Chapter 26: Honeyed Words
Damien staggered through the forest, half-starved and nearly snowblind. Parties of goblin scouts hunted him, but he used his stealth bonus to hide in the shadows of trees and nooks in the rocky mountainside. At last he was able to put enough distance between himself and his erstwhile subterranean prison that the angry din of search parties grew faint, then ceased altogether.
Each time he successfully avoided detection he gained experience. And each time he killed an animal he gained experience as well. He realized this as, in desperation, he tried to hunt for food. He managed to shoot a sort of pheasant with his wrist-mounted crossbow. But when he attempted to build a fire on the snowy ground to cook the meat, he utterly failed. The carcass was left to rot.
Bitter and despondent, Damien pressed on. He could find no other sustenance. No fish in an icy stream. No fruit on the trees; only long, pale pinecones.
But he had a built-in compass. A power that pointed him to his target. All Damien had to do was whisper the word, “deathmark.”
A chime sounded. And a textbox appeared in his vision.
Clutching the image of Chastity between dirt-stained fingers, a pull within his heart directed him onward. Whatever natural barricades obstructed his progress through this wild land, he would go over or around, following the lead of this inward sensation. And when he found himself unsure of his next steps he re-oriented with another invocation.
“Deathmark.”
Now he was out of Focus Points. Studying his Character Record taught him that Focus Points could be recharged through long rests, prayer, or meditation. He wasn’t about to pray, and there was nowhere to sleep in this frigid wilderness. As for meditation, Damien once told a counselor that his brain was like an active war zone; it was impossible to quiet or empty his mind before intrusive negative thoughts flooded in.
The Assassin kept going, ducking beneath branches and scrambling over rocks, until up ahead he saw a cart path winding through the dense forest. The cold breeze carried the sound of creaking wood and the whinny of a horse.
Damien leapt into the shadows of a nearby thicket, pulling his Cloak of Enshroudment around himself. He waited.
A brightly painted wagon rumbled up the dirt lane, pulled by a pair of muscular ponies. The garish colors clashed against the endless brown, white, green, and gray of the environs. A man, from the look of him, tugged the reins on the ponies, and the wagon rolled to a stop mere feet from where Damien crouched.
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“Woooah. Woah there,” the driver called in a buttery voice.
Damien tensed, fixing his bloodshot eyes on the stranger. He was indeed a human, wearing a long brown coat and bowler hat over mismatched clothes. A noticeable paunch protruded beneath his vest, and several rings adorned his thick fingers.
Whistling to himself in a carefree manner, the man climbed down from the box, patted the ponies on their necks, and went around to the back of the wagon. After rummaging around inside, he emerged with a wide plank of wood and some crates. Arranging the items, he fashioned a sort of roadside picnic table. He disappeared once more and returned with a steaming pot, cups, various plates and platters, and sundry edible goods.
“Ah, just what the afternoon called for. Lunch in the woods,” he announced in a loud voice, spreading out a miniature banquet. “Hot buttered scones. Lingonberry tea. Dried elk jerky.”
He ceremoniously plopped himself down on one of the wooden crates that now served as a seat and smacked his lips.
“If only there was somebody else to enjoy this meal!” he called. “Perhaps some hungry soul adrift in the forest! A pity to have all these delectable morsels and no one to share it with…”
Damien armed his crossbow and slowly rose from behind the thicket. Not taking his eyes off the man, he stalked forward, aiming straight at his chest.
“Woah! Woah, now,” the man sputtered, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Do be careful where you point that thing. This teapot is made of the finest marble, carved by the hand of a true dwarven master. It would be a terrible shame to chip it.”
“Who are you!?” Damien shouted, summoning all his remaining strength to appear intimidating.
The man slowly lowered his hands, selecting a scone and just as slowly bringing it to his mouth. He took a theatrically large bite, the crumbs sticking to his ruddy mustache. He thoughtfully chewed and swallowed before answering.
“Mmmm. Me? I am just a traveling merchant. My friends and customers, who are one-and-the-same of course, call me Honeytongue. The real question is who are you?”
“I’m asking the questions!” Damien snarled.
“That is the garb of an Assassin, is it not? But you’re a long way from the East, and you don’t have the bone structure of those peoples. No… something about the cheekbones. I’d wager that you’ve gotten a bit turned around in the Silfurfast. Good fortune you’ve found me! Or, rather, that I found you. The ponies picked up your scent. Good girls!”
Damien shook with anger, with exhaustion, and with undeniable hunger.
“I’ve been dealing with goblins. I’ve killed them. Many of them!” Damien lied. “I just want to find someplace warm.”
“Goblins you say? In these parts? That’s not going to be good for business!” the merchant said, dabbing his mouth with an embroidered napkin. “I can point you in the right direction. Better yet, I can take you there! Fresh food. A warm bath. A soft bed. How’s about it? I’m sure we can come to an arrangement. Just please… put down the weapon. You have nothing to fear from me.”
Damien slowly lowered the weapon, his eyes roving over the plates of food.
“Take a seat. There’s more than enough for the both of us. Eat your fill, then we’ll talk shop.”
Damien lurched forward, nearly collapsing onto the waiting crate. He began grabbing food from the bowls and platters, scraping it onto an empty plate the merchant provided, and stuffing morsels into his mouth with his dirty fingers as he went.
“Goooood… goooood,” Honeytongue cooed encouragingly. “Never negotiate on an empty stomach. That’s what I always say.”
As Damien scarfed the food, his mouth grew increasingly dry. As if the scones were turning to dust and clay between his teeth. He could barely open his mouth to take a breath through the gluelike wad filling his maw. In desperation, he grabbed for a nearby cup. Empty!
“Slow and steady, young man. Here, have some tea to wash that down,” the merchant said. “Better yet, I have a special cordial–an exotic draught guaranteed to soothe whatever ails you.”
The merchant got up and hurried to the back of the wagon, emerging with a large ornate bottle. He brushed strands of straw from the container, uncorked it, and poured a steaming red liquid to the brim of Damien’s cup.
“Drink thissss…” he said with a wide smile.
Damien, gripping the cup with both hands, greedily gulped the substance down. His whole body began to radiate with warmth.
“Yesss… you’ll feel better in no time at all, Mister Nightblade.”
World War Mech (Anime-Inspired Mecha LitRPG)
Metaverse Mythhunter (Cyberpunk Horror Progression)
