To Venture Forth
Written By Anton, My Silliest Soldier
“There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold […]”
Robert Service The pyre was burning steadily, the flame relatively high for the amount of wood that he was able to cut down. The freezing wind, whilst not strong, penetrated through layers of fur adorning his body. He popped the heavy coat’s collar to shield his face. The fire provided good enough heat for the body, but a sharp cold for the soul. The dryad was staring deep into the pyre, his blocky, chiseled, yet haggard face motionless. The deep bags under his eyes revealed the tiredness of his recent days. As he looked, on the other bank of the small hillside river, a flock of birds rose to fly off west. The fluttering of feathers broke his lull. Going over to the donkey, which was encumbered with much luggage, he grabbed an empty tin can after rummaging through the bags. About an hour passed before the pyre stopped burning. The dryad put the ashes in the can and closed it. What luck that they had decided not to throw it away. With that, he needed to start heading back south, to the camp, about a day’s walk all in all. He had stayed here too long, cutting down the wood, preparing the fire. A good two days of work - too long. He had been doing this for a good many years, and he knew that winter was starting. If he didn’t get to camp soon, he could be hit by a storm. That meant sure death. Looking up, he saw that it was just past noon. The rocky hills surrounding the small valley were hard to get through. Steep. Great for a pair of prospectors who dared to try and cross them to find untapped reserves. Bad for returning. Downstream was Satyr territory, and too far off the track to camp. He sighed and put the can back into the bag. Slinging his rifle onto his back, he grabbed the donkey’s halter and began to hike up the hill. The brownish grass and moss rustled under his feet. It was a challenge, and after a good while he got winded, stopping for a breather about half an hour into the hike. A swig of corn whiskey, Dyffryan import, did him well. The prospector looked to his side, gazing at this hidden valley. Packed tight between hills, the relatively small river ran its course peacefully, entering a forest after this bit of clear land. Somewhere upstream was a gold vein. The dryad knew it. They were about to find it, when… He sighed. What he had packed already was more than enough to get him some peace and food for a good two months or more. Another swig before he packed the bottle. Taking one last look, he admired the scenery, the pure, untamed wilderness of the place. The blue string cutting through brown and orange, adorned at the side with gray and black. Running into the still green. A deer had stopped to drink from the river, yet another flock of birds flew off. Never has a place both given him so much and taken so much from him. It would be the last time he looked at it. Going faster now, he soon turned his back to the valley and continued walking. The wind calmed down when he entered the forest, stymied by the trees. The sun would soon begin setting, it was cold to the bone, and he was exhausted from the long trek. But he couldn’t rest, not until he had a fire going. He scratched his thick, blackish-grayish beard, as if to only stretch his fingers, before grabbing an ax off the donkey. Proceeding to cut down a relatively small tree, a pine about two dryad’s length, he prepared the log. Afterwards he went about gathering a lot of smaller sticks and put them in a neat arrangement by the log. By then he had already poured his seventh sweat. Thankless work. He took out the last of the cotton in the luggage, poured some whiskey on it, and lit the smaller sticks, before setting the log beside them. In such a way, the log, once lit, would stay on low fire for hours, emitting a good enough heat as he slept. He stepped out of the forest, as he had set up camp near the treeline. From there, he looked to the West. The sun was in the last stages of sunset. From the higher ground it looked beautiful, the shades of red orange shining, the color blasting forth without consideration, like an explosion. The waves of pink pouring and mixing with the grayish blue. The sun was leaving the pines, rocks, grass and moss, and doing so as if never to return. The sunsets in the brutal wilderness up north were nothing but a cataclysmic like sight. He sighed, before going to take out the tin can. The prospector returned to the spot, weighing the now precious urn in his hand. “Aye. Here’s where we part ways, Bîr.” he looked at the can - “A final farewell…” The stone faced, rough prospector sighed. He then, carefully, yet tenderly, kissed the tin can, like he used to kiss Him before. Tears ran down his rugged face, flowing down his chiseled, worn down cheeks before falling upon the grass and moss. The sun was burning its dying light. The urn was opened by slightly quivering hands, and the ashes were carried off by the wind. How gracefully it disappeared into the wild air. He’d stand there for some time after, thinking back. Sometimes, a tear would flow. The sun set eventually, disappearing under the rugged horizon. The dryad returned to his makeshift camp, laying down a bag for sleeping, and sitting down. He opened a can of beans, one of two left, and put it by the fire to heat up. Above, the silver embroidered firmament of black hung, not a cloud in sight. It stretched all the way, the starry spots glistening, dancing about, hell and toe. The prospector looked up whilst eating. A star flew by, before disappearing in a blink. As if back in Arkadija, a young boy once more, he said a wish softly. A naive, optimistic hope rushed through his face. The donkey’s snort woke him up from the trance, and as it did, he chuckled dryly, soon finishing his meal. He’d spend the next hour smoking his slim pipe, reminiscing about the old times, tearing up occasionally. After a while, he settled down in the bag, and went to sleep, waking up from time to time, to check the fire or the surroundings. The night passed quietly. The stars shone brightly and firmly. The satyrs were clearly out searching for something, or someone. Though now setting up out in the clearing, they had been searching vigorously around the area for some time. Nestled tight between felled trees and stumps, down in the scrub, some ways from them, the dryad observed, quiet and steady, his rifle aimed. He had managed to subdue the donkey and lay it on its side, so that they both stayed hidden. The party before his eyes was a large one - seven brawny satyrs armed with spears and bows. He only had six bullets, because of that he cursed under his breath. He’d be dead if he struck now. Perhaps after nightfall…He did have a knife, he could use it once the ammunition ran out…Thoughts raced through his mind as he observed the savage rabble that snorted and slivered in their wildling tongue. Wild people, brutal people. The area isn’t inhibited for miles in every direction, yet they see it as their own private property, something to kill over. He’d seen what they’ve done to settlements around the place. Dryads, no matter what kind, butchered in skirmishes, raids, homes, temples burned…Savagery…He’d traveled the land with Bîr, he knew full well there was enough room for both peoples. But, for some illogical, incomprehensible reason, it was a zero sum game. His brow furrowed. He needed to get back to camp, he needed to get rid of the gold and get a place to sleep and food to eat for winter. He needed to live. The Wild North was best summed up this way. The need to live. The need for survival. Survival that needed to be fought for. The dryad didn’t pray often. The circumstances of his life made him skeptical that the Gods cared much for their domain. Especially the recent days. But in his mind he put together a prayer. Just to maximize his odds. He had often attended poker sessions at the camp’s saloon and so it was simple logic to him. It was midday, a good few hours till night. He was already going slower than he had hoped to. After some calculation, he realized. He had to go soon. The prospector calmed his breath and looked through the open ironsight. An older satyr was investigating the nearby surroundings at the treeline. Just a ways from the dryad. A grin of regret and determination appeared on the rifleman’s face. Aiming at the head, he pulled the trigger. What happened next is hard to describe in any good words. It was a blur of chaotic motion, gunshots, flying projectiles, shouting, gurgling and blood. After the elder satyr fell to the ground, the back of her head blown open, the rest immediately ran towards her, brandishing their weapons. The first satyr to do so, a young one, couldn’t have been older than 17, fell backwards as soon as she got into the dryad’s sights. Bullet went through the eye. As that happened, the savages leaped to disperse. One stopped to lob a spear in the general direction of fire. She fell as she did so, blood gushing from her throat. The spear fell concerningly close to the dryad. A wave of sweat ran down the dryad’s body, but he did not flinch. He was nestled between the trees and tree trunks perfectly. He had no reason to be worried. Yet. The prospector sighed, taking a breath and trying to keep calm. Three bullets left…four satyrs… He peered out warily, taking a second to scan the surroundings. He could see one or two of them, hunched over, lying in the grass… Preparing to pounce. He waited, not being able to risk a miss. After a minute or so, one of the satyrs rose, ever so slightly, aiming with her bow. She got down on one knee, drew and…keeled over with a hole in her chest, without so much as a word. Her companions only grew in rage, one riding immediately afterwards and shooting at the hidden dryad. The arrow missed him by centimeters, and he immediately jumped back behind cover. The wind picked up, beginning to smash against the tree branches. Thankfully, they blew in their faces. He almost laughed, before quickly peering out. He immediately saw her face, scorned, enraged, ready. But, the wind was against her, and the dryad’s trigger finger was quicker. The bullet went through her mouth, breaking a tooth. Seeing this, the two remaining wild women sprung forth, a ghastly, visceral shout on their lips. They did not care for their lives anymore, they’ve grown pained of waiting for death. The prospector shot one, right in the throat. And then he ran out of bullets. Grabbing his ax, he sprung up and leaped forward to meet his opponent. As he did, her arrow hit the dryad in the torso, and he recoiled, just barely, before running towards her. Before she could draw again, he smashed the ax into her skull whilst screaming in pain and desperation. With the help of his leg, he managed to get the tool out, and began wheezing…wheezing and laughing, madly almost. Just barely he escaped death, killing seven satyrs, ending seven lives, just like that. Most in their youth. The dryad was no stranger to death, to killing others, after all, he had to gain his skills in marksmanship somehow. But it never got easier. He couldn’t collect himself, wheezing and laughing whilst hunched over. He gazed at the bodies lying in the rough grass of the clearing and in between the pine trees. Faces frozen in fear, though once filled with fearlessness. He knew not their names, nor their lives, yet he remained the only keeper of their deaths. Then, the adrenaline began to wear off, and he exclaimed in pain, the arrow’s impact finally being felt. He staggered to his donkey as the wind smacked into his face time after time. He broke off a part of the arrow’s shaft, before unbuttoning his heavy fur coat and carefully taking it off. The dirty shirt underneath was already stained with blood around the arrow. He slowly took it off as well, wincing slightly from the pain and cold brought about by the lashing wind. He felt around the wound on his wrinkled skin. “Not that deep…that’s good…” – he hissed. Sighing, he splashed it with some of the remaining whiskey, and ripped off a part of his shirt’s sleeve, fashioning the rag into a makeshift bandage. Wrapping it around his torso, he winced again. The camp was just a couple hours away, he had no reason to risk yanking the arrow out. Putting his clothes back on, shivering a bit from the cold, he took the donkey and turned in the direction of his path. But, before setting out, he glanced one more time at the satyrs lying on the ground. “You’ll…become one with the land…at last…” – he murmured. Before him stood the main reason this route hadn’t been tried by any prospector before them. A pass of unstable rock, barely stacked together coherently. Below it, a good couple tens of meters of fall. A single wrong step, and one begins a new life. They had managed to walk through it before, treading carefully, and so the prospector was hopeful. He remembered the path well, all he had to do was follow it once more. Above, the sun signaled an afternoon, and clouds were beginning to gather. The dryad sighed, his eyes narrowing as he observed the path. Gripping the donkey’s halter, he made sure everything was tied well on its back and sides. Then, he began to cross. Step by step, he made his way forward, cautiously, slowly, watching his every step. The wind continued to howl as sweat made its way down his skin. His face was stoic as his mind concentrated solely on crossing through and getting to the camp. Step by step, step by step…he made it halfway across the pass, when a handful of rocks fell under his foot. He faltered rapidly, nearly losing his balance and plunging into the abyss. Exclaiming, he rushed to regain his composure, doing so just in time to avoid certain death. The prospector exhaled, relieved, but stressed. He had a long way to go across this bridge of gray. Adjusting his path, he continued on, carefully, steadily. His torso ached, and he had to stop as the wind hit his eyes time after time, but he continued to venture forth, towards safety, towards the other side. It was within an arm’s reach. Then, he felt it. He felt it the second it happened. A wrong step. He chuckled dryly, and not a moment later he was falling, plunging his donkey with him as rocks, big and small followed. The last thing he saw was a small shelf he was about to land on. The dryad awoke after Gods know how long. The sun had passed into late afternoon, and it was now much colder, with the clouds only getting closer and bigger. What brought him from his slumber were the agonizing screams of the donkey. Looking towards it, the prospector saw the animal hung over the ledge of the shelf, only held from falling by a rock which had crushed its leg. It was screaming in pain, thrashing its legs and head in complete confusion and shock. Coughing, he struggled to stand up, only doing so after a good bit of effort. He was aching all over, with his right arm suffering the most. Now, he began to analyze the direness of the situation he’d found himself in, muttering curses and swearing under his nose as his body was overwhelmed with pain and cold. The wind howled still, having only gotten stronger. He’d fallen a good bit, six, seven meters perhaps, the side of the pass was jagged with rocks, and, surprisingly, solid. Looking over to his arm, it was broken, pretty badly at about halfway between the elbow and wrist. Overwhelmed with the state of his life at the current, he grabbed his forehead in worry, only to find a slash wound running across it, bleeding. His express grew completely grim, with the only word he was able to say being: “Fuck.” He rushed over to the donkey, still wrangling about with what was left of its energy, its front leg absolutely obliterated under the big rock. Hanging over the ledge, the prospector, now without any regard for his life, swiftly snatched the bag of gold off the donkey, nearly tipping over in the process. Quickly jumping back into the safety of the shelf, he put the bag down and began an attempt at formulating a way out. His thoughts numbed by the wind, the excruciating pain, the bellowing screams of the donkey, he laid on the slab of rock for minutes upon minutes thinking. Or maybe just processing. He’d stay there forever, perhaps, eyes closed, lying in pain, if it weren’t for one thing. His cheek was touched by something, which upon reaching his skin swiftly dissolved. Soon, another such sensation reached him. Opening his eyes at once, he realized. It had begun to snow. Springing up, he reached the side of the pass, grabbing onto one of the rocks peering out of it, as if he intended to climb. Pulling himself up, he looked up and calculated a way, any possible way, upwards. Quickly getting back down, he hurried to the donkey, once again hanging over the ledge and grabbing his pickaxe and some rope. Returning, he kneeled down by the leg of the animal. It was barely thrashing around anymore, drained of energy, it just snorted loudly, painfully. With a look of sadness, a grieving look of empathy and hopelessness, he, with the help of his tool, pried the donkey’s leg free, relieving the poor creature of its pain, as it barrelled down to its quick death. The dryad sighed, looking to the rock wall with determination, yet without hope. He tied the bag of all he had left, the shiny nuggets, to his body, before beginning his climb, the only thing supporting him against the rocks being his pickaxe. He scaled the side, hanging off it just barely, all his weight on the pickaxe and left hand. He climbed rock after rock, as the wind lashed his face brutally, as blood and snow ran down his face, as the pain of his injuries pulsated with all its might. An hour until the camp. The winter was here. An hour until the camp. He pushed on, straining his every muscle, gritting his teeth as he grinned in pain and desperation. He wanted to scream, to abandon his grip over the pickaxe and disappear into the darkness below. But. He. Couldn’t. He had to go on, had to climb upwards. The need to live, the need to survive, despite everything, was still too strong inside him. Grunt after grunt, rock after rock, he made it upwards, led only by the strength of his muscles and his need to go on, his sheer will to survive the cold and hopelessness. At once, through pure, unbridled suffering, he made it to the pass, leaping forward to its end, as rocks fell under his feet. He collapsed as he reached it, wheezing and coughing, unable to scream, speak, or curse. He stayed on the ground for some time, only gathering the strength to blink once in a while. All seemed unreal, out of a dream or fable. As the snow began to pick up, he rose, and continued onwards, now simply a dryad with a pickaxe and bag of gold, all alone. He was barely moving forward, almost dragging his feet as he walked, drained of energy, cold, in pain and miserable. Yet, he staggered forth, surrounded by rock and moss of the descending hill. Sometime, a lone pine would meet his gaze, persevering standing tall, yet deserted by all. The sun was slowly disappearing in an explosion of color, as snow hit the ground and the prospector. The rocks and ground were already beginning to be shrouded with a white blanket, making it harder for the dryad to move along, and damaging his boots slowly. Yet, he staggered forth, for he knew the camp was a mere minutes away, or so. Step by step, he got closer to it, to a rest, finally. After passing through a small patch of pines, he got low enough to finally see the camp, down in the valley. Filled with newfound hope, he picked up his pace, even though every centimeter walked hurt incredibly. He almost rushed down the side of the hill, coughing and muttering. He got onto the beaten path towards it and kept on getting closer. He felt weak, and getting weaker every minute, every step, but he soldiered on. The camp, a collection of tents and wooden shacks, though thoroughly underwhelming, seemed like heaven to him. He got just outside it, folks already noticing him approaching in such bad shape and rushing to assist. Then, before any reached him, he passed out, collapsing onto the ground weakly. He hadn’t seen Bîr in four days.
By the men who moil for gold […]”
Robert Service The pyre was burning steadily, the flame relatively high for the amount of wood that he was able to cut down. The freezing wind, whilst not strong, penetrated through layers of fur adorning his body. He popped the heavy coat’s collar to shield his face. The fire provided good enough heat for the body, but a sharp cold for the soul. The dryad was staring deep into the pyre, his blocky, chiseled, yet haggard face motionless. The deep bags under his eyes revealed the tiredness of his recent days. As he looked, on the other bank of the small hillside river, a flock of birds rose to fly off west. The fluttering of feathers broke his lull. Going over to the donkey, which was encumbered with much luggage, he grabbed an empty tin can after rummaging through the bags. About an hour passed before the pyre stopped burning. The dryad put the ashes in the can and closed it. What luck that they had decided not to throw it away. With that, he needed to start heading back south, to the camp, about a day’s walk all in all. He had stayed here too long, cutting down the wood, preparing the fire. A good two days of work - too long. He had been doing this for a good many years, and he knew that winter was starting. If he didn’t get to camp soon, he could be hit by a storm. That meant sure death. Looking up, he saw that it was just past noon. The rocky hills surrounding the small valley were hard to get through. Steep. Great for a pair of prospectors who dared to try and cross them to find untapped reserves. Bad for returning. Downstream was Satyr territory, and too far off the track to camp. He sighed and put the can back into the bag. Slinging his rifle onto his back, he grabbed the donkey’s halter and began to hike up the hill. The brownish grass and moss rustled under his feet. It was a challenge, and after a good while he got winded, stopping for a breather about half an hour into the hike. A swig of corn whiskey, Dyffryan import, did him well. The prospector looked to his side, gazing at this hidden valley. Packed tight between hills, the relatively small river ran its course peacefully, entering a forest after this bit of clear land. Somewhere upstream was a gold vein. The dryad knew it. They were about to find it, when… He sighed. What he had packed already was more than enough to get him some peace and food for a good two months or more. Another swig before he packed the bottle. Taking one last look, he admired the scenery, the pure, untamed wilderness of the place. The blue string cutting through brown and orange, adorned at the side with gray and black. Running into the still green. A deer had stopped to drink from the river, yet another flock of birds flew off. Never has a place both given him so much and taken so much from him. It would be the last time he looked at it. Going faster now, he soon turned his back to the valley and continued walking. The wind calmed down when he entered the forest, stymied by the trees. The sun would soon begin setting, it was cold to the bone, and he was exhausted from the long trek. But he couldn’t rest, not until he had a fire going. He scratched his thick, blackish-grayish beard, as if to only stretch his fingers, before grabbing an ax off the donkey. Proceeding to cut down a relatively small tree, a pine about two dryad’s length, he prepared the log. Afterwards he went about gathering a lot of smaller sticks and put them in a neat arrangement by the log. By then he had already poured his seventh sweat. Thankless work. He took out the last of the cotton in the luggage, poured some whiskey on it, and lit the smaller sticks, before setting the log beside them. In such a way, the log, once lit, would stay on low fire for hours, emitting a good enough heat as he slept. He stepped out of the forest, as he had set up camp near the treeline. From there, he looked to the West. The sun was in the last stages of sunset. From the higher ground it looked beautiful, the shades of red orange shining, the color blasting forth without consideration, like an explosion. The waves of pink pouring and mixing with the grayish blue. The sun was leaving the pines, rocks, grass and moss, and doing so as if never to return. The sunsets in the brutal wilderness up north were nothing but a cataclysmic like sight. He sighed, before going to take out the tin can. The prospector returned to the spot, weighing the now precious urn in his hand. “Aye. Here’s where we part ways, Bîr.” he looked at the can - “A final farewell…” The stone faced, rough prospector sighed. He then, carefully, yet tenderly, kissed the tin can, like he used to kiss Him before. Tears ran down his rugged face, flowing down his chiseled, worn down cheeks before falling upon the grass and moss. The sun was burning its dying light. The urn was opened by slightly quivering hands, and the ashes were carried off by the wind. How gracefully it disappeared into the wild air. He’d stand there for some time after, thinking back. Sometimes, a tear would flow. The sun set eventually, disappearing under the rugged horizon. The dryad returned to his makeshift camp, laying down a bag for sleeping, and sitting down. He opened a can of beans, one of two left, and put it by the fire to heat up. Above, the silver embroidered firmament of black hung, not a cloud in sight. It stretched all the way, the starry spots glistening, dancing about, hell and toe. The prospector looked up whilst eating. A star flew by, before disappearing in a blink. As if back in Arkadija, a young boy once more, he said a wish softly. A naive, optimistic hope rushed through his face. The donkey’s snort woke him up from the trance, and as it did, he chuckled dryly, soon finishing his meal. He’d spend the next hour smoking his slim pipe, reminiscing about the old times, tearing up occasionally. After a while, he settled down in the bag, and went to sleep, waking up from time to time, to check the fire or the surroundings. The night passed quietly. The stars shone brightly and firmly. The satyrs were clearly out searching for something, or someone. Though now setting up out in the clearing, they had been searching vigorously around the area for some time. Nestled tight between felled trees and stumps, down in the scrub, some ways from them, the dryad observed, quiet and steady, his rifle aimed. He had managed to subdue the donkey and lay it on its side, so that they both stayed hidden. The party before his eyes was a large one - seven brawny satyrs armed with spears and bows. He only had six bullets, because of that he cursed under his breath. He’d be dead if he struck now. Perhaps after nightfall…He did have a knife, he could use it once the ammunition ran out…Thoughts raced through his mind as he observed the savage rabble that snorted and slivered in their wildling tongue. Wild people, brutal people. The area isn’t inhibited for miles in every direction, yet they see it as their own private property, something to kill over. He’d seen what they’ve done to settlements around the place. Dryads, no matter what kind, butchered in skirmishes, raids, homes, temples burned…Savagery…He’d traveled the land with Bîr, he knew full well there was enough room for both peoples. But, for some illogical, incomprehensible reason, it was a zero sum game. His brow furrowed. He needed to get back to camp, he needed to get rid of the gold and get a place to sleep and food to eat for winter. He needed to live. The Wild North was best summed up this way. The need to live. The need for survival. Survival that needed to be fought for. The dryad didn’t pray often. The circumstances of his life made him skeptical that the Gods cared much for their domain. Especially the recent days. But in his mind he put together a prayer. Just to maximize his odds. He had often attended poker sessions at the camp’s saloon and so it was simple logic to him. It was midday, a good few hours till night. He was already going slower than he had hoped to. After some calculation, he realized. He had to go soon. The prospector calmed his breath and looked through the open ironsight. An older satyr was investigating the nearby surroundings at the treeline. Just a ways from the dryad. A grin of regret and determination appeared on the rifleman’s face. Aiming at the head, he pulled the trigger. What happened next is hard to describe in any good words. It was a blur of chaotic motion, gunshots, flying projectiles, shouting, gurgling and blood. After the elder satyr fell to the ground, the back of her head blown open, the rest immediately ran towards her, brandishing their weapons. The first satyr to do so, a young one, couldn’t have been older than 17, fell backwards as soon as she got into the dryad’s sights. Bullet went through the eye. As that happened, the savages leaped to disperse. One stopped to lob a spear in the general direction of fire. She fell as she did so, blood gushing from her throat. The spear fell concerningly close to the dryad. A wave of sweat ran down the dryad’s body, but he did not flinch. He was nestled between the trees and tree trunks perfectly. He had no reason to be worried. Yet. The prospector sighed, taking a breath and trying to keep calm. Three bullets left…four satyrs… He peered out warily, taking a second to scan the surroundings. He could see one or two of them, hunched over, lying in the grass… Preparing to pounce. He waited, not being able to risk a miss. After a minute or so, one of the satyrs rose, ever so slightly, aiming with her bow. She got down on one knee, drew and…keeled over with a hole in her chest, without so much as a word. Her companions only grew in rage, one riding immediately afterwards and shooting at the hidden dryad. The arrow missed him by centimeters, and he immediately jumped back behind cover. The wind picked up, beginning to smash against the tree branches. Thankfully, they blew in their faces. He almost laughed, before quickly peering out. He immediately saw her face, scorned, enraged, ready. But, the wind was against her, and the dryad’s trigger finger was quicker. The bullet went through her mouth, breaking a tooth. Seeing this, the two remaining wild women sprung forth, a ghastly, visceral shout on their lips. They did not care for their lives anymore, they’ve grown pained of waiting for death. The prospector shot one, right in the throat. And then he ran out of bullets. Grabbing his ax, he sprung up and leaped forward to meet his opponent. As he did, her arrow hit the dryad in the torso, and he recoiled, just barely, before running towards her. Before she could draw again, he smashed the ax into her skull whilst screaming in pain and desperation. With the help of his leg, he managed to get the tool out, and began wheezing…wheezing and laughing, madly almost. Just barely he escaped death, killing seven satyrs, ending seven lives, just like that. Most in their youth. The dryad was no stranger to death, to killing others, after all, he had to gain his skills in marksmanship somehow. But it never got easier. He couldn’t collect himself, wheezing and laughing whilst hunched over. He gazed at the bodies lying in the rough grass of the clearing and in between the pine trees. Faces frozen in fear, though once filled with fearlessness. He knew not their names, nor their lives, yet he remained the only keeper of their deaths. Then, the adrenaline began to wear off, and he exclaimed in pain, the arrow’s impact finally being felt. He staggered to his donkey as the wind smacked into his face time after time. He broke off a part of the arrow’s shaft, before unbuttoning his heavy fur coat and carefully taking it off. The dirty shirt underneath was already stained with blood around the arrow. He slowly took it off as well, wincing slightly from the pain and cold brought about by the lashing wind. He felt around the wound on his wrinkled skin. “Not that deep…that’s good…” – he hissed. Sighing, he splashed it with some of the remaining whiskey, and ripped off a part of his shirt’s sleeve, fashioning the rag into a makeshift bandage. Wrapping it around his torso, he winced again. The camp was just a couple hours away, he had no reason to risk yanking the arrow out. Putting his clothes back on, shivering a bit from the cold, he took the donkey and turned in the direction of his path. But, before setting out, he glanced one more time at the satyrs lying on the ground. “You’ll…become one with the land…at last…” – he murmured. Before him stood the main reason this route hadn’t been tried by any prospector before them. A pass of unstable rock, barely stacked together coherently. Below it, a good couple tens of meters of fall. A single wrong step, and one begins a new life. They had managed to walk through it before, treading carefully, and so the prospector was hopeful. He remembered the path well, all he had to do was follow it once more. Above, the sun signaled an afternoon, and clouds were beginning to gather. The dryad sighed, his eyes narrowing as he observed the path. Gripping the donkey’s halter, he made sure everything was tied well on its back and sides. Then, he began to cross. Step by step, he made his way forward, cautiously, slowly, watching his every step. The wind continued to howl as sweat made its way down his skin. His face was stoic as his mind concentrated solely on crossing through and getting to the camp. Step by step, step by step…he made it halfway across the pass, when a handful of rocks fell under his foot. He faltered rapidly, nearly losing his balance and plunging into the abyss. Exclaiming, he rushed to regain his composure, doing so just in time to avoid certain death. The prospector exhaled, relieved, but stressed. He had a long way to go across this bridge of gray. Adjusting his path, he continued on, carefully, steadily. His torso ached, and he had to stop as the wind hit his eyes time after time, but he continued to venture forth, towards safety, towards the other side. It was within an arm’s reach. Then, he felt it. He felt it the second it happened. A wrong step. He chuckled dryly, and not a moment later he was falling, plunging his donkey with him as rocks, big and small followed. The last thing he saw was a small shelf he was about to land on. The dryad awoke after Gods know how long. The sun had passed into late afternoon, and it was now much colder, with the clouds only getting closer and bigger. What brought him from his slumber were the agonizing screams of the donkey. Looking towards it, the prospector saw the animal hung over the ledge of the shelf, only held from falling by a rock which had crushed its leg. It was screaming in pain, thrashing its legs and head in complete confusion and shock. Coughing, he struggled to stand up, only doing so after a good bit of effort. He was aching all over, with his right arm suffering the most. Now, he began to analyze the direness of the situation he’d found himself in, muttering curses and swearing under his nose as his body was overwhelmed with pain and cold. The wind howled still, having only gotten stronger. He’d fallen a good bit, six, seven meters perhaps, the side of the pass was jagged with rocks, and, surprisingly, solid. Looking over to his arm, it was broken, pretty badly at about halfway between the elbow and wrist. Overwhelmed with the state of his life at the current, he grabbed his forehead in worry, only to find a slash wound running across it, bleeding. His express grew completely grim, with the only word he was able to say being: “Fuck.” He rushed over to the donkey, still wrangling about with what was left of its energy, its front leg absolutely obliterated under the big rock. Hanging over the ledge, the prospector, now without any regard for his life, swiftly snatched the bag of gold off the donkey, nearly tipping over in the process. Quickly jumping back into the safety of the shelf, he put the bag down and began an attempt at formulating a way out. His thoughts numbed by the wind, the excruciating pain, the bellowing screams of the donkey, he laid on the slab of rock for minutes upon minutes thinking. Or maybe just processing. He’d stay there forever, perhaps, eyes closed, lying in pain, if it weren’t for one thing. His cheek was touched by something, which upon reaching his skin swiftly dissolved. Soon, another such sensation reached him. Opening his eyes at once, he realized. It had begun to snow. Springing up, he reached the side of the pass, grabbing onto one of the rocks peering out of it, as if he intended to climb. Pulling himself up, he looked up and calculated a way, any possible way, upwards. Quickly getting back down, he hurried to the donkey, once again hanging over the ledge and grabbing his pickaxe and some rope. Returning, he kneeled down by the leg of the animal. It was barely thrashing around anymore, drained of energy, it just snorted loudly, painfully. With a look of sadness, a grieving look of empathy and hopelessness, he, with the help of his tool, pried the donkey’s leg free, relieving the poor creature of its pain, as it barrelled down to its quick death. The dryad sighed, looking to the rock wall with determination, yet without hope. He tied the bag of all he had left, the shiny nuggets, to his body, before beginning his climb, the only thing supporting him against the rocks being his pickaxe. He scaled the side, hanging off it just barely, all his weight on the pickaxe and left hand. He climbed rock after rock, as the wind lashed his face brutally, as blood and snow ran down his face, as the pain of his injuries pulsated with all its might. An hour until the camp. The winter was here. An hour until the camp. He pushed on, straining his every muscle, gritting his teeth as he grinned in pain and desperation. He wanted to scream, to abandon his grip over the pickaxe and disappear into the darkness below. But. He. Couldn’t. He had to go on, had to climb upwards. The need to live, the need to survive, despite everything, was still too strong inside him. Grunt after grunt, rock after rock, he made it upwards, led only by the strength of his muscles and his need to go on, his sheer will to survive the cold and hopelessness. At once, through pure, unbridled suffering, he made it to the pass, leaping forward to its end, as rocks fell under his feet. He collapsed as he reached it, wheezing and coughing, unable to scream, speak, or curse. He stayed on the ground for some time, only gathering the strength to blink once in a while. All seemed unreal, out of a dream or fable. As the snow began to pick up, he rose, and continued onwards, now simply a dryad with a pickaxe and bag of gold, all alone. He was barely moving forward, almost dragging his feet as he walked, drained of energy, cold, in pain and miserable. Yet, he staggered forth, surrounded by rock and moss of the descending hill. Sometime, a lone pine would meet his gaze, persevering standing tall, yet deserted by all. The sun was slowly disappearing in an explosion of color, as snow hit the ground and the prospector. The rocks and ground were already beginning to be shrouded with a white blanket, making it harder for the dryad to move along, and damaging his boots slowly. Yet, he staggered forth, for he knew the camp was a mere minutes away, or so. Step by step, he got closer to it, to a rest, finally. After passing through a small patch of pines, he got low enough to finally see the camp, down in the valley. Filled with newfound hope, he picked up his pace, even though every centimeter walked hurt incredibly. He almost rushed down the side of the hill, coughing and muttering. He got onto the beaten path towards it and kept on getting closer. He felt weak, and getting weaker every minute, every step, but he soldiered on. The camp, a collection of tents and wooden shacks, though thoroughly underwhelming, seemed like heaven to him. He got just outside it, folks already noticing him approaching in such bad shape and rushing to assist. Then, before any reached him, he passed out, collapsing onto the ground weakly. He hadn’t seen Bîr in four days.
Remove these ads. Join the Worldbuilders Guild
Comments