Vraxious -Kings Road
After cleaning up the Shrikers and giving the poor family a shallow burial. Vrax and Torvald had spent an uneasy night camping a few hundred strides on the other side of the road. Torvald was wearing the magic ring to help speed his healing; he would be mostly patched up by the morning other than the gouge in his shoulder. Thankfully, Vrax was unscathed, the scrapes and bruises he did to himself jumping out of a tree and diving all around had been healed by that final massive smite.
They had another two days of travel ahead of them going due west before they would reach a small way station with an inn. Vrax and Torvald had agreed that leveling should probably wait until then. The roads were safer than other paths but by no means safe, especially this close to the Forsaken Lands and the rapidly retreating protection of the border.
Vrax mused on that wistfully: if the forest can just manage to shove the border back another league or so, Hope's End will be free of the duke's nonsense. Well, at least we're free of the duke using the king as a threat to keep us in line. Most of that town would be happy to see the duke himself come down and try to make us do something. I don’t think anyone I’ve met ever even joked about the king’s wrath or that of his enforcers. One of those legends would just level the town and leave, telling the duke to start over from scratch. A hamlet like ours wouldn’t even be considered collateral damage on the scale those people operate at.
Vrax spent most of his two-day trudge experimenting with Adapt Life and bullshitting with Torvald whenever he was out of mana. He started with something he had been keeping with him ever since it single-handedly let him win against Torvald. The Everthirst root slapped against the glass angrily as soon as Vrax took its jar from his pack. Torvald took a few long steps away as soon as he saw what Vrax had in hand. Vrax cracked the lid open and poured some water in to keep it busy. The earthworm greedily plunged into it, deforming to cover itself in water. Vrax thrust his hand in and simply changed its color to a grey-green mottled pattern that matched his cloak. That should be enough that it doesn’t try and drain me dry. Now this thing is basically a formless, semi-aware mass of roots. I can't think of a much better blank canvas. And since that color change didn’t even take a whole point of mana, the system doesn’t consider this a very powerful entity.
Vrax started by extracting it from its jar, holding the writing mass in his hands. I desperately need a way to overcome enemies' defenses beyond my smite. I'm really struggling there; landing shots with a spear on an eye or throat mid-combat is hellishly hard, but I don’t think this little guy will help me there. Maybe a deployable net? No, that's not really how this guy works. Hmm...but as a defense...someone grabs me or something gets a bite of me, and then…that could certainly work. Vrax held the writhing mass out like a sheet of very unruly cloth and began focusing. Its form twisted, changing from a single mass to more of a loop. Then it became thicker, roots extended farther, reaching out several feet from the main body, waving in Torvald's general direction.
Torvald practically jumped to get farther away. “Nope, that thing still doesn’t like me!”
Vrax had to stop, as that had drained all his mana, and he wasn’t nearly done. “Oh, shush, you big baby. It just wants a hug.”
Torvald stepped even farther away. “What the hell are you even doing with that thing? The mushrooms and fucked-off dandelions I get those are great weapons.”
“New cloak,” Vrax said with a cheerful shrug.
The look of sheer concern across Torvald's face was fantastic. “The fuck…” He made a wait a moment gesture with his hands. “I know you love your…critters, but I personally would rather your goddamn cloak isn’t trying to DRINK ME…for the rest of our adventures.”
Vrax chortled. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure I can iron that kink out.” The new “cloak” snapped out straight, making it within a foot of Torvalds face. Vrax pulled it back in an embarrassed rush and placated it with some more water from his canteen.
“I’m going to die in my damn sleep like a bitch smothered by my best friends clothes,” Torvald began a lighthearted grumbling rant as he power-walked ahead, making sure to keep at least three strides of distance between him and Vrax and Thirsty, the new Cloak.
Vrax spent the better part of that day trying to iron out the problem of it trying to eat party members. Just making it not attracted to moisture was a change far beyond his current capability; it was a core part of the Everthirst’s nature. He was able to change what kind of moisture it was strongly attracted to, but changing it to just water would make it kind of useless in combat. Changing it to just blood would probably get him killed by it even if it was “less” aggressive towards him. He noticed how it stopped moving around when it didn’t sense moisture; maybe that was it, a way to trick it into not sensing what was there. On his third try, Vrax finally got it. It wasn’t perfect, but he could essentially close its sensory pores with a quick use of [Adapt Life] that worked as a very mana-cheap on/off switch.
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The next day Vrax slowly shaped it into a half cape that nearly dragged along the ground with a hood that would unravel into the rest of the mass when it was awakened. He had to shed his actual cloak to make it fit comfortably, but between the cape of grey-green roots that writhed around on its own and his charred armor, he certainly looked the part of an eccentric adventurer. It wasn’t exactly what he had been shooting for, but he couldn’t make any more changes to it currently. Every change, be it size or purpose, made the next cost more mana as it became more divergent from what it once was. Mana had quickly shot up his list of importance for his new class.
Before they knew it, and with no further incidents not cape-related, they found themselves overlooking the way station. The setting sun cast a cheerful red glow on the small collection of buildings. A two-story inn was painted a look-at-me red. An attached stable with a half dozen horses snorting around in the yard impatiently. A small general store and a cluster of three small houses. Slightly farther down the road a Dutchy barracks sat as a small, squat, stone sore thumb on the otherwise idyllic little bastion of rest for weary bones.
Vrax, with a pep in his step at the prospect of a bed, made his way up the well-maintained stairs of the inn. The small white hanging sign read Bertrand’s Respite. It was a simple, cozy affair: a small front desk with the weathered innkeeper reading a book behind the counter. A low-burning hearth, dark wooden walls with a mostly faded ivy mosaic tracing along the edges, and a handful of tables for people to take meals at. One was occupied by three dangerous-looking individuals. All armed and armored, a few glimmers of magical energy upon their weapons. Almost certainly adventurers headed to Hope's End, they looked up at Vrax and Torvald, giving them a cautious once-over followed by a respectful nod. Vrax realized they must look quite the sight, covered in bits of dried blood and ichor still. He gave a respectful nod back, and Torvald gave them a hearty wave.
They paid for a night at the inn, and Torvald, being Torvald, walked right up to the table of adventurers, gesturing at the empty seats with his own bowl of stew, “May we join you?” Vrax trailed behind, wishing they had just gone to eat in the room; a bath sounded divine. He was pretty sure he still had an eyeball in his ear.
The man nodded. A silver-haired man with sunken eyes and a two-handed sword peeking out from his black robes gestured affably, “Certainly, if you don’t mind a few questions, you look like you are coming from where we are going. I’m Harod.” His voice was surprisingly gentle in contrast to his no-nonsense appearance. Harod put out a hand that Torvald shook with a mighty heave.
Torvald thudded down on the bench. “Happy to oblige; we actually live in Hopes End.” Vrax slid in next to Torvald across from a lethal-looking woman with short cropped hair, and a lithe black bow leaned against her thigh.
Harod's eyes shot up, and he smiled brightly. “Oh, fantastic! Is it actually getting worse in the forest?”
Torvold looked to Vrax, deferring the question to the resident expert. “Ehh, not exactly worse, just a bit of a shift; higher-tier critters are roaming closer to town than they used to, other than a fucked-off snake. I haven’t seen anything new to be worried about, but I only regularly go a few leagues in.” Vrax thoughtfully ate his soup.
Harold looked them both over once again. “You both look awful young to be delving in the forest; even the fringes aren’t recommended below silver rank in the guild.”
Torvald let out a beaming smile. “I’m still wood rank; I just hit level seven! Vrax hasn’t registered yet, so he’ll be wood too.” The lethal-looking woman frowned in concern at that statement.
Harod looked at Vrax. “Well, shit, I was hoping to hire you as our guide this time. Last time we went with that prick Feldwin, and he blazed past fucking everything. We barely managed to fill half our rucksacks with materials. When I complained about it, he said, I would want the monster-hugging idiot Vrax if we were looking to creep around and get eaten.”
Vrax almost choked on his soup, Goddammit, Feldwin. Vrax had acted as a guide for several adventuring parties, but it was more of a side job for him than any main source of income; he had never been willing to take them beyond the Ashen Stands. “Ahh, well, sorry, we are going to the dungeon and probably won't be back for nearly a month.”
The woman finally spoke up: “Just our luck! We scrape together enough for a storage bag, and we are going to have Captain Go Fast as our guide again!” She sighed into her mug of ale.
They shared some more pleasantries with the adventurer group and found out their party was called the Copper Cutters. They had more members, but they were on a job further northwest dealing with some monster infestation at an old fishing town. Vrax and Torvald excused themselves, with Vrax promising he would work as their guide if the timing ever lined up. They seemed like a solid group of silver-to-gold adventurers, and it certainly didn’t hurt to make friends.
Vrax trudged up to the room feeling warm, tired, and happy with a full belly and a mug of ale in him. He drew a bath in the corner of the generously sized room. Torvald had fallen asleep face first on one of the beds, not even bothering to take off his blood-soaked vest, and had only managed one boot. Vrax chuckled and climbed into the bath. He had some essence to spend, and this was a damn good time to do it.