The Bramble Blight stood before him, glaring at him with eyes burning red. Hunter’s glaive was still stuck in the creature’s abdomen. Its severed vines writhed and oozed crimson sap, slowly regrowing as the blood curse drained his Health with every passing moment.
Worse, he could feel the pull of the second Bramble Blight’s malevolent curse tightening around him like a noose.
“Purge it!” Fawkes spat. She’d been inflicted with the curse too, and the creature she’d been hacking at was quickly regenerating.
“What?”
“Your curse-purging Ability! Use it!”
Right. Essence Purge. In his struggle, Hunter had forgotten about that one. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes and focused, willing his Essence to move through his channels. The process wasn’t easy; the curse fought back like a parasite, clinging to his life force with stubborn determination.
With bated breath, he imagined the flow of his Essence as a stream of cool mist coursing through him, tracing the lines of his Mystic Sigil. The circle of script came alive under his skin, radiating coolness as his Essence Purge activated and built to a crescendo. Then, with a sharp exhalation, he pushed the energy outward, flooding his body with purifying force.
The curse resisted at first, the blood-red, parasitic threads that permeated his Essence twisting and writhing in defiance. But as Hunter’s Essence surged through his channels, the spectral briars wrapped around his body began to unravel and burn away, dissipating into faint wisps of vapor. The heaviness in his chest lifted, and so did the stinging ache. He opened his eyes just in time to see the Bramble Blight stagger slightly, the link between them severed, its baleful glow dimming for a moment.
The other creature, already crippled and oozing sap from two dozen different cuts, staggered unsteadily, its balance faltering. Seeing her opening, she darted forward and aimed for what could only be described as its jugular. Her blade flashed, slicing cleanly through it, and the creature recoiled as dark red sap overflowed from the now-severed, thick, pulsing vine.
She launched a sharp kick for good measure, sending the crippled creature toppling backward. It tripped on the still-blazing remains of the first Bramble Blight, the one she’d blasted with alchymical white phosphorus. The fire instantly spread on it too, consuming the fallen creature’s brittle, sap-soaked limbs in a sudden flare of flames.
Hunter, now keenly aware of the creatures’ weak spot, let go of the haft of his glaive and drew the dirk Fawkes had given him back when they were preparing to face Mother and It That Whispers. Its reach was laughable compared to the glaive, and his Short Blade Mastery Skill sat at a meager 3, but the creature was already weakened. He should be able to finish the job.
“Fyodor!” he called at the direwolf, who was growling at something deeper into the grove’s gloom. “Help me, boy!”
Fyodor’s ears twitched at the sound of Hunter’s voice, and he shifted his eyes from the shadows to the remaining Bramble Blight. Something seemed to click – an understanding that went beyond mere instinct. With a low growl, the direwolf turned and bolted toward the creature, powerful muscles propelling him like a russet bolt of fur and teeth. He slammed into the creature with the full force of his weight, pinning it to the ground as its brittle limbs thrashed uselessly beneath him.
Impressed, Hunter made a mental note not to underestimate the direwolf’s intelligence again – nor his loyalty or usefulness. Dirk in hand, Hunter pinned down the creature’s gnarled head with his knee to keep it steady, and drove the blade down with all his strength, finishing the job for good. Crimson sap oozed from the severed, jugular-like vine, and the creature went limp. Hunter rose to his knees, panting with relief. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, then reached out to pat Fyodor’s back.
“Good boy.”
His moment of reprieve was short-lived, though. Fawkes, saber still in hand, called out in alarm.
“Hunter! More are coming!”
Another trio of forms had emerged from deeper into the grove and were shambling their way. Stunned, Hunter glanced down at the pitifully inadequate dirk in his hand. He looked at his glaive, still stubbornly embedded in the chest of the now-lifeless Bramble Blight.
“No time!” Fawkes barked, her voice cracking as she sheathed her saber. “Grab it by its legs. We’ll carry it out with us!”
Hunter grabbed the legs while Fawkes took hold of the arms, and together they hoisted the gnarly remains of the Bramble Blight, stumbling awkwardly toward the grove’s edge. The glaive’s long shaft snagged on roots and branches, each catch slowing their progress, but they pushed through. Fyodor darted around them, his hoarse barks echoing through the grove. Biggs and Wedge flitted overhead, desperately trying to slow the advancing figures with bursts of lime-green magic – but the glowing blasts barely seemed to faze the curse-resistant Bramble Blights.
“Faster!” Fawkes shouted between ragged breaths. The gnarled body had snagged itself in the undergrowth, and Hunter was frantically working to untangle it. She yanked out another flintlock pistol and unloaded in the general direction of the creatures. The shots rang out, echoing through the grove, but the bullets proved as ineffective as the familiars’ Ill Omen blasts.
“I’m trying!” Hunter snapped. His hands were full of cuts and scratches from the thorny vines and briars that seemed to grow everywhere in the grove. With one final, heaving pull, the creature’s body came free, tearing loose from the stubborn tangle of weeds and shrubs underfoot.
Irritated, Hunter hoisted the creature’s body onto his back, staggering under its weight as he trudged the last few feet to the treeline. The shaft of the glaive dragged along the ground behind him, snagging on every root and rock it could find. His irritation mounted with every stumble, every jerk of the glaive that threatened to send him sprawling.
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Muscles screaming and teeth clenched, he forced himself forward. He really, really needed to increase his Strength, he thought bitterly.
A system message popped up in his HUD.
well of sheer determination and ferocity in the face of
adversity. Your anger, frustration, and hatred fuel your
resolve, increasing your Carrying Capacity by 50%.
The sudden surge of strength hit Hunter like a jolt of adrenaline. The dead Bramble Blight’s weight seemed to lighten – not by much, but just enough to make the difference. Hissing through his teeth, he adjusted his grip and trudged on forward, each step now steadier, more determined.
Behind him, Fawkes had drawn her saber again and was fighting to keep the incoming creatures at bay.
“Just past the treeline!” she shouted at him over her shoulder. “We should be safe there!”
With a final grunt of effort, he burst through the grove’s treeline, the oppressive atmosphere giving way to open air and faint sunlight. His legs wobbled as he dropped the creature’s remains to the ground. Without wasting a second, he drew his dirk and spun around, ready to fend off the creatures with whatever strength and resolve he had left.
There was no need for that, it turned out.
Fawkes emerged into the light a moment later, saber in hand, Fyodor at her side. Hunter kept his blade raised, but the trio of Bramble Blights halted abruptly at the grove’s boundary, like dogs straining against an invisible leash. Their glowing eyes burned with unfulfilled menace, but they made no move to cross the threshold.
Biggs and Wedge were the last to escape the grove, their wings beating furiously as they launched a cacophony of angry caws at the Bramble Blights. Their Essence reserves were completely exhausted. They landed atop the corpse of the fallen Blight, glaring back at the grove as if mocking the creatures still trapped within its bounds.
“Is that what ‘Threat Level: Low’ means around here?” Hunter spat at nobody in particular as he bent over, hands braced on his knees, gasping to catch his breath.
Fawkes didn’t respond. She remained silent, saber still at the ready, gaze fixed on the Bramble Blights at the Blood Grove’s invisible boundary.
“How did you know they wouldn’t be able to cross outside the Grove?” Hunter asked.
“I didn’t,” she replied flatly, her gaze still locked on the treeline. “It was just a guess.”
“Oh. Good to know our lives were staked on a hunch.”
Fawkes raised an eyebrow.
“You’re one to talk. And it’s my life, Transient. Death’s just an inconvenience to you, after all, no?”
Hunter froze. For a moment, he searched her face, trying to understand whether she truly meant it. But before he could respond, Fawkes’s expression softened, and a flicker of regret crossed her face.
“That was a jest,” she said quickly, hands raised in a gesture of appeasement. “Ill-timed, I admit. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s alright. We’re both running hot right now.”
He turned back toward the Blood Grove and took a better look at the creatures that were still lingering on its border with the rest of the Weald.
“What happens if you attack them?”
“Nothing, probably. If you have something with enough reach – like a glaive, for example – you should be able to poke them till the cows come home. They’re bound to the place, I’d wager. If they could cross its threshold, they'd have done so already.”
She crouched low, balancing on her haunches, and examined the tangled remains of the creature they’d dragged out of the Grove.
“Tell me what your Mystic’s Eye revealed.”
Hunter pulled up the description and read it out to her. He glanced at Fawkes as he finished, her expression unreadable as she continued studying the remains.
“So, keepers and gaolers. Guess that explains why they didn’t follow us out. As long as we remain in the outer rim of the grove, near the treeline, we shouldn’t have too much trouble with them.”
“You still think it’s a good idea to bring the peanut gallery back here and use this place for training?” Hunter asked, skeptical.
“Why not?” Fawkes shrugged. “If things go south, all they have to do is hopscotch back behind the line. Give me your dirk. Let’s get your glaive unstuck, just in case.”
Hunter handed her the blade, and she immediately got to work. She dug into the tangled mess of vines and wood that was the creature’s abdomen, cutting away the stubborn growths gripping the glaive’s blade. Once enough of the debris was cleared, she braced the haft with one hand and gave a sharp tug, freeing the weapon with a grunt of effort before handing it back to him.
“Good job with that pointer you gave me, by the way,” she said, still digging around the thing’s chest cavity. “The one about slashing at the vines.The one about slashing at the vines. You were right – they really are like the creatures’ muscles and tendons.”
She gave a sharp slice, severing another stubborn cluster, and glanced up briefly and beckoned to Hunter to go take a closer look.
“For some reason, these things’ anatomy is surprisingly human-inspired. Look,” she tapped the tip of the dirk against the Bramble Blight’s remains, her expression a mix of curiosity and disdain. “Branches and twigs for bones. Vines for tendons and muscles. Sap for blood. By Grimnir, it even has a jugular of sorts.”
She was right; Hunter hadn’t given it much thought before, but their anatomy was suspiciously human-like.
“...and of course, the pièce de résistance…” Fawkes went on as she dug deeper into the creature’s chest. “...the heart.”
With a firm yank, she pulled out a twisted, knotted mass of vines and thorns shaped like a grotesque heart, its surface glistening with thick, sticky sap that dripped sluggishly from the barbed edges.
“Here,” she said, holding it out to Hunter, the sap staining her hands a deep crimson that looked disturbingly like blood. “All yours.”
Hunter hesitated for a moment before taking it from her. The weight of it felt wrong. It was too heavy for its size, as if it held something more than just plant matter.
“Can you make something out of that?” she asked him. “One of those charms of yours, I mean.”
Hunter turned the knotted, thorny mass over in his hands studying its warped and unnatural form. Sap oozed between his fingers, sticky and foul-smelling, clinging to his skin like tar.
“I mean… I could try?”
Fawkes flashed him a dark, lopsided grin.
“Good. In that case, let me get you the eyes, too.”
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