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One misstep can be the difference between life and death. One small miscalculation could be all it takes to change the trajectory of your fate. Skrimm has never been a numbers guy.
They were hiking through a dense pine forest on the side of a mountain, as always Jornir led their pack through the treacherous terrain. He called out as he cleared the snow in front of them with his staff, “Be careful where you tread. Supposedly there is a tunnel system in this mountain, it hasn’t been in use for centuries. The reinforcements won’t be structurally sound.” Skrimm tried walking in Barnabos’ footsteps to avoid getting his clothes wet, “Why does that matter? We’re on top of the mountain, not in the tunnels.” Jornir ignored the goblin’s question and kept walking, Queenie instead piped up, “The mountain had to be excavated for those tunnels Skrimm; if the structure ain’t sound, you could easily fall in.”
She hopped slightly in front of Skrimm and scratched her chin recalling a memory, “I can’t count the times I fell through the ground because of some gopher tunnel that collapsed.”
Cheerfully Taishen chimed in, “Well it does make sense for the gopher tunnels to collapse, I do not think gopher’s have engineering degrees.”
“Where would they get engineering degrees, Taishie?” Queenie chuckled.
Taishen very seriously pondered, “Maybe at gopher college?”
They continued their joking discussion about the gopher education system as they trekked on. Skrimm rolled his eyes at their conversation and pulled his coat closer around himself, ignoring his growling stomach. He could really go for a gopher stew right around now; hells, he’d even be content with the hardtack they used to get on the more abound. They hadn’t had time to cook a proper meal in days now, subsisting solely on what little rations they still had. At the time it had seemed silly to Skrimm to dry the meat they got from their last kill, a measly fox. Why not cook the entire thing? It barely had any meat on its bones anyway, might as well use it all in a proper meal. Barnabos had chastised him, saying that they needed food on other days too. Skrimm was certain that they’d be able to find more food, Queenie could hunt for game, Jornir could forage and Barnabos and him could find a river to fish in. He was wrong, that fox soup was about a week ago now and Skrimm had never been so happy to have dried meat; it was gamey and stringy but it sustained them that bit longer.
That was all gone now too and they hadn’t run into any creatures but it seemed like their luck was turning. Queenie’s ears twitched and she stopped in her tracks, suddenly on high alert, “Y’all there’s an animal nearby, a big one too by the sound of it.” Barnabos pulled out his anchor and held it steady in his hands, eyes flitting side to side to see if he could spot it, “What kinda beastie do ye reckon it is miss March?’ The snow whirled around them as it obscured their vision, Queenie squinted and stared into the forest, “I don’t know, it sounds like it’s walkin’ upright.” Her ears lowered and her eyes widened, the rest could now also hear the loud thumping footsteps rapidly approaching.
The ground shook and the trees trembled as the beast was almost upon them. It was too late to run as a gigantic ape-like creature burst through the trees, baring its teeth threateningly as it raised its fist and swung at the closest person, Jornir. The druid flew through the air and was slammed into a tree, the bark cracking under the force. Jornir stood up and raised his staff, frozen particles gathering around the dark wood. He aimed his staff at the creature and shot a beam of sharp hail at it, hitting it between its eyes. The creature stumbled back and grunted as it grabbed at its head. Jornir shouted, “It is a yeti! Scatter, we will meet north.” He took off sprinting and after a moment of processing what just happened, the rest of the group started running in different directions. Snow flew up as Skrimm ran through the woods, panting he flew over the side of the mountain. The ground under his feet was rumbling and Skrimm pushed on, certain that the yeti had decided to chase after him, just his luck. There was no time to curse his fate, he needed to keep running.
Loose stones shifted as the goblin ran, the rumbling getting closer; Skrimm chanced a glance over his shoulder and was surprised to see nothing behind him. He barely had time to feel relief before his foot sunk through the ground, taking all the surrounding rocks with him. He tried to grab a hold of something, anything but he found no purchase as he fell into the tunnel. He landed roughly on the ground, looking up helplessly at the stones falling. He couldn’t scramble out of the way of the boulder that landed on his lower leg, a blinding pain shot through his ankle and he screamed shrilly.
This is not what Skrimm had imagined when Jornir warned them about tunnels, he expected rough walls with a ceiling no higher than six feet. What he hadn’t expected was a passage with smooth walls nearly twenty feet tall. He would marvel at the craftsmanship if it didn’t mean he had no way of climbing out of the tunnel. A jolt of pain reminded him of the other reason Skrimm wouldn’t be able to climb to his freedom. Skrimm looked at the rock on his leg, his breathing frantic, scared to see what would be hidden beneath it. He steeled himself, willing his breathing to even out, he would have no chance at surviving if he didn’t get the damned thing off. He wrapped his trembling hands around the jagged edges of the rock, it was like holding broken glass, leaving miniscule cuts in his tender palms. With one swift move he pulled the rock off and threw it to the side. What he saw almost made Skrimm throw up, his ankle was shattered, his foot hanging on by threads of tendon and flesh. His vision swam and he cried out, “Help! Help please! I’m here!” He cried out for his friends knowing damn well they wouldn’t hear him, they scattered and would meet in the north. Skrimm didn’t know much about survival but he knew he didn’t go north. He was doomed.
Skrimm screamed, he screamed and cried and yelled until his voice had lost its power and became a hoarse whisper. Through the hole in the ceiling, he could see that the sky was darkening, the last rays of sunlight fading and leaving him in utter and complete darkness. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t crawl, he could just lay there awake. Listening for footsteps or shouts or anything, any sign that his friends were looking for him. His ears perked at the slightest rustle of leaves, hoping for a sign of life. Eventually he passed out, waking up to snowflakes falling on his face from the hole in the ceiling. His stomach was growling and he shook. Skrimm couldn’t tell if the tremors were caused by pain, hunger, cold or blood loss. The bleeding from his ravaged ankle had stilled, the Drakkarian cold was good for something after all; Skrimm was still feeling the effects of the shock, looking at the crimson pool with vacant eyes. All day he just lay there, nothing changed, his friends hadn’t come for him and he was cold and miserable and so so hungry. Skrimm knew he didn’t have much longer before hunger would take him and drag him into an empty death.
The third day came and no one had found him yet. Skrimm’s complexion was pale and clammy. His stomach growled with such volume that Skrimm was certain the hound had appeared to take him. All of Skrimm’s thoughts were overtaken by the clawing pain of hunger. Skrimm looked at his foot, even if his friends found him they wouldn’t be able to save it; Jornir was a skilled medicine man but there was only so much he could do.
Apparently, hunger was very efficient at breaking down reason. Skrimm sat up and looked at his destroyed limb, he licked his lips; if he closed his eyes, he could probably pretend that it was the meat of just another animal. Subconsciously, Skrimm summoned the brutal blade, its familiar weight bringing Skrimm comfort in this moment. His next actions went by in a blur, he sliced at the tendons and flesh, not feeling a thing. He severed his foot from the rest of his leg and tore the boot off. He sliced off a piece.
He held the strip of his meat up to his nose and sniffed, it smelled metallic with a slight sweetness of decay.
Skrimm thought back to the herald they had fought and narrowly survived.
That would be his fate.
He hesitated for a moment but the pull of hunger was too strong.
He closed his eyes, “it’s just beef,” he muttered as he swallowed the strip of flesh, his flesh, the call of the herald echoing in his mind.