Dirtmouth, the last he saw, had been a dreary, empty place with only a single old fellow as an inhabitant. Funny how things could change so quickly.
Quirrel watched as a few bugs scurried back and forth. It seemed as though word of this small refuge had begun to spread to a few odd survivors through the more traveled members- the menderbug (since when have they walked in the open so brazenly?), a little miner who sometimes followed the princess around, and of course, his little friend and the princess.
Once, he could've sworn he even saw that old reclusive nailsmith disappear into the well alongside a large, paint-splattered figure. Of all the bugs he least expected, the nailsmith was not quite at the top, but nowhere near the bottom either. Maybe it shouldn't have been more surprising as the knight seemed to have made a habit of pulling off the improbable.
Speaking of them, they were still clinging to his hand like sticky resin. That might not have been an apt comparison as the substance usually left behind residue, but general meaning stuck.
Every time he asked them to let go, he was greeted with a suspicious stare and eventually a curious side-eye from Hornet. He stopped when he realized his friend would in due time when they judged it best. It was surprisingly nice to be cared for, though.
Even though they had no expressions, it was clear that they had vividly strong feelings. Case in point, they had also been pacing back and forth ever since returning with Ze'mer and Flena, as if itching to take off.
"Traveller, or actually, what could your name be? Do you possess one at all?"
No response.
Scratching his chin, he asked, "Would you mind if I called you Mikkel? It's really not a name, but simply something to call you. I can hardly keep referring to you as 'traveller' or 'friend' for the rest of our days together, no?"
The knight tilted their head in a questioning sort of manner.
"Ah, why that particular name? It's a small reference to a world outside this one. I can't remember what exactly it means, but it seemed fitting."
A small nod gave the seal of approval. Now to the inquiry he had begun before he got distracted.
"Mikkel, whatever it is you want for, don't let me stop you. There's someplace for you to be at present and I can follow, or perhaps even carry you to." He lightly shook the hand the knight was attached to.
It appeared that they understood and let go, instead hopping onto their head and pointing at the stag station entrance. He obliged.
The old stag there welcomed them and the knight jabbed at King's Station on the map. When they arrived, the knight directed them to what appeared to be the sewers. What could possibly lie down in the waterways that drew their attention so?
Damp air permeated the tunnels and Quirrel found it easier to breathe. That wasn't much of a surprise, as roly polies were merely land-dwelling crustaceans. However, it didn't remain that way for long.
A powerful stench almost seemed to punch his face. Vivid remembrance suddenly struck. Could it be-
"Ahh, such a pleasure to see you once more, mighty knight!"
Loyal Ogrim. If smell were inextricable with memory, he would never be forgotten in a thousand years. His booming voice had calmed, thankfully. He didn't seem like the bad sort, in fact quite the opposite, but good lord.
The knight climbed down Quirrel's back and dragged him further forward. As best as he could with one hand, he slid the cloth on his head onto his face. The knight didn't even respond to the stench almost as if they had no nose at all, which honestly wouldn't be too surprising.
Time had not treated Ogrim's armour well, and the pure white of his garb had dulled to a ruddy sort of color. Nevertheless, he seemed to be in high spirits as he welcomed the knight into his lair and spoke jovially. Quirrel remembered this enthusiastic aspect of his personality well and it was what helped the pill bug (and many others) tolerate his presence in the past.
The combatant shifted his view from the knight onto him. "Hello there! Didn't expect to see another friendly face, but a friend of my friend must be a good fellow! How goes it?"
"Fairly well, I'd say," said Quirrel in a muffled voice, cloth clustered on his face. "May I ask why one like you is nestled in the Waterways?" And where in Hollownest did you come upon all that dung? went unsaid.
"Like me? I'm merely an old ex-knight guarding a friend," he dismissed.
"A friend? Who might that be?"
Ogrim appeared to drift off for a moment, then snap himself back into the moment. "Isma. Kindly Isma, they call her. Mighty strong too."
How curious. "If she's so powerful, then why does she need protecting?"
"Well, one day when we were patrolling the kingdom, she had to dash back to her grove for some reason, but she looked to have encased something with her vines and leaves. Seemed to be in a rush, which is unusual of her."
Then, he sighed. "When I returned to ask what the fuss was, she had already receded into the wall and could only say to act as their guard."
The two looked at him quizzically.
"Ah, you don't know," Ogrim exclaimed. "She could heal those even on the brink of death by lulling her body into a stasis to conserve energy, and focusing that on the victim. It was quite normal of her and earned her quite the reputation! Though this time it's taking far longer than normal."
This captured Quirrel's attention. "Then why not pay a her a visit?"
"My oath prevents me from doing so. I cannot fight properly surrounded by acid in case something were to happen so I must stay."
"Oh, is that all?" said Quirrel. "In that situation, we can fight well."
Ogrim looked delighted. "I would love for that! In my youth I would've turned you down immediately, but in my older age I've begun to accept more. But could I truly impose on you such a task?"
"Of course. I assume you would willingly aid a fellow knight, Mikkel?"
The knight waved their hands eagerly, and Ogrim scooped both of them up in a crushing hug.
"I thank you greatly! Now let's make haste!"
Quirrel could barely squeeze out "Not a problem," before Ogrim shot off like a cannonball. It wasn't long before the acidic air enveloped them, smelling almost sour.
"Now, I believe you already know, but don't touch the acid," said Ogrim as the knight hopped into the acid.
Quirrel patted him and said "They'll be fine." His friend either had a good sense of humor or a bad one, but now was not the time to figure it out.
He squinted his eyes and looked around, spotting an abnormal-looking growth near the end of the grove. They all drew closer to it, following Ogrim as he hopped his way over the criss-crossing vines on the ground. Upon closer examination, there appeared to be a six-eyed face and the leaves lower down flared out almost like the skirt Isma wore.
"Oh! She's almost done!"
The two turned their heads to him. "How do you know?" asked Quirrel.
Ogrim puffed out his chest and said, "I've bore witness to it many times, and I know the signs. See the leaves on her? They've begun to curl up again and the green she loses initially has returned."
The knight looked at him as they listened, then swatted at a leaf tip. The springy foliage quickly returned to its original position.
"It should only take a little while more. Why not sit and chat awhile?" said Ogrim.
Quirrel nodded good naturedly. His noxious odor appeared to have been mostly due to the room they left behind, and he could now enjoy the company.
A tug pulled at his arm and he turned to see that the knight had let go of him for the first time since they latched on. His eyes widened marginally.
"What is it, my friend?"
The knight began to motion. Two hands held together up high, and came apart as they lowered them. The shape drawn was roughly triangular and he had a very good guess as to what they were saying.
"Ah, Ogrim," started Quirrel. He felt his gaze move onto him. "You remember Ze'mer, correct?"
Ogrim perked up hopefully at his mention. "What of her? Do you have news on her?"
"Yes, I do. She and her lover are currently residing at Dirtmouth, a small town on the surface atop the crossroads."
A barely restrained grin graced Ogrim's face. "Shall we head there once Isma wakes?"
"I see no reason not-"
The sound of vines grating unevenly against one another suddenly consumed everyone's focus. Their heads whipped around to see a familiar figure drop from the wall and slump on the floor.
"Isma!" cried Ogrim. He rushed forward and helped sit her up.
She waved a hand languidly to show she was alright, and pointed behind.
"I'm always tired after healing... could one of you fetch him?"
Behind Isma's imprint in the wall, a small, white figure was cradled in a swath of leaf and vine.
Quirrel tilted his head. "Miss Isma," he began with a curious tone. "Could that, perchance, be a maggot?"