(I decided to say FUCK IT and post the 7th chapter in 6 days.)
II-15: Who's Hunting Who?
A stew pot bubbled gently in the center of a clearing atop an open fire, steam rising in thin wisps into the cool forest air. The rich scent of rabbit meat, onions, carrots, and potatoes drifted between the trees, mixing with the sharp evergreen smell of the surrounding forest. Fat from the rabbit meat sizzled and popped, sending spurts of grease into the flames that made Greg's stomach growl. The herbs he'd bought from the market—some green stuff that looked kind of like oregano and some other plants he'd seen the farming village women haggling over—added an earthy undertone that made the whole thing smell like actual food instead of just survival grub.
Barely two feet away, Ash lay sprawled on his belly, his blood-red eyes fixed on the pot like it held all the answers to life's questions. The bear cub's nose twitched with each bubble of the stew, his whole body tensed like he was about to pounce. His dark fur ruffled slightly in the breeze, and a low whine escaped his throat every time another burst of scent hit the air. Can't argue with him, Greg thought, watching his companion's single-minded focus. Probably the best meal we've had in weeks.
Truthfully, ever since the last few runs of weird towns, the teenager had decided to stay out of towns for a bit, even to stay the night. Besides, Ash was pretty good company as it was, but the only downside was the lack of hot food.
That is, until he had remembered he had bought the stuff to cook in his magic bag. Better than more dried meat, anyway.
He turned around and made to move from the pot only for his eyes to widen as a blur of fur and claws rushed for him. "Fu-!"
Greg sprawled out on the ground near the pot, arms flung wide and laughing as Ash clambered onto his chest with a playful growl. "Alright… I'll play."
The bear cub's fur was softer than it looked, though his weight was anything but. "Easy, buddy," Greg muttered, though he couldn't help the grin tugging at his lips.
Ash pawed at his face, one tiny yet powerful slap landing square on his cheek. "Ow, brat," Greg grumbled, flinching as the blow stung more than he expected. "You're way stronger than you should be, you know that?" he ruffled the bear's fur, earning a satisfied huff from Ash, who flopped down against him like a sack of potatoes.
Greg squinted up at the treetops, the dappled sunlight filtering through the branches making the woods feel more peaceful than they probably deserved to be.
Definitely more peaceful than the villages.
Rolling onto his side, Greg watched Ash trot over to the stew, his nose twitching furiously. "You haven't grown in a while, have you?" Greg asked, more to himself than the bear, who was too focused on the bubbling pot to care. "Is that normal? Or are you, like, malnourished or something?"
Ash ignored him, of course.
Greg sighed, resting his head against his arm as he mulled over the thought. The cub was definitely stronger than any normal bear cub—his cheek still tingled from that playful smack—but he didn't seem to be getting any bigger.
Maybe it didn't matter.
Greg didn't know anything about raising bears, after all.
As the stew simmered on the fire, filling the clearing with its rich, savory scent, Greg stretched out on the ground, staring up at the canopy above. The north wasn't all bad, really. The people, the regular people at least, were kind of... weird and kinda dumb — which wasn't their fault, really, they were peasants, like come on. How much could you expect from people who spent their whole lives digging turnips or whatever?
But a lot of authority figures in these villages were just dickheads.
Like, some of them were just the worst.
"Merek," Greg muttered aloud, the name leaving a bad taste in his mouth.
And Harl, and those other jerks back in the village whose names he didn't bother to remember. dirty, unwashed assholes, all of them.
Guards, though—guards were usually cool.
From frostfall to the last few villages he passed through, the guards were straightforward people, nice too. They weren't trying to mess with him or anything; they just wanted to keep folks safe.
Shame about their bosses being so shitty.
Greg sighed, brushing a stray leaf off his shirt as he sat up, a little annoyed at the dirt on his clothes. "Still better than being accused of witchcraft," he muttered.
Again.
Greg stood and rolled his shoulders, the tension in his muscles reminding him of how stiff sleeping on the forest floor left him. He eyed the bubbling stew pot and Ash staring at it for a moment longer before stepping away, flexing his fingers as he prepared to get a little practice in.
A few yards from the bubbling pot, Greg stood in the small clearing, his hands held out in front of him. Sweat dampened the collar of his white undershirt despite the cool air, and his fingers trembled slightly from the effort of concentration. Between his palms floated a tiny, trembling sphere of water, wobbling like jelly as he tried to keep it together. The afternoon light caught in the liquid, making it shimmer and dance as it pulsed and shifted. Focus, man. More sweat trickled down his neck, stinging as it hit the collar of his shirt. Make it steady. Come on, you've done this before.
The sphere pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat as he adjusted his grip, pushing his fingers inward as if he could physically hold it tighter. His arms ached from the strain of maintaining the delicate control needed to keep the water cohesive. Work for me here. The muscles in his forearms burned, and he could feel his concentration slipping with each passing second. Around him, birds called to each other in the canopy above, and somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker drummed against a tree.
Against the natural soundtrack of the forest, the sound that came next hit his ears like a slap – a sharp twang that simply just didn't belong.
Pure instinct took over, his hands dropping as something cut through the air next to his ear, so close he felt the wind of its passing brush against his skin. The whistle of the projectile was so close it might as well have been inside his head, making his teeth ache. He flinched hard, the water sphere splashing against his boots and soaking into the leather, leaving dark stains on the brown material.
"Shit!" Greg hissed, dropping into a crouch as the peaceful afternoon shattered around him like broken glass. His heart hammered against his ribs as his eyes locked onto the bolt buried in a tree behind where he'd been standing, its black feathers still quivering from impact. The shaft had sunk deep into the bark, and he could see where it had torn through a leaf on its way past his head. Not again.
A growl slipped through his throat. Getting real tired of this.
His fingers snapped into position without conscious thought, muscle memory taking over as he spun around. The Aard sign burst from his palm in a wave of translucent blue energy that rippled through the trees like heat waves off hot pavement. The blast hit something solid – someone – and the forest filled with the sound of breaking branches and a body hitting wood. The impact echoed through the clearing, followed by the crack of dry wood splintering.
A pained yelp cut through the air, quickly muffled. Greg didn't wait. He shot forward, leaving Ash behind, the bear barely glancing up from his vigil over the stew pot. Leaves and twigs crunched under his boots as he moved, each step carefully placed to avoid making too much noise. Ahead, he could hear the frantic clicking of someone trying to reload a crossbow with shaking hands, punctuated by muttered curses and the sound of metal scraping against wood.
"Bloody 'ell," a rough voice whispered ahead of him. "Come on, ye stupid thing..."
The shooter came into view through the trees – a scrawny guy in leather armor that had seen way better days. Dirt and plant matter streaked his skin in what was probably supposed to be camouflage but just made him look like he'd lost a fight with a mud puddle. His hands trembled as he fumbled with a crossbow that looked like it was holding together through spite and prayer alone. The weapon's stock was cracked, the string frayed, and Greg could spot at least three places where it had been poorly repaired.
Greg felt his mouth twist into something between a grin and a snarl. Really? This is what they're sending now? Getting kind of insulting. The smell of crushed pine needles filled his nose, mixed with the sharp tang of fear-sweat from his would-be killer.
"Hey!" Greg barked, stepping into view. The smell of fear hit him instantly – sharp and acrid, mixing with the natural forest scents. Dead leaves crunched under his feet as he moved forward, watching the man's face drain of what little color it had.
The man's head snapped up, eyes going wide with panic. "Sweet merciful gods," he choked out. The crossbow clattered to the ground as he scrambled backward, arms windmilling as his foot caught on a root. Greg closed the distance in three quick steps, grabbing the guy's arm and yanking him down. His fingers dug into weather-worn leather until he felt bone, watching pain flash across the man's dirt-streaked face.
"Who sent you?" Greg's voice came out low and dangerous, anger bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest. This was getting old real fast. The forest had gone quiet around them, even the birds falling silent at the confrontation.
"L-lord… Lord Sn-snow…" The bandit's cracked lips worked soundlessly, his eyes darting around like a trapped animal. Greg could feel the man's pulse racing under his grip, could smell the rank sweat of terror rolling off him in waves. Snow? Snow who? He tightened his hold, watching the man's face contort. Come on, just tell me who's behind this.
A sharp, hot pain in his side made Greg's teeth clench. His eyes dropped down, confusion replacing anger as he spotted the crude dagger lodged in his flesh. The blade looked as worn as everything else the bandit carried, its edge jagged and rusty, the wooden handle wrapped in fraying leather strips.
Greg's grip slackened, his hand falling to his ribs.
With a hard lurch to the side, the assassin of the day yanked away, tearing free of Greg's grip with a sudden panicked strength. Greg barely had time to blink before the guy was stumbling backward, feet catching on roots and dead branches as he crashed through the underbrush. His movements were wild and panicked, like a rabbit running from a wolf. Like that'll help.
Greg lunged forward, muscles tensing to grab him, but the bandit veered right in his panic. The man's foot caught on a fallen branch, worn leather boots slipping on moss-covered wood. Time seemed to slow as the man's arms windmilled, fingers grasping at empty air. His eyes went wide with terror, mouth opening in a wordless cry.
The man's body pitched forward, and gravity took over. There was a wet, meaty crunch as a human chest met a jagged piece of wood jutting up from the forest floor. The sound hit Greg's ears like a physical thing, making his stomach turn a little from the sight of it.
Fuck! Greg winced, watching the man's body jerk and twitch. Again? Seriously?
The bandit rolled to the side, revealing where the splintered branch had pierced straight through his heart. Blood spread across his dirty shirt in a dark stain, dripping onto the moss below. His breath came in wet, rattling gasps that grew weaker by the second. Greg stood frozen, watching the guy's life drain away like water through cupped hands.
The smell of iron filled the air, mixing with the lingering scent of stew from the clearing. Greg blinked at the growing pool of blood, watching it spread across the moss in dark patches that gleamed in the filtered sunlight.
"Jesus Christ, man…" He shook his head in confusion, "why do they keep dying?"
No answer came.
Just the pop and sizzle of the stew behind him, leaves rustling overhead, and the man's labored breathing that faded to nothing in a matter of seconds.
This was the fourth time this had happened in the last six days. Some guy out for his head bursting out of nowhere and something like this ended up happening. Granted, the first one was kinda his fault.
In his defense, he had assumed the guy was just a regular bandit or something. What else are you supposed to think when some psycho comes screaming out of the woods into your camp with a battle axe as you're getting ready for bed?
Things just happened as you would expect.
When another one showed up a day after and then another one two days after that, he kinda got the idea there was something more going on than meets the eye..
Still, he didn't exactly mean to kill the last three.
It was just kinda… hard not to?
And this one wasn't even his fault!
Greg let out a long breath, feeling the tension melt from his shoulders. His eyes drifted back to where the body slumped over the branch, all the fight and fear gone from the man's face. Time for the ugly part. He crouched down, fingers moving with practiced ease as he searched the corpse's pockets.
"Oh... well," he muttered, a bitter laugh catching in his throat. Another dead guy, another set of pockets to rifle through. Sometimes a corpse just means free loot. He'd learned that lesson pretty quick out here.
Sometimes not even that. And definitely no answers about who kept sending these guys after him.
His hands moved automatically, checking pockets and pouches with the ease of someone who'd done this too many times before. The fabric was rough under his fingers, and the coin pouch clinked softly as he found it. Not much inside – some silver stags, copper stars, a handful of halfpennys that weren't worth the metal they were made from. A knife so rusted it looked ready to crumble, some strips of dried meat that had seen better days. Better than nothing, though. Loot is loot.
He glanced back toward the clearing where Ash was still focused entirely on the bubbling stew, then returned to his search. The coins went into his pocket with a quiet jingle. He wiped his hands on his tunic, leaving dark smears on the green fabric, and pushed himself to his feet.
"Thanks for the donation," he muttered over his shoulder, turning back toward the clearing. His jaw dropped at what he saw.
One blue eye twitched violently as he stared at the cooking setup. Ash's body was half-stuck in the pot, his tiny tail nub wiggling in the air like a victory flag.
"Ash!"
The bear cub pulled his sopping wet face from the pot, looking completely pleased with himself and totally unbothered by the boiling hot liquid.
"What the fuck, man?!"
An afternoon nap was something Greg hadn't really done since he was a little kid, but since getting to Westeros and wandering through the wild, it was a frequent habit of his.
Besides, Ash enjoyed it too.
Granted, his naps were rarely all that deep, considering he was out deep in the forest and unlike at nighttime, his Sanctuary skill didn't work while the sun was up.
Thankfully, a lack of deep sleep was useful.
A spark of something in the back of mind jolted the boy awake mere moments before danger struck. The air in the small clearing shifted subtly, the faintest whisper against his skin that felt wrong. Eyes snapping open, Greg rolled just as a crossbow bolt hissed through the space where his head had been, grazing his arm with a burning scrape. Again with the crossbows!
Greg sprang to his feet, squinting into the sunlight. His attacker—a lanky figure shrouded in a dark cloak—was already advancing, crossbow tossed aside and a short sword drawn. He didn't hesitate. He darted to the side, his own hand reaching for the hilt of his blade.
The attacker lunged, blade gleaming dimly in the moonlight, but his footing was off.
Maybe it was a root, maybe his own nervous energy, but as Greg sidestepped again, the man stumbled. Desperation flared in the attacker's eyes, a wild, fleeting hope as he tried to correct his balance.
But physics had other plans.
He tripped over his own feet, falling forward with a panicked yelp that was abruptly cut off as he landed heavily—right onto his own sword. The sound of the blade puncturing flesh was sickeningly soft as the sword exited the back of his neck.
Greg stood over the body, and sighed, a part of him resigned to the ridiculousness of it all.
"Seriously?"
Greg waded neck-deep into the frigid northern river, the cold biting into his skin like a thousand tiny needles. The shock of it made his breath catch, but he steadied himself, focusing on the task at hand. Around him, the river rushed and gurgled, lively and relentless, but Greg tried to impose a bubble of calm, a small area where the water didn't churn or flow but stayed as still as he could manage. It was something he'd been practicing every time he took a dip in a river, the idea behind it that if he could manage control over water in this crazy strong flow in large amounts, he could easily handle smaller amounts in calmer situations.
As he concentrated, trying to steady the flow around him, his mind began to wander. Back home, he'd have been in a shower hot enough to cook him like a lobster, not standing in a river that could freeze the warmth out of anything. Back home—that thought alone was enough to make him smirk. Home now was wherever he laid his head, from damp forests to the occasional tavern or inn, and usually, it happened to be somewhere with a dirt floor.
...It helped not to think about it sometimes.
The river's current tugged at his legs, and Greg adjusted his stance, spreading his feet for better balance.
The northern river was cold enough to make his teeth chatter, even as tough as he was now, but Greg was determined to wash off the grime of travel. He had stripped down to his white briefs, wearing nothing else but the weirwood necklace he had gotten as a gift. It floated gently in front of his face, bobbing slightly with each ripple he created, and on his fingers were two rings; one gold with an engraved 'V', and another with a green gem, both snug against his skin.
He let his hands float on the surface, feeling the push and pull of the water. His attempts at stillness were about as effective as using a sieve to catch rain. Maybe if I just— His thought broke off as he adjusted his fingers, trying a different angle, a different tug of magic. The water responded, almost playfully, with a small eddy that spiraled out from his touch before it was swept away in the river's strong flow.
As he waded deeper into the river, the water numbing his legs, Greg was abruptly pulled from his thoughts by a sharp twang from the opposite bank. His head snapped up just in time to see an arrow slicing through the air towards him. Reacting instinctively, Greg dove underwater, the cold enveloping him fully. His heart pounded in his ears as he swam deeper, his eyes stinging from the cold water.
He surfaced several feet away, just in time to spot the bowman on the bank right in front of him, eyes wide as he nocked another arrow. Greg's hand flew up instinctively, summoning the Igni sign. A burst of flame erupted from his palm, searing across the short distance and catching the bowman by surprise. The man's bow and the front of his clothes ignited in a whoosh of flames. With a shocked yelp, the attacker stumbled backward, arms flailing as he tried to beat out the fire consuming his upper body.
Greg watched, his own eyes wide, as the man's frantic backpedaling sent him tumbling into the river. The current, swollen from recent rains and melting snow, was merciless. It swept the bowman off his feet in an instant, dragging him downstream with a rapid, unforgiving pull. The man's attempts to regain footing were futile; he was quickly washed away, his panicked cries fading as the river carried him out of sight.
Breathing heavily, Greg swam back to the shallows, his body shaking partly from the cold, partly from adrenaline. He clambered out of the water, retrieving his clothes with fingers that were only slightly numb.
"Can I please get a break?"
The cool breeze in the forest was a minor relief as Greg found a secluded spot by a large tree. Nature called—loudly after days on the road and meals cooked over open fires. With his pants down and his focus momentarily elsewhere, he thought he had a moment of privacy.
Thought.
His stream was abruptly interrupted by the soft snap of a twig underfoot. Greg's instincts, honed over months of ambushes and narrow escapes, kicked in instantly. He twisted around, one hand still awkwardly clutching at his pants, his body coiling tight with surprise as the other hand swung out in a reflexive backhand. The first attacker, a burly man with a sneer that barely had time to register surprise, caught as the fist connected with the man's skull with a sickening crack, the force reverberating through as Mr. Sneer went flying again. In that split second, he knew the guy wasn't getting up again.
Almost simultaneously, a sharp pain seared at his upper arm—a second attacker, head hidden with a hood and shortsword in hand, managed to score a hit before Greg could fully get his bearings.
Greg darted back, eyes wide as he felt his legs catch on his pants, and the hooded bladesman shot forward.
An arrow hissed through the air where his chest would have been had he not dropped to the ground in a clumsy, graceless roll—breeches still tangled around his ankles, and the hooded assassin let out a gurgle as the arrowhead punctured through his eye.
Leaves and dirt clung to his back and legs as he thrust his hand in the direction of the bowman, releasing a burst of "Aard!" The telekinetic wave caught the bowman at the treeline off guard, knocking him off his feet and into a tree trunk with a dull thud. The man's head cracked, blood splattering onto the wood, and he slumped down, motionless.
Ash, ever curious and unbothered by the human conflicts, trotted over to sniff at one of the downed bodies, his nose twitching with interest.
Sitting there, pants around his ankles, leaves sticking to his bare ass, Greg couldn't help but let out a frustrated sigh. This is ridiculous.
A full week and a half of dodging assassins and Gregory Lucas Veder was finding himself quite nettled, to say the least.
After an hour of picking out dirt from between his buttcheeks, and looting some more dead bodies—their weapons more valuable than anything else they had on them—he was in quite the bad mood.
Honestly, he wasn't even mad they kept trying to kill him.
No, that was…
Honestly, he was getting kinda familiar with that.
No, it was more the fact that they kept fucking dying before he could even interrogate them.
These guys couldn't have been normal bandits.
They seemed to have a general idea of where he would be and always chose the moments he was the most occupied to sneak up on him and attempt to take him out.
On top of that, if they were a bandit group, he figured they would have cut their losses by now, or would have attacked him in a large group.
Which means someone was sending a bunch of desperate disposable dumbasses after him.
Even now, he kept his head on a swivel walking through the narrow forest path. He'd learned all too well, by now, that these guys would choose the absolute worst moments to get the jump on him, moments where he let his gu-
His thoughts were interrupted as two figures burst from the underbrush. Both dressed in rough-spun cloaks that blended into the woods, the cold shine of the daggers gripped tight in their hands stood out.
Here we go again. Greg pivoted on the balls of his feet, avoiding the first slashing strike that whistled past his ear, close enough for him to feel the displaced air.
"Really not looking to kill anyone today," Greg called out, backpedaling to keep them both in his line of sight. He ducked under a second swipe as one rushed forward, the dagger arcing just a little too close to his cheek. "Can we just talk about this?"
His words fell on deaf ears as the attackers coordinated their efforts, one trying to circle to his side while the other kept him engaged. "What do you want?" he demanded, ducking under another aggressive thrust. He didn't want to kill them—there had been too much of that already—but he needed answers.
Greg was forced to shift his focus rapidly between the two, parrying with rapid bursts of "Quen!" with hands that had grown used to conjuring Signs. With each dodge, Greg tried to de-escalate, his voice rising over the clash of metal. "I just—Quen!—want to—Quen!—know why you guys—Quen!—are after me! Who—Quen!—sent you?"
They didn't seem too want to talk as both of them moved with a desperate sort of speed, sloppy but dangerous for how unpredictable they were. In a fluid motion, Greg sidestepped another lunging stab, one hand reaching out to grab the wrist of his nearest assailant. He twisted sharply, intending to disarm, not to maim.
Unfortunately, the second attacker, too eager to capitalize, misjudged his own lunge.
With eyes wide as dinner plates, Greg watched as the man's blade sailed past its intended target, instead catching his partner just below the jaw. The cut was deep, and the consequences immediate.
Blood sprayed in an arc, painting the leaves a vivid red as the wounded man's hands flew to his throat, his own eyes wide.
"Rorik!" The attacker leapt back, his blade still extended, horror dawning on his face as he realized his mistake. His partner sank to his knees in a gurgle of blood and breath.
Greg stepped back, letting out an "ooh" as he winced. "You see? This is what I'm trying to avoi-"
The teenager took in a quick breath, his words dying on his lips as his soul chose that moment to balloon again. He felt himself gain something and knew without checking that it was an item… one inside his backpack.
The bounty hunter, now pale and clearly terrified, hesitated, dagger trembling in his grip as he glanced desperately for an exit. His eyes flicked to Ash just barely a foot away from the man, the bear lazily sniffing at a patch of wildflowers, the little guy's sense of danger almost entirely gone ever since he started breathing fire.
"...you wouldn't." Greg's voice was low
A dark thought flickered across the man's face.
He would!
Even as Greg made to leap forward, the man tackled the bear and rolled to a crouch. Holding the dagger to the cub's throat, his voice cracked from fear as he shouted, "Hand over yer sword, or the beast dies!"
Greg froze, every muscle tensed, his eyes locked on the blade pressed against his pet's fur.
Then, Ash sniffed the air and his mouth opened wide.
A small but intense burst of fire left his maw in a belch, engulfing the hunter's head. The man's screams tore through the silence, echoing off the trees as he staggered back, hands clawing at his face before he collapsed in a smoldering, twitching heap on the forest floor.
Largely unbothered, Ash dropped to the ground trotted back to Greg, his nub of a tail wagging proudly. Greg let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"...well, okay, then."
Assassination Counter - 300 GP
Roll: Estus Flasks [Dark Souls 1] {Benevolence} (Free) - You receive five Estus Flasks. Estus Flasks are dull green grass bottles that fill up with a golden fluid, if it could be described as a fluid, when you rest next to bonfires. Undead who drink of these flasks will heal from grievous injuries, though especially large bodies or extra severe injuries might need several flasks worth to properly recover. It's unknown where these bottles come from, but you should be able to find more around these lands, giving you healing potions on hand. You may use these potions regardless of origin.
Grimoire Points: 650