Sword of Famine

Searing heat seeps into Oliver’s eyes as he takes hold of the sword.

The once empty room becomes rife with movement. Colors he’s never seen before twine together in bright, misty twists and waves that find Oliver’s vocabulary wanting. All of them seemingly flowing into him and the sword in his hand.

It’s beautiful. Oliver’s stomach twists, dread and nausea creeping into the back of his throat.

The beast, which had been prowling towards him previously, stands still.

It’s a chance he can’t afford to miss. Oliver pushes himself up. His gloves creak as he tightens his grip on the sword’s hilt. His nerves burn with heightened awareness. He can feel every dust mote in the air, and each individual thread of cloth against his skin. Time feels like honey dripping off a spoon, while Oliver alone is continuing at a normal pace.

Keeping his stance low, Oliver rockets forward.

The harvestman rears back, clearly not expecting it’s prey to suddenly turn on it. Oliver utilizes it’s surprise to get even closer. His mind repeating an old mantra he learned years ago; ‘Align the blade. Steady your feet. Utilize your momentum, and swing-‘

First contact. An underhanded diagonal slice into the closest part of abdomen he can reach. The blade scrapes at the harvestman’s carapace, ultimately bouncing off.

The damage, minor as it seems, pushes the creature into action. It swings it’s undamaged claw down, intending to catch Oliver while he’s still underneath it. Oliver’s senses are one with the movement of air around him. He can feel the claw before it comes close to his skin and he jumps back, narrowly dodging what would be a crushing blow.

Oliver’s blood sings, the pain from earlier completely gone from his mind.

To be completely frank, Oliver has no idea how to kill this thing. Any successful attack by the beast runs risk of spreading the infection to Oliver, and the harvestman is long dead already. A Corpse Spore isn’t exactly a singular entity he can kill. It’s a mycelium network of thousands of ‘individuals’ that all work together. You can’t exactly stab it and then expect it to bleed out over time.

Standard procedure would be to burn it, but Oliver doesn’t have the tools nor the manpower for a task like that. The only upside to this is that unlike a living creature, the mushrooms are limited to the durability of their host-

-so if he damages the host enough, the Corpse Spore wont be able to move anymore.

It’s not a perfect solution, by any means. The mycelium will still be alive in the end, and it’s still possible for them to infect another host. But it might be enough to get him out of here.

It has to be enough.

Oliver grits his teeth, adjusting his grip on the blade’s hilt. Plan forming in his mind as he watches the infected harvestman scuttle closer to him. Attacking the main body wont do him any good. So, he shifts focus. This close, he can see fine hairs dotting it’s twitching legs.

The way the beast moves feels slow and unnatural, almost mechanical. Nothing like the fast, smooth movements of a living Spined Harvestman.

He waits, watching it’s approach, and— an opening. The creature lifts it’s body, rearing back in preparation to lunge forward. Oliver ducks down, his sword raised, ready. It leaps forward, over him, unprepared for his sudden reaction. Oliver gives it no time to recover, utilizing the it’s weight and the speed of it’s lunge to stab upward. Cleaving against the leg joints closest to it’s body, rending them clean off.

The harvestman crashes down. Two legs land beside it, severed. The mushroom body pulses behind the dry stump— a bloodless, sickly orange. It’s four remaining legs flail.

Oliver’s chest heaves. Vision blurring as he lifts the sword above his head and crashes it down like an axe through firewood. The thick shell crunches, damaged but still attached. His angle was off by a hair, he’d wanted to cut the damn thing off entirely. He lifts his hand again. This time, the blade swings true.

Three down. A spined claw swings at him. Oliver steps out of the way smoothly.

Long legs tipped with talons scrape against the stone as the beast tries to re-orient itself to face Oliver once more; only succeeding in flipping itself over onto it’s back. The sight is almost pitiful.

It can’t follow him anymore.

Trying to harm it any further would just give the spore more chances to hurt him and infect his injuries. The smartest thing to do in this instance would be to run away. Oliver wants to run away.

Another piece of himself wants to swing down again and again and again. To crush the black shell of the dead harvestman and keep going. Until it’s nothing more that a pile of fragmented exoskeleton and bits of diced mushroom. To satisfy the heat rushing in his veins.

The sword in his hand feels heavier than when he first picked it up.

Oliver takes another step back.

A wave of revulsion overcomes him. Something is wrong. He needs to get out of here immediately.

Oliver turns away from the still-twitching body of the infected harvestman. Each step a war against his instincts.

When he’s far enough away, he takes a closer look at the— well, he’s not sure what the original purpose of this place was, whether it was built around the sword, or if it was relegated to the task of serving as the sword’s mausoleum.

The three unfamiliar hallways and the one that he entered through are the same as before. But whatever the sword did to him has revealed a world previously unknown.

Oliver looks around the room, wispy streams of light drift along lazily.

The hallway he knows leads to the underground garden— which was exposed to the outside world after the ceiling collapsed— has rivers of the strange mist drifting towards him and the sword. The hallway directly opposite to it is similar. The two hallways to the right and left, on the other hand, are almost completely bereft, only the smallest, lazy wisps coming from the stonework and not the hallways themselves.

Oliver may be drawing the wrong conclusion, with too little evidence, but, he’s inclined to think there could be an exit in the furthest hall.

If he’s wrong, he can always backtrack and try a different way.

He leaves the central room behind, beginning his trek down another long, dark hallway.

Each step he takes away from the dead harvestman has his mind a little clearer. With clarity, pain returns, causing Oliver to stagger. The throbbing headache from before is worse now. Between the bright colors now assaulting his eyes or the excessive movement, he’s not sure of the true culprit. He knows if he stops to rest now, he likely won’t have the strength to stand again.

Oliver isn’t sure how long he walks, but, eventually, he finds a door.

It’s of similar design to the door he encountered at the entrance. But this one lights up without any extra fanfare like magic fire or… something worse, thankfully.

The door opens itself, much like the previous one.

Oliver never thought he’d be so excited to find himself in the Abyssal Forest this close to dusk, but after the day he’s had, the sound of the Fire Moths’ raspy squeaks is almost comforting.

When he left the village, Oliver had been traveling north, skirting the outskirts of the abyssal forest in search of the Conduit Crystals that Marianna needed for her current project. The setting sun is to his right, which means he’s currently facing south.

Another confirmation of his earlier theory that the ruins were built in a cross, with each major path facing a cardinal direction. He’s thankful that entrance to the ruins has put him a bit closer to home than when he started, though he’s still unsure on how the door went undiscovered until today.

With his relative orientation in mind, Oliver begins the long walk home.