many strangers way off in the hills." The tree-creature waved a hand vaguely inland, fingers splayed like leaves. "Maybe dwarves there?"
At his remark about dinosaurs, the treant nods, "Yes, dinosaurs in these woods. Not often, this close to the sea. But they range all over. You wish to find one? They are formidable, for one of your size, no offense." A shrug of the shoulders sent a small pile of moss fluttering to the ground.
"Now, to the important question. I was here to save the deer but also the tree." Scorchroot took a (long) stride toward the former trap, and gently brushed the now-freed sapling. "I was debating how to free the beast and save the tree when you arrived. I've never seen such a...dragon, before, so I wanted to see what you'd do. I am pleased you saved both. Very kind."
"Hmmm." The tree being said and then let out a breath, clearly deciding something. "You deserve a reward." It reached for some sort of bark bag at its waist, barely discernable among the leaves, wood and other plant-like coatings. Soon Scorchwood withdrew a handful of items. Carefully it laid them on the ground at Sigmar's feet.
One was a pair of boots that had clearly seen better days, worn and coated with a thick layer of moss. Little roots acted like spikes along the soles. They were human sized at least and Sigmar wondered where the tree-guy had got them. Off some other castaway?
The second was a golden fruit, the size of an apple but perfectly round. The color gleamed even in the dim twilight under the trees, soft and gentle. It did look tasty at any rate.
The last was a simple waterskin, made of some gourd. The wooden stopper was wet and swollen, glittering with droplets of water. It looked quite full but seemed like just water?
"Choose one, Sigmar the dragon. You may find it..useful."
"'Scorchroot', huh?" The youth nodded. "I like that." Fire was cool.
Of course, while the moniker met his approval, the species went right over his blithe head. Sigmar wasn't entirely sure what a treant was. The 'tree' part was evident, but how the gargantuan creature was related to 'ants' was quite beyond him. Not that he was particularly bothered any which way. True to his laissez-faire spirit, the young man was an individualist at heart - to the point that to even name him by any such grouping would rankle said free spirit. As such, he dealt with persons always and people never. He would judge Scorchroot by who he showed himself to be in the here and now, not by whatever a treeant was supposed to be.
Philosophers might have to concede how the young man's ignorance of the wider world was an aid to this individualist approach.
Of course, the walking woodland being large enough to kick down a castle wall was a similarly massive point in its favor as far as Sigmar was concerned. He liked 'em big and strong, even if he had to fight 'em. No, especially if he had to fight them.
"The hills, eh?" The teen tried to make a mental note of the general direction the finger-branches swayed towards. "Thanks for the tip!"
"Yes, dinosaurs in these woods. Not often, this close to the sea. But they range all over. You wish to find one? They are formidable, for one of your size, no offense."
"None taken!" The smile was as genial as any brass dragon's, confident as... well, any other dragon's. "I'm used to being underestimated. More often than not, it's an asset! As for them being formidable, that's what I'm hoping for!" This assertion was punctuated by the youth cracking his knuckles, newly reverted to fair flesh.
However, this bravado faded somewhat at the treeant's praise. While Sigmar was usually only too happy to bask in the admiration of others, his smirk - astonishingly - grew just a bit bashful now. What Sigmar wanted, even needed, was to be recognized for his power. Being acknowledged for supposed kindness on the other hand? This felt... weird. Not necessarily disagreeable, but certainly unfamiliar. And maladjusted teen that he was, unfamiliar emotions made him anxious.
Thankfully, the treeant itself dispelled these notions through its next gesture. The amber eyes lit up at the three treasures displayed for the youth's taking. Though far from materialistic, Sigmar appreciated everything pretty and nice. After all, was he not a dragon? And if such trinkets came with magic and purpose, then all the better. "Hey now, Scorchroot. That's awfully good of you."
The usually so simple mind creaked with thoughts racing through it. The trickling gourd was alluring, as any sealed container always was, Sigmar considered in hunching down to look over the offered baubles. When presented with a closed box, the imagination had a way of filling it with all the heart's desires. Unfortunately, his heart preferred something that added to his martial prowess, formidable though it already was, and so looked past the vessel to the boots. The mossy footwear was certainly curious. Perhaps something that could his feet lighter still?
But in the end there was only one choice. Perhaps it was the draconic avarice in him, perhaps merely a child-like appreciation for spectacle, but the golden fruit called to the youth. He picked it up, appreciating its weight. The gilded surface blinked and burned under the bright light of his cantrip. Oh yeah. This would do nicely.
Which was to say that it was awfully pretty, whatever its purpose. "Sooo... Should I be eating this now?"
The smile revealed canines glinting in the conjured light.
What dragon could refuse gold, even if in produce form? Sigmar picked up the golden thing ever so slightly soft in his hand. It was heavier then he thought, as if laden with liquid. Even close up there was not a single blemish or mark on it, quite a change from the well-worn apples and melons endured the Nereid’s Wink between stops.
Scorchroot seemed amused at the question, "Of course. What else would one do with it? Plant it? You don't seem a gardener."
And with that Sigmar took a big ol' bite of the fruit. In for a copper, in for a Taldan noble. The fruit tasted....well, it tasted like life. Sigmar involuntarily closed his eyes, as his mind was filled with sudden images, fleeting. Of warm summer nights, and soft spring rains. Of drooping vines, laden with grapes. Of dancing fields of flowers, shimmering in the haze of summer. Blossoms falling in springtime and bees filling the air. The strange life of plants, of growth and fullness.
Sweet but not sugary. Filling but not heavy.
A most strange sensation.
A surge of...wholesome energy filled his limbs and his mind. For a moment it seemed to pause, glowing below his skin. It seemed to Sigmar he could direct it, if he wished, aim this magical quickening. Did he wish to?
Sigmar raised a playful eyebrow at the giant's assent. His reflection in the golden surface of the fruit did the same. Wary yet always game, the young man sank his teeth into it. Immediately his eyes went wide. There were few things Sigmar Darastrix hungered for quite like power. And this gold-plated produce tasted like just that. Very literally sating this hunger, the rest of the fruit was devoured in short order, core and all, the voracious display of which would have made any Taldan governess flush.
He let out a shuddering breath. Like a stoked bonfire, a few sparks escaped the juice-slick mouth to wink out under the dark canopy.
"Damn, Scorchroot. Heh, that's some high-powered hooch you're serving..."
The bravado wasn't as convincing now, and not merely because the young man didn't look a day over any decent nation's drinking age. There was a thrumming beneath his skin almost concerning in its intensity. He felt like a house on fire, as if his hide could burst up along the seams as rushing flares might erupt doors and windows from their hinges. Far from the metaphorical, this internal conflagration was entirely real, or at the very least real enough. Natural philosophers and arcane scholars could discuss the boundaries of reality, imagination and the metaphysics that tied them; those fleeting sparks had wafted into the tangible world from the roaring blaze at his soul.
Which was just it: Sigmar recognized this sensation. Its wellspring sat at the center of his being, swaddled by his soul as were it the burning robes of a martyr. It was his birthright, the primordial fire passed down from the pinnacles of creation, dragons, onto himself. That power that smoldered at his core always, flared out of control. The fruit - the fruit had stoked it. Somehow it had acted as kerosene on his draconic power.
Sigmar gritted his teeth. Hold on. Hold on now. He didn't understood what was going on, but his power was his own to control! No gilded 'naner was going to...! Wait. His fists tensed in turmoil. And this felt strangely good. The heat felt as if it channeled itself along the flexing limbs like a piping hot stream. It made his hands feel strong. Sigmar liked strength. And so, instinctually, he flexed his everything. In an instant the heat was everywhere, steaming out of his pores. Again, literally so; the treeant was privy to a heat shimmer momentarily blurring the young man's form.
It lasted only an instant. The cool night air reclaimed its domain the next moment. Yet the sensation lingered within Sigmar. The roaring blaze had sputtered out into a simmer, but the heat remained in the tensing muscles. They felt like red-hot steel, fresh from the forge, strengthened and heat treated. "Daaamn," he said again, this time with significantly more confidence. One fist snapped forth, quick as a viper, then another. Sigmar punched and kicked at empty space in the manner of eastern monks displaying their martial prowess. But one look at the grinning mouth evidenced how the teen's flurry of strikes were purely for his own pleasure. He was a boy with a new toy, eager to try it out.
"Scorchroot, my man, what the heck was that thing?" he hooted in roundhouse-kicking the air. "'Cause whoa, I feel strong enough to arm-wrestle a tidal wave!"
A whoop followed. It felt right. Some confused jungle bird croaked a reply in the distance. "Seriously, thanks."
The treant smiled at Sigamr's words but did not answer the question. Instead the being shrugged, a rather impressive feat for a creature made out of wood and said, "It will keep you green and growing for a long time. I've never tried to cultivate dragons before..." The creature bent closer, like a gardener inspecting a curious plant in his bed.
"It seems quite easy. I shall have to try it again some time." It straightened, leaves rustling in the soft, greenish gloom of the jungle night. "Be well, Sigmar the dragon. May this island provide all you desire, even dinosaurs and dwarves. Just, if you can, be kind to the trees." And with that, the treant strode off into the jungle with terrifying speed and silence.
It was if the creature had been swallowed up by the night, leaving Sigmar alone with nothing but the quiet jungle sounds. And, of course, the biting insects.
It wasn't until the next morning, when the sun splashed the tropical world with harsh, yellow light, Sigmar mentioned his little adventures to the others. Vrilu frowned, Oyok stood agape and the wood golem seemed unmoved.
'A treant! Lad, that's dangerous stuff, even for you. They can be mighty touchy about trespassers." The tengu then scratched at his beak, 'Although I suppose you got along well or we'd all be dead. "
Vrilu merely asked if Sigmar had learned anything of use and when he admitted he didn't she sniffed, "Typical." Oyok merely winked when the Company woman had he back turned.
The ranger gathered up their items and carefully put out the fire, using more care then usual, fearing the return of a vengeful tree guardian.
Sigmar yawned, not for the first time in explaining the nightly encounter. Never having been taught to cover his mouth in doing so, every gleaming tooth was on display, some suspiciously sharp.
"Old Scorchie?" he replied in picking some gunk out of one eye. "Naaah, he's swell! You must be thinking of some other trees. Pines maybe."
Being both a simple teen and vested with the awesome appetites of dragons, Sigmar liked his sleep. Watch rotations whilst camping in hostile environments didn't afford a growing boy his 10 hours of shut-eye. The lad was nevertheless in high spirits this fine morning. How could he not be, the rush of the treeant's gift still fresh in his mind? Like a boy gifted a new wooden sword, he was eager to test it out. Where better than this playground of an island?
Vrilu merely asked if Sigmar had learned anything of use and when he admitted he didn't she sniffed, "Typical."
"Well, except where all those castaway types are hiding out, I guess."
This tidbit was delivered with all the banality usually reserved for platitudes on the weather. Loud gnawing followed; that dried whale from the Nereid’s Wink now serving as his breakfast was chewy. He couldn't keep the mask up for long, though, and soon enough the boyish smile peeked through. "What, that get your attention? Yeah, Scorchroot said he knew of 'strangers' up inland. Up in the hills." A vague hand pointed what he thought was the right direction as directed by the treeant yesterday. Or close enough, anyway. "Somewhere there."
He really was a pretty cool guy, that tree fellow. Sigmar's brief life hadn't been blessed by the kindly elders others might take for granted, familial or otherwise. This went some way in explaining why Scorchroot had left an impression on the young mind, to the point that the youth had every intention of honoring his departing wish. No burning the forest. I can manage that. Jungle's all dank and stuff. Not even my fire could light it up. Not unless I REALLY tried, of course. No worries, Scorchroot. I'll... Oooh! SCORCH-root. And the charred leg. I just got that. No wonder you don't like fire.
His brain clearly extra limber this morning, he decided to make the most of it by pursuing another curiosity plaguing him. "Hey Plank, you aren't related to tree-ants, are you?"
Oyok digested Sigmar's news while the monk interrogated the mute golem. The tracker looked up the river glittering in the morning light. "Not too surprising. This island is used for trouble makers and such. Still, we will need to keep our guard up. Maybe one of those groups left the axe." He sounded doubtful.
Vrilu seemed unconcerned, "We are only here for one person, do not get us distracted, Master Tracker."
The tengu nodded absently, mind elsewhere.
Soon the camp is broken down and loaded back into the longboat. Once again Oyok, Sigmar and the still silent wood golem take up paddles and work upshore. If the monk somehow hoped the first day's tedious labor had been a fluke, he was dissapointed.
It was another grueling morning of hard labor, sweat and biting insects. The light reflecting off the water gave him a headache and the paddle bit into his hands, cutting through his calluses with a startling ease. They also seemed to move slowly, toiled forever to make only a few miles upstream.
Around midday Oyok called a halt, tilting his head. "Ah." He did not sound excited. Simgar looked up from his tedium, happy not only for the pause but anything to break up the monotony. The encounter the treant had cheered him up but a morning's dull toil, bent over an oar, had sunk his spirits.
Still, looked upriver, he saw nothing. The river was there, gleaming and glittering, surrounded on both sides by the usual mass of jungle trees, festooned with vines and brush. Birds flitted overhead, swooping and diving in the bright blue sky. The sun, now directly overhead, beat down with ferocious intensity.
"Look at the river," Oyok said, "It is shallow. You can see the rocks and sand bars. No way tor ow up that." he set his paddle aside, and said more to Sigmar then Vrilu.
"We have to portage the boat." Seeing Sigmar's face he added, "Unload and carry them around the rocks."
He sighed, that musical, bird-like whistle, "Two options. We carry the boats right up the river, the water probably is only bit past our ankles unless there is a hole. Second, we carry them on dry land and fight through the trees. What do you think, Sigmar?"
"Port-a-what?"
Sigmar wiped some sweat off his brow in listening to the tracker. It took a lot to make the young man sweat, whether due to good health, sheer conditioning or, unknowingly, his draconic blood. Lizards, after all, do not perspire. Raptor Isle saw fit to defy any and all of these factors, however, as Sigmar was sweating like a porous pitcher of ice-water.
Man, he could go for some iced tea or something right now. There were likely birds - some in this very jungle! - recorded to have a better grasp of math than the teen, but he knew that while the heat and labor might be tolerable on their own, they added up to pure misery. And the bugs were a multiplier all on their own. Another fly expired as he swatted it against his glistening neck.
"What, lug this canoe through the dense jungle? No way, no how, chickadee-man. Let’s get to wading!"
An excitable mind took any opportunity to break monotony. Sigmar was therefore actually just a bit invigorated by the thought of splashing about in the river for a bit. It might even be refreshing. And so it was with new vigor that he gripped his oar to row the longboat into whatever low rocks or sandbank it was Oyok had spied ahead.
The tengu and golem had to leap to their stations before this wild paddling could turn the whole vessel around.
Oyok nods, "I think you are right lad. The river might be rocky, but at least we won't get stuck in vines. "
They manage to get the boat to the downstream rapids without trouble. Dragging it up on a sandbar, Oyok and Sigmar managed to unload the boat, placing Vrilu, the golem and all their supplies (still considerable) on a wide flat rock, well out of the rushing, foaming water. The brown water felt cool as it splashed Sigmar, but it did not come even to his knees here. The young dragon was actually tempted to go swimming but for the moment stayed on task.
With the boat empty, Oyok peered ahead at the rapids. Finally he shook his head, "Can't see anything and it'll take forever to sound them. Come on, pick up the boat and we'll make our way." The tengu turned to Vrilu, 'Can we borrow the golem? This boat weighs a ton."
The Company woman, standing on the rock in bright sunlight, stillw earing her heavy clothes eventually nodded. Without a word the golem trotted over, wooden feet clacking over the stones.
The three of them, barely managed to get the boat up on their shoulders and off they went. It was very hard work. The footing was unsure, shifting from sucking sand to sliding stones. Oyok did his best to navigate but the guide was merely guess. Sigmr, in the middle, could barely see anything except the splintered side of the boat, and sometimes wide expanses of blue skies. Twice he also slipped and fell, but just managed to catch himself. Still, the water was cool on his legs and the bugs seemed less here, driven off by the swirling mists.
So his mood was actually lifting until the crabs came.
Sigmar didn't even notice them at first, until he heard Oyok curse (a rare thing from the usually collected tengu). Glancing down, Sigmar saw the stones and sand were alive with a writhing, living carpet crabs. Hundreds, maybe thousands of tiny crabs, each glistening in a red shell. The dragon was about to laugh at them (the biggest wasn't quite the size of a heart biscuit) when they started to swarm toward his legs. Tiny claws grabbed his skin and clothes and instantly a knot of them was forming around him.
And their little nibbles hurt! Attacked by crabs, a dragon!
What in Calistria's quim was that? Nary had the three managed to shoulder the boat before an almighty crunch, one loud enough to be heard over the cascading water, rang out. It sounded like an entire pig pen's worth of pork rinds beneath a wagon wheel, a static harsh enough to make the dutiful tracker wonder whether they had somehow further splintered the vessel inadvertently.
Any such concern was short-lived; Sigmar let out a joyous sigh of relief. "Aaah!" He craned his head about as far as their burden allowed. "I've been trying to get that kink out of my back all morning. Hefting the boat did just the trick!"
This day wasn't so bad after all, the youth concluded. But, as it turned out, with small blessings came smaller ills. And these particular diminutive woes came scuttling the trio's way once they had gained some headway in fording the river.
"Whoa, what the...?" The initial nibble was barely worth noting. The dragon-blooded teen actually smirked at this lone little crustacean defending his home against the far larger intruders; he had a soft spot for the plucky underdogs of the world. That was until he saw how this crab was no spunky loner. No, it was a soldier in a pincer-wielding army of which one, two or a dozen of its members constituted no threat whatsoever. When united in a red-lacquered torrent the like of which was surging the trio's way, however? Yeah, Sigmar reckoned this might be a problem.
Especially as he was all too aware of how dragons were laid low. Every time, the story was the same. Every time a dragon was slain, the conquering heroes were notable in just that: their plurality. Dragon slayers came in every shape from wizened spell-caster to strapping sword-slinger, but common to all of them was how they worked together. Whereas dragons, in their pride, stood alone. Sigmar had long ago absorbed the lesson in this, perhaps the first moral he had ever taken to heart: that even the pinnacle of creation on their lonesome couldn't measure to the meagre multitudes when banded together.
He had no intention of repeating his progenitors' mistake.
"Plank, toss the boat! Crush 'em!" The call was loud and clear even as the young man set his legs wide to better put all he had in heaving the vessel himself. Of course, he wasn't entirely sure the automaton would follow any cue coming from him, great chums though they were. He was even less sure the tengu was up for the idea. Which was why wasn't giving the poor guy any choice in the matter.
"Oyo, Imma toss it! Imma do it!"
'What?!' Oyok's already strained voice raises a few octaves, reaching up into territory usually reserved for annoying children and bats. "No, lad. We need the boat-"
He is cut off as Sigmar heaves the boat downwards toward the swirling tide of armored crustaceans. Behind him the wood golem is insensible, not reacting to his words. Indeed the construct is still gripping the longboat tightly when Sigmar drops it and falls with it, loudly clunking on the wet stones. Oyok, of course, is smart enough to let go as the heavy vessel falls.
There was a crackling, crunch sound like a giant stepping on heap of walnuts. This is mixed with a hollow wooden slam as the boat is literally thrown down on the stones.
To everyone's surprise the boat, once against used in ways not intended, seems to survive intact. Captain Grildek apparently only bought the highest quality, and the dark wood withstands the rough handling.
The crabs do not fair so well.
Many of the creatures are smashed flat, shells no defense against what is literally a rock and a hard place. Sigmar, feeling much lighter without the heavy weight on his back, guesses he might have smashed nearly half of them. Still, the little buggers don't seem much daunted and keep swarming up. The wood golem, prone in the water, is covered instantly but does not seem to mind. The crab's claws seem unable to grip the tough magical wood.
Sigmar's skin on the other hand...
He is about to do something about this when he hears a loud screech from the jungle to his left. The dragon's eyes searched the riot of green foliage, looking...there!
High up in a towering tree was a massive gray bird, an eagle. It screeched again and flung itself into the air, diving toward them. In a moment Sigmar realizes the bird is large. Very large. Larger then Sigamar is actually and clearly views them all as a nice, helpless snack.
The crabs, those uncrushed by Sigmar's maneuver, swarm upwards. They seem mostly focused on Oyok though and soon the tengu's lower half is covered in glistening red motes. The guide tries to brush them off, but the clinging pincers are tough. Feathers are no defense and Sigmar can see drops of blood dripping into the rippling brown river water.
'What?!' Oyok's already strained voice raises a few octaves, reaching up into territory usually reserved for annoying children and bats. "No, lad. We need the boat-"
"Tomorrow's problem, Oyo!" Even as his every muscle strained in toppling the trio's burden, Sigmar's grin was easy as ever. "Today's crabs!"
It was a philosophy so ubiquitous to those products of troubled childhoods. The troubles of tomorrow never seemed all that pertinent when you had plenty to deal with in the moment. And so the jungle inhabitants were privy to an ungodly noise - presumably only comparable to its dinosaurs' mating season - when the longboat crashed onto the rocky riverbed. Miraculously, the vessel held together at the impact. Happily, the crustaceans did not. Much of the carapaced carpet surging their way was instantly turned into shellfish paste, surely a delicacy somewhere in the world as the teen noted, very pleased with himself at this outcome.
Even if seeing the golem fall on his wooden face wasn't ideal. "Whoops, sorry, Plank."
Myriad as their tiny adversaries were, however, many survived to continue their advance. And as it turned out, the hubbub attracted another foe, one substantial enough to pose a threat on its lonesome.
"Hey now," Sigmar groused, shielding his eyes from the sun in looking up to the giant eagle, "I can't fault you for being eager, but there are a couple hundred crabs queuing up to dance with me first, so either get in line or flock off, feather-face!"
While the youth relished the opportunity to test himself against a horse-sized bird of prey, he recognized that there skins beyond his own in this game. He'd rather not see Oyok and Plank hurt. And Vrilu... well, Vrilu could stand to get a little hurt, he supposed. The thought had hardly been formed before the crab horde reached them. Specifically, as if reading his mind, it reached the tengu first and set to climbing him like a swarm of miniature mountaineers, their pincers little ice axes piercing his hide.
"Sorry, Oyo, wasn't referring to you. Am now, though. Duck!"
Sigmar didn't think. Instead he trusted. One hand shot forward and it in turn shot out a torrent of fire aimed at the tracker and the crustaceans covering him both. While far from the ideal solution, the dragon-blooded young man trusted that Oyok would prove more resilient to his flames than the crabs.
Hah. Duck. 'Cause he's a bird-man. I'm just a hoot. Ooh, another one!