Chapter 27: Ch. 23: The Clan Part I

“Grizzly boar, Sus scrofa horribilis- inhabitant of the Great Faeriweald's underbrush. This species of dire boar derives its name from his horrible visage. Adults have tough hides and four fearsome tasks that make this a creature to contend with for any rookie adventurers. Some specimens have been known to grow to sizes that may require a concerted effort of a silver rank team. Only the sharpest weapons and strongest of shields can stand between a charging grizzly boar and its quarry…” from Philiarz Oonswarner's Bestiary for Adventurers.

---

Arthur came to, gasping for air as though recovering from drowning. He winced and bit back a scream when he tried to use his left hand to push himself off the ground. Excruciating pain akin to recurring pins and needles seared through his nerves, radiating from his palm in waves.

His eyes hurt and his mouth was dry and parched. The sun had which faithfully had risen, bringing with it the unforgiving heat of the desert. He sat up pulling himself to sit by using his other hand

Breathing through his teeth, Arthur gasped as his other hand hovered over where the crossbow barb had broken the skin. The veins around the palm were a pulsating mass of black that made him want to retch bile.

He couldn't bring himself to touch it yet, he had to remove it otherwise [Regeneration] would bleed him dry. So he tenderly got up cradling his tender arm careful not to jostle it. It was numb, almost dead but there was yet some glimmer of feeling left in it as he felt the distant throb of pain from it. There was no guarantee that [Regeneration] could grow him a new arm like a gecko. Neither did he want to be one-armed-Artie for the rest of his life .

Reflexively squinting against the harsh light, he finally caught his bearings and saw where he was. There was a circular crater he didn't remember being there before. He suddenly felt like a throbbing headache split his skull and hissed, giving up on remembering the events that had transpired.

Once more, he turned his attention to the surroundings, wary of danger. What he saw were glass and Lichtenberg figures scarring outwards from his feet in a radial pattern. Some of the glass was large spikes that rose upwards like stakes in a pitfall.

It looked like a warhead and a lightning strike had gone off with him at the centre of it. Most surprisingly, however, none of his articles of clothing or personal effects were even singed.

Despite the blood rushing through his ears, he still had the presence of mind to be cautious not to trip over the glass as he hobbled to scale the crater.

In between the muddy thoughts, Arthur looked around and saw petrified statues of sand standing around him. Were his mind clear, he would've noticed their silent screams, mouths agape in their last moments of life. Arthur's mind was only consumed by a migraine, dehydration, and excruciating pain—he needed to get that barb out!

Then Arthur remembered Overkill, his dagger being sharp enough to cut through metal, if he could cut off the barbed bolt.

Firstly, Arthur got out the hoverboard. It was looking all the worse for wear and he feared that he'd have to travel the old-fashioned way. With his hoverboard shot and his condition, it was going to be a slog if the Mark I failed for good.

’Deal…later,' he mumbled incoherently. He let the board fall on the glazed sand, wincing at the sound of glass breaking underneath. With quivering legs, he sat down on the hoverboard and got out his dagger.

Biting his lips, he sent mana into the dagger, hoping that it would take. The sensation of his navel pulling was all he needed to know that he was scraping the bottom of the barrel, as it were. Nonetheless, it only took a trickle for the threads of runes to light up, and the dagger became a blade of amber plasma.

Now came the hard part—he needed to do it with his eyes open and fast before the dagger's augmentation faded. It was a clean cut; he didn't even feel the dagger shear through the barb as though it was a mere thread. Then, after sheathing the dagger on his belt he bit down on his teeth and pulled—Arthur almost passed out. He couldn't do it.

'Damn…can't…do it' He cursed incoherently, looking around the barren dunes. ’ Need to keep moving,’ he mumbled. ‘First water,’ he thought, clenching his right hand into a fist. He cast the [Aqua] cantrip relishing the trickle of water on his dry lips. The gritty feeling in his mouth and throat faded. Cancelling the cantrip before he drank himself to nausea, he turned his attention to the board.

Deliriously, he flared [Diagnostics], crossing his fingers that the engine would pad him for kilia, or at the very least a clan settlement. He'd pay anything for a [Healer] or alchemical concoction to numb the pain before the bolt was extracted. The results from [Diagnostics] were not that good, but all was not lost either.

It could carry him for a few more leagues before it gave up the ghost. So he stepped on , retrieving his mana sail as he did. It was a no-brainer that he could not use his mana well because of the fog encroaching on his mind. The navel pulling at his torso was already enough to make him double over in pain.

The engine sputtered to life with a piteous whine when he slotted the mast into the receptacle. Using the mast boom to support his weight, he slowly cut through the dunes in the heat haze of the Dust . He had no idea what time it was, nor did he care; he just wanted to get away from that oasis and get as far northwest as his craft could take him.

For an indeterminate amount of time, the hoverboard conveyed him across the sands. His encounters are few and far between. In no condition to fight, Arthur was lucky he only met the small denizens of the Dust, a few tufts of brown grass, wind worn rocks and dust devils which spat sand in his face.

As though appearing from a mirage, five silhouettes of people in desert garb materialised between his slit vision as he squinted against the sun. His goggles were sooty and dusty in places , and he barely had any forethought to clear detritus from the lenses.

Whatever obstinacy had fueled his flight gave out and his vision tilted diagonally to meet the sandy ground, then darkness.

---

“Nora…Nora…Nooooooraaaa!!!!” a little voice whisper-shouted close to Nora’s ear. The girl woke up with a start to find a little chubby face staring back at her with big amethyst irises.

Nora sighed and blew her cheeks in annoyance as she extricated herself from the coverings. Half-yawning she turned to face the little yearling barely, bouncing from foot to foot and schooled her voice. The little spawn's horns were barely more than nubby bumps on their night blue forehead. Her almond shaped eyes were pupilless. Despite that she managed to come off as a little mischievous.

“Why’d you wake me from my nap little Nyke?” she asked, stretching her hands in front of her. Her joints let out a staccato of satisfying pops as her arm muscles rippled across her pale skin.

Little Nyke scratched her head, trying to remember something she’d forgotten recently, “Big brother Kervir said…said…uuuuhm,” she scrunched her face cutely as she pursed her little mouth as though the exertion would make her mind give up its secrets. “Aawh— forgot. They said to get ya” she beamed, the rest of the message becoming an afterthought.

“Fine fine, I’ll be right with you, just give me a while to get dressed okay?” she tousled the toddler’s jet black hair. The little spawn scuttled off, ducking past the yurt flap to go play.

The young woman shook her head wryly as she looked around her yurt for clothing to get dressed. A jaw-splitting yawn tore itself out of her lips as she looked at her motley selection of tunics and pants. Most of them were muted pastel colours, easy on the eyes like dusty blues, earthy yellows like the sunward slopes of dunes or the pastel sandy brown of the leeward sides. They were all loom-woven from oasis flax.

Rubbing her eyes, she flicked through the clothing made of linen and picked an airy pair of pants that could be fastened along the calves and up her legs. It helped to keep the sand out. A long-sleeved tunic went over her camisole and then a poncho again on top. She pulled back her platinum blonde hair into a ponytail before donning a fringed shawl, dyed indigo, the colours of Clan Nightcrawler.

---

Nora exited into a late afternoon full of bustle. The palish young woman pulled the hood over her face and tucked in her ponytail, all the while scowling at the sun. She cast her eyes around for wherever the two Djy'veli men would be found and decided she’d try the healer’s yurt as that was the only place she was always needed.

A brisk walk took her past more yurts, both pitched and those mobile on the backs of tinker wagons. The wagons had cleated wheels that were as tall as she was. She waved to a few Djy'veli women under the wagons, engrossed in weaving or cutting up dried wurm jerky, sorting Byrri beans or mashing up ter'root for the evening meal. Unlike her, they were more liberal in their clothing, wearing either sleeveless tops, strapless tunics or macrame camisoles suited for the Dust 's heat.

They left little to the imagination as they showed off their nubile bodies, with their pert chests, shapely arms, and love handles bared for some and toned torsos for others. It was just the way of life, even the Djy'veli men liked to show off their tribal tattoos while parading shirtless. Nora envied them. Her pale skin was always wont to tanning, and then get sunburned. That was just the way of life, but rarely did anyone go out of camp without dressing half decently.

Before she knew it, she arrived at the healer’s yurt. It was one of the largest temporary structures after the meeting hall and the ancient fortress in the oasis.

The first person she saw was the brick red Arkilius who was feeding a trex, or as outsiders liked to call them, terror fowl. She nodded in greeting as he responded in kind. The brawny Djy'veli male was stoic, speaking only when necessary. Just as she was going to get into the healer’s yurt, a night blue blur almost collided with her on their way out of the yurt.

“Vesper’s Pits! Watch where you’re going!” she yelled, jerking out of the way.

“Nora! You’re finally here,” the other party exclaimed as their silver pupilless eyes darted to and from the yurt entrance. He grabbed hold of her hand and said, “Come, come, Venera urgently sent for you. Why didn’t you come sooner?!” as he dragged her into the tent. He seemed agitated.

“When you send a yearling with an urgent message, what did you expect?!,” she shrieked as she was whisked away. “And let go of me, you’re going to bruise my wrist!”

“Oh, apologies,” Kervir let go upon seeing her pained expression.

They burst into the yurt, lit by chromastone-lamps suspended from ropes in the ceiling. The healers' yurt was the only other place that had arcane illumination besides the chief's workplace. The lowest grade of the unworked crystal was hard to come by and cost a pretty silver this far in the Dust Bowl.

Kervir led her inside one of the many dividers separating cots from one another. There they found a pink-skinned woman with similarly coloured horns tending to a man whose face was contorted in pain.

His cheeks were flushed. A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, which the woman was trying to wipe away with a wet cloth. His chest was bare, enkindling a blush on Nora’s face, who’d never seen a chest so pale outside of her own skin. For a moment, Nora froze in hesitation.

“If you’re done, please help me treat him before he dies, then you can continue ogling,” said the coral-skinned woman as she wrung wet cloth in a bowl.

“What’s wrong with him, head healer ?”Nora inquired, as she looked at the youth’s face.

“Down there,” Kervir pointed to his left hand. A barbed shaft protruded from his palm, and the skin around the exit wound had turned a sickly shade of black and purple. There were pulsing veins, as though a living thing wanted to burst out of the skin.

While Nora had seen her fair share of injuries in her time as a [Blood Healer] she’d never come across an injury as grievous as this. She almost wanted to reach out and touch the skin.

“Careful, it’s wurmroot and nightshade,” Kervir warned.

“Don’t you think I know that? I am a [Blood Healer],” she scoffed. “How is he even still alive? That amount of poison should have outright paralysed his heart and killed him.”

“I have no idea either. It could be his bloodline traits are keeping him alive,” Venera turned to regard her as she brushed the pink bangs away from her face.

“I gave him a tincture , “ she sighed. “It should keep him under and take the pain away for a while. But we should hurry if we want to save him,”

“But he’s a human,” Nora protested as she scrutinised his pale face.

“Wrong, he’s no human otherwise he would have died already no matter how strong he was. Though we don’t know what he is, maybe he can tell us when you’ve healed him.” Venera smirked. “Enough dawdling. Let's extract the bolt and purge him of toxins. Nora, you know what to do.”

The two women got to work excising the arrow from the young man’s palm. First, Venera sliced through the bolt with a healers' dagger and dropped it into a tray where it sizzled as an alchemical neutraliser worked on it. Her job done, she stepped back and let Nora handle the rest. Nora's job was to pick through the wound for splinters as Venera held the incision open with a crude pair of retractors.

Nora pulled out the bits of bolt from the wound with forceps, making sure that no splinters were left behind. She was going to extract the poisoned blood from the affected area when the skin around the extraction point suddenly started knitting itself back together, turning a healthy pink. It barely left any scarring behind.

There was a collective gasp in the tent as the other occupants looked at one another with visible surprise in their expressions. Even Nora herself was caught mid-skill activation, which she promptly dismissed to watch the occurrence with fascination.

“Guess my work here is done,” said Nora as she disintegrated the poisoned splinters with a [Purge] spell. She made as if to leave—

“No no no, Nora, you’re watching him tonight. I need to rest,” Venera said playfully as she arched her back in a stretch. “I know you slept through the day.” She winked.

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“Huh?! Why do I have to be the one to? You could ask Kervir or something?” pointing to an empty patch of air where Kervir had magically made himself scarce.

“Ugh! Kervir !”She face-palmed as she sank to her knees.

“Well,” Venera added midway through unfurling the curtain, “I’ll send someone to bring you supper.”

Nora sighed, turning to look at the bare-chested invalid she would have to watch over. She stifled a yawn and got up to retrieve a free cot so that she’d be comfortable. It was all in a day’s work for her.

---

The old room smelt of exotic spices, not overpowering, but strong enough to stymie the musty smell of mildew on the old walls. Most of the walls were taken up by pigeon holes of scrolls and old tomes, bound pages of parchment and papyrus, yellow with age and dog ears at the edges. A lone antique cabinet of dark brown wood and wrought iron bracings sat in the corner, locked tight by a riveted lock of dwarven make.

Covering up the rest of the walls between the cabinet and pigeon holes were tapestries, a shelf hosting a collection of exotic bric and brac, mostly mundane artefacts of sentimental value fished from the sands. Above, a chain, remnants of a chandelier, held aloft a chromastone lamp, lending a subdued glow to the room.

The low-grade crystal flickered, throwing shadows on the walls. However, the owner, sitting behind a large table, brimming with miscellany on its top didn't even seem to be bothered. Their black, almost pupilless eyes were more than a match for the muted lighting as they pored over what appeared to be records on parchments, maps and ledgers.

Black brows with streaks of silver scrunched in concentration against the old Djy'veli's face as their gaze followed their quill flying over the paper, almost a blur. Cradled in their off hand was a smoking pipe made of bone with ornamental tracery of copper.

“Come!” he called out, responding to a curt rap on the doorway. Save for exhaling a cloud of smoke, the room's owner did not divert from their task.

“ Chieftain," a woman with a smoky, almost sleepy drawl said. The woman, complexion a light salmon pink, stepped in and plopped herself on one of the settees without ceremony. The reed-woven backrest groaned as it caught the woman's weight.

“ Hmm, Venera—,” the older Djy'veli grumbled, a deep bass thrum, “What tidings do you bring of the outsider?"

The younger Djy'veli sighed and spread her arms across the backrest while she faced the gloamy ceiling with her eyes closed. Gold inscriptions and runes tracing their way around her biceps and wrists glinted in the meagre light, lit from within rather than lighting what was without.

“Well…who is he?” the grizzly Djy'veli muttered. He placed the quill into the inkwell and took another pull from his pipe.

“ No—one, no name. He has an obfuscation artefact which may or may not be trapped” Venera said. “But he's trouble, I can tell you that for sure.”

“ I recall the scout's report saying he was rich— with legendary class artefacts on him. Those kinds of people are always trouble,” Arkron said, steepling his wiry palms over his table.

“ Alright then, you asked. I checked his mind and couldn't glean much from him like there was a wall inside of his mind. He's not an agent of the Dwar, that's for sure . And like I said, I ran into a wall—Most of his surface consciousness is locked behind a geas or it might just be the obfuscation ,” she said, pursing her lip. “ We’re lucky it was not a general obfuscation ring. I doubt he's even met a dwarf before this,”

“ Geas?” Arkron frowned.

“ The forsaken thing almost split my head with the backlash,” Venera said. “ I've never seen a mind so chaotic. I'd say some of the geas are there to lock away some memories while others are repressed. I don't think he's conscious of the latter either,”

“By Vesper,” Arkron sighed. “ So all we know is that he seems to be a mage of some kind. He glassed half of the sand raiders and he has a bound weapon that may or may not be a relic. Even our dear artificer is taken by that strange craft of his which flies and yet has none of dwarven touch on it.”

“So he's dangerous, ” Venera said, shrugging. She drew back her head to meet the chief's eyes. It was more of a statement, despite the tone of voice.

“No, he's interesting,” Arkron said, shaking his head ruefully. He pulled from his pipe nodding to himself as if in sagely contemplation.

Venera narrowed her eyes and scoffed in contempt.

“Hear me out—I'd like to keep him around, See if we can use him...make him more pliable. Didn't you say he's rich? Steel silk tunic, that arm sleeve of his, and everything on his person?”

“Hmm, but we need more time to get information on him too...what to do, what to do,” the pink Djy'veli said, tapping the table with her claw.

“ I'm sure we can get something out of it ,” Arkron said.

“As your second, it is also my job to keep the clan safe! He's an unknown quantity...and humans are not exactly known for keeping their benevolence, ” Venera sneered.

“ Trust me Venera,” the old male said, exhaling lilac smoke into the air. Motes of magic could be seen scintillating within. “ I have a good feeling about this one,”

“ Not that project again you old tr’vhosc,” Venera grumbled, throwing up his arms. “ I used up some of our alchemical tinctures to treat his wounds and flush the wurm root from his body. It doesn't come cheap―”

“Of course, you can impress him on the price of it. I'm sure he doesn't lack money if he can wear steel silk tunics,” the old male said, twisting his knotted beard, beads rustling as he did so.

For a moment avarice flitted past Arkron's gaze before it was replaced with a look of contemplation. “ Let him stay under a while longer—maybe Livierre can discern the workings of his craft. If and when he does wake up, try to curry favour or soften him . I care not how you do it…I am sure human males have a wanton appetite,”

“ Fine fine,” Venera scoffed, giving a wobbly wave of her hand. Then standing up, she walked to the door, stopping just short of opening it. “ I am going to make sure the human doesn't do anything, though I'm not sure he’ll stay under for long―” she whispered before stepping out.

The old snorted, “ A tr’vhosc. Haha, I don’t remember the last time someone called me an old goat,”

---

There was a tenuous coolness to the air, almost as if the tiniest imbalance would skew it towards warmth. Heavy hung the smell of aromatic herbs, familiar and unfamiliar, cloying and sharp akin to alcohol fumes. Arthur wheezed as something stung the roof of his nasal like a glop of menthol.

‘I really have to get another hobby,’ Arthur stirred. He shivered and opened his eyes, coming to new surroundings. A moment was spent trying to make sense of what he saw; none of it was familiar.

‘A field hospital?’ he groaned as he came to. He felt bedsore. ‘ Have I been in a dream all this time? No that can’t be right…’ he thought, as he went to rub at his chest to assuage an encroaching chill. He felt his left hand catch on something. Rather than noticing that it was no longer in danger of falling off or smarting in pain, he saw the manacles nailed to a stake by the side of his cot.

Then his eyes flew open and the foreignness of his surroundings really hit him. A wall made of canvas-like material surrounded him on all sides, a muted light glowing from beyond the partition. His cot was made from reeds woven across a foldable frame and lined with linen bedding.

A ceramic bowl and a pitcher of water lay on a low stool. Besides that were his boots, knapsack with his steel silk tunic folded atop his Nightstalkers robe. His sheathed dagger likewise lay on top of the pile while his leather vest hung from a crude mannequin made of crossed sticks. His arm sleeve was still secured on. The obfuscation and bank rings underneath were safe; he heaved a sigh of relief.

The sound of rustling and shuffling of feet from beyond the screen of canvas brought him to matters close at hand, namely his restrained arm.

‘What in the blue?!,’ he frantically tagged at the staked chain. Short of groaning, the heavy chain links did not budge. The sounds were heading towards his cot. Arthur whirled towards the stool that held his things, and stretched his right hand as if reaching for them,

”Just a little closer,” he grunted, wriggling his sleeved fingers until he felt his personal effects just brush the edge of his mana sense bubble.

Then he latched onto them; one breath they were there, and the next, they weren’t. The dagger appeared in his hand. A voice spoke from outside his partition. Overkill glowed amber, and he sheared off the chain, manacling him to the stake. There was a gasp as a hooded woman paused mid-step into his screened-off cot.

Platinum-blonde hair cascaded from her hood, framing a round face with an unnaturally fair complexion. She had a soft jawline, full cheeks, and a small pert nose that could only be possible with a perfectionist rhinoplasty surgeon.

She blinked at him, her crimson irises stark against her frosty eyelashes—which just happened to be their natural colour. Arthur saw the same repeated on her eyebrows. There was a wordless exclamation stuck on her heart-shaped lips, showcasing two long canines just shy of becoming fangs.

The two met gazes, and unconsciously they found themselves shuffling. The young woman shifted further to the left and away from the flap, her hands splayed out non-threateningly. Arthur shifted to the right, Overkill in a reverse grip and still glowing almost to the point of matching the ambient lightning.

He brushed near his leather cuirass vest, walking in front of it without taking his eyes off the other party. That too disappeared into the [Inventory Chest] much to the confusion of the woman who never took her eyes off him either. There was tension in the air between the two, then Arthur reached the door-flap and realisation dawned on them—Arthur was out before they could even cry out and alert someone of his escape.

Wherever he’d been held was not that big, just a yurt with an open vent at the centre to let out hot air and let in light. There were more screened off partitions, left and right, some wide open as if being aired, then he burst outside the entrance flaps.

‘Scat’s Creek,’ he hissed, as the Dust’s sun glared at him. He didn’t have his tinted dwarven goggles on. Then the sounds reached his ears; low rumbling grunts from the humpbeasts sitting on their haunches, penned in volucitrex trilling like overgrown turkeys, the laughter of kids; multicoloured kids in pink, blue and purple with nubby horns and spade tipped or diamond tipped tails. Then he saw the adults too.

The horned women seemed to be liberally dressed. Most were in macrame tops, some no more than folded kerchiefs with fringes and beads holding back all too generous bosoms. Their pants were linen, slit on the sides of their thighs, and their feet were shod in sandals of braided leather.

Their bodies were ornamented with bangles, cuffs and necklaces. Cornrows had beads , horns had rings, and biceps had tattoos. Arthur would have called them an exotic sort of beauty, as their complexions ranged from pastel pink to almost salmon, some even light red.

Arthur’s face flushed as he realised he was half-naked from the waist up. Heedless of the hot sandy ground, he broke into a run as soon his skill pointed him north. The Humpbeast Ridges seemed to loom over the tops of more yurts and honest to goodness giant wagons that were two storey sheds in themselves. He heard someone calling after him, but he kept running―he needed to get away from here before whatever had been planned for him was done to him.

Then he stumbled into what might have as well been a training yard and cursed . Two blue-skinned men with the equivalent of short ibex horns sprouting from their foreheads were just about to have a go with their staves. Another couple or so were about to unsaddle their terror fowl, someone was whetting a bone white falchion and several others hung on the sidelines waiting to have a go.

Save for the ones unsaddling their mounts, every one of them was bare-chested, toned as a marble sculpture and covered in tribal tattoos that might have had a function beyond aesthetics. Every.single.pupilless.eye fell on his glowing dagger.

Arthur gulped and revised his notion of being a sex slave to a tribe of ravenous women. He threw his hand out, willing the Azure Surfer, his hoverboard, into existence. It didn’t appear― It wasn’t even in his [Inventory Chest]!

‘Scat's creek,' Arthur thought. That , and his goggles were the two things missing. Had they been taken? If so, he truly was up in a creek without a paddle. He had their caution to thank for not removing his arm sleeve.

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