Chapter Thirteen: Ash, Bark and Blood.
Selriph’s vision fluttered open, met by the garnered roots like an archway in his vision. The night’s chill enveloped the darkened shapes of trees, their forms barely visible, while the sharp pain in his arm and leg faded to a rhythmic, dull throb. Cool earth soothed his backside; the rough texture of the bark was a support against his back.
His surroundings were hushed. Not a sound in the forest’s stillness. From what he could discern from the deep chill, it was midnight, or perhaps an hour after. The exact timing would be obvious once he saw the night sky above. For a brief moment, his mind paused, brought about by an intense brain fog, before his thought resumed in a sluggish chug, recollecting how he ended up here.
Hours before, Selriph had clumsily staggered and followed the stream that fed the underground cavern he had crawled out of. In his venom and injury-ridden daze, he had stumbled upon a tree, hollowed, as if carved specifically for him. He scarcely had the time to check his surroundings for safety before collapsing from exhaustion brought about by intense exertion. The instant he nestled into the hollow, he slumped into an unconscious state—a much-needed rest that saw the passage of the sun far beyond the horizon.
The cold air of the night roused him. With a groan, Selriph pushed himself upright as he conjured a flame in his hand, acting as a buffer against the chill that was creeping around him. He looked to take stock of his current condition—his surroundings now illuminated. He felt the inflammation like a hot layer under his skin. His injuries ached, his shin felt like it was impaled by an arrow, although he likely could still walk. The wounds on his shoulders and chest still ached, but no longer bled; they would likely remain closed, so long as he didn’t physically exert himself in the short term. His body showed the undeniable effects of his ravaged state: he felt feverish, likely a combination of the cold, venom, and infection.
He reached for his pouch and undid the opening carefully with his free hand as he rummaged through his medicinal supplies. The injured adolescent had used up nearly all his bandages in the cavern. His supplies would barely cover half the wounds he bore; not enough to redress them. He had to scavenge for loose supplies in the forest’s darkness to create makeshift bandages.
As Selriph pondered the safety of trekking out into the forest at this hour, his hands drifted to the Tome of Arcane Foundations. He pulled it out of his pouch and flipped through the well-worn pages with his cold-ridden hands.
Selriph, wanting to pursue all available avenues, attempted the healing cantrip once again. He held the flame above the tome to illuminate the instructions as he brought his free hand over his shoulder, hand hovering over the bandaged wound. Arcane energy began swirling faintly around his right hand. Selriph murmured the incantations under his breath, using them as a guide for his arcane instincts to mould the magical energy into a force to expedite the rebinding and rebuilding of tissue.
He felt it, the tingling in the skin of his left shoulder—the spell was working, initially. But his success was short-lived as a split second after the first signs of success, a pain sprang from his shoulder and travelled up both his hands, causing the flame and the nascent healing spell to flicker and sputter before it dissipated with a sigh-like sound.
Damnit.
“It was worth another shot…” he muttered aloud, voice hoarse. “Least I know the incantation now. But I won’t make any progress kicking my feet against the wall like this. I’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way:” His mind drifted to the list of items he would need: herbs, fibrous plant matter for bandages, and some loose wood for a fire.
Selriph pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly as he found his balance with his aching left shin. Every joint groaned in protest. His muscles ached from exertion and lethargy. Around him, the forest was veiled in darkness, barely illuminated by Modoras in its first quarter—the largest celestial object in the night sky above.
The small, meagre flame cupped in his hand provided just enough luminosity for navigation. He picked up his belongings and made his way towards the cave where he had emerged from to collect water. The first of many items he was to scavenge on his midnight trek.
After some time, Selriph returned to the same clearing and tree hollow with supplies in hand. He had managed to scavenge flora with medicinal properties—his pack filled with yarrow and comfrey. He had also procured a pile of bast, which he planned to boil down into flexible strips as makeshift bandages.
Selriph gathered the loose pieces of wood and arranged them into a lean-to structure. He ignited some dried plant matter with a small flame in his fingers. Instead of the traditional method of stoking the fire with his breath, Selriph fed the budding flame with his arcane energy, breathing life into the flame in lieu of oxygen. The lean-to kindling ignited with ease. A few minutes passed as Selriph added larger pieces of wood, which included pieces of hard rhytidome he had gathered.
As the fire slowly settled into a sustained burn, he arranged larger pieces of wood to support his metal mug, filled with water from the stream that fed the cave he had emerged from. When the water came to a boil, he placed the soft bark into it in batches. The softened inner tree bark was to be used to create makeshift bandages—enough to redress his wounds.
Selriph tucked into his meagre rations of dried meat and scavenged berries, the modest meal would have done little against a ravenous appetite, something that was stemmed only by his physical state. He left the softened fibres to dry by the fire as he turned his attention to the yarrow and comfrey he had gathered.
He tore them from their stems and crushed them in his palms, depositing the contents into another batch of water, this time provided by his waterskin. The sharp herbal scent was a comfort as he boiled them into a crude poultice.
The mushy paste that came as a result stung on application to his wounds. It felt like hot needles pricking along the gashes and cuts wrought by the vermin that inflicted them. The pain came hot, before it finally settled into a dull ache, mixed with a soothing warmth from its medicinal properties..
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In combination with his remaining medical supplies, he then bandaged the wounds with the now-dried fibres. By this point, the wounds had already shown the first signs of recovery and would eventually begin healing in full. But it would take at least a week. Selriph hoped he’d be able to successfully cast the basic healing spell to catalyse the healing process, but it was something he wasn’t keen on attempting after having failed twice already.
For now, he was in no immediate danger. Selriph leaned back against the tree, his cloak shielding him from the texture of the hard bark. Despite the relative safety of his surroundings, comforted by the flame, he did not feel safe to sleep. A single worry surfaced now: the fear that the templars would stumble upon him in his rest, that he would find himself in chains come morning.
Regardless of the ever-present possibility, the reality of his physical situation spelled it out for him: he needed to rest. He would trek come morning, and his body, ravaged by venom, exhaustion, and blood loss, desperately needed the time to recover.
Selriph settled into a slightly more comfortable position, leaning down on the forest floor with his cloak between him and the surface of the forest. The fire crackled softly as it burned to the side. He slowly closed his eyes, letting the exhaustion sweep over him, and he succumbed to a restful sleep.
Selriph woke, stirred once again by the chill in the air. The sky above was a deep blue backdrop painted with streaks of gold from the coming day, peeking through the thick clouds above. The morning scent was filled with dew, matched by the grass blades adorned with moisture.
He gathered his meagre belongings. The Tome of Arcane Foundations rested where he had placed it beside the fire. The remnants of the yarrow and comfrey lay wrapped in a scrap of cloth. His water skin was empty; his rations had run out. During his trek for the day, his priority was resupplying his rations and gathering more materials for makeshift bandages, if time allowed.
Selriph rose to his feet. He stretched, his muscles still stiff from rest, injury, and illness. The restful night and healing ointment had made a dent in his condition; his fever had turned mild, the wounds no longer ached like he was wrapped in thick coils of hot iron. He knew if he were careful, if he did not place his body under more physical trauma, his body would heal, eventually.
It was time to move. He turned to the hollow and grabbed his belongings: estoc, parrying dagger and his pouch—lighter from his depleted supplies. He then turned to his left, eastwards, toward the rising sun.
He closed his eyes, mapping the region in his mind. Caer Eldralis sat on the northern coast. To its east lay the Great River, Valdorea, carving a silver ribbon through city and countryside before spilling into a vast delta. Farmland stretched southward in patchwork fields. To the west, the Stormpeaks raised their jagged silhouettes.
Selriph opened his eyes. There were only two possible wooded areas he could have ended up in: either the forested woodlands east of the Stormpeaks or the Shera Woods on the west bank of the River. Given his presumed direction underground, it was certain he was in the Shera Woods.
He nodded to himself. He would confirm his location just to be sure, and that would require him to trek east, towards the rising sun. If he were right, he would intercept the river within an hour at most. With his relative bearings confirmed with certainty, he could decide on his next course of travel.
A faint mist hung low over the forest, pines adorned his vision, mixed with the occasional oak. He heard the brittle crunch of pine needles under his feet.
An hour passed with steady progress. Thankfully, his trek remained uneventful—save for the distant scurrying of critters in the treetops and underbrush. The sky brightened, the overcast clearing for a lighter layer of cloud.
Finally, he heard it, the murmuring ahead, which only meant one thing: the river.
The Great River Valdorea stretched wide before him—easily half a kilometre across at its widest. Its surface had small patches of shimmering water where the sun shone through the clouds above. Selriph had glimpsed the river before, but only from the distant heights of the city. From afar, it had been a blue thread in the east where the delta met the Baunuken Sea. Now, before him, its scale and vastness were evident.
To the east, he could see the whitecaps of the northern Greyspire Mountain Range, a great geological feature that separated the core of the empire from its eastern provinces. To the south, the river no doubt traced its source in the mountains and the great lakes. A breeze swept across the water as Selriph felt the tiny droplets on his face—the scent of fresh water.
Selriph turned to look to his left, northwards, towards the direction of the ocean. There he saw it.
Motion—a dark shape bobbed in the current.
Selriph’s eyes narrowed as he focused on a small boat adrift in the river’s grasp. Its occupant—a young woman—struggled with a single oar. The boat spun and rocked, her efforts failing to counter the drag of the current. Even at a distance, ?it was evident she was in a panic; her frantic movements to fight against the currents of the river in her attempt to steer towards the bank.
He scanned the terrain. The slope of the riverbank here was steep and broken, wet stone and slick moss offering little chance for a direct rescue. Attempting to swim was simply a fool’s errand and would achieve nothing.
Downstream, however, perhaps twenty meters away, a thick log jutted into the river by about 5 meters. Half-submerged—it looked sturdy enough to support his weight if he kept his balance.
Selriph’s mind raced through possibilities. He could reach the log. He could attempt a spell to levitate the boat from a distance. If he could lift the debris during his ‘demonstration’ to Old Vick, he could certainly do the same here, if he concentrated his arcane energy on lifting her—no, the entire boat to shore. Simple in principle, but he had to lift the object precisely. If he lost concentration, the boat would fall back into the river, and the occupant would certainly capsize with it—a very real possibility.
Even if he succeeded, there was another danger.
Magic was forbidden to the unsanctioned. He was without a crest. If the occupant were anything but sympathetic to his plight, he could find the Templars directly on his trail. Thorne would likely mobilise more than enough manpower to track him down in the woods. One act of mercy could unravel his untracked status and put his entire flight in jeopardy.
And yet—
He looked at her again. She was in a frantic frenzy; he could see her mouth open, no doubt calling out to him, her words unable to reach him from the sonorous churn of the river. Her boat was slowly succumbing to the currents, straight for a jagged series of rocks further downstream.
If he did nothing, there was no doubt the woman would succumb to the rapids.
He could just turn around and pretend not to notice. Let the river decide her fate; after all, he had his safety to take care of, and what was the unfortunate fate of one Eldeitian?
But could he live with that? Not to use his magical gifts when it could save someone?
Selriph’s fingers flexed as he brushed the estoc as if seeking its counsel. He had the raw capability to pull it off; He knew he could do it. The imagery, the formation of magical energy. Just like he had done a thousand times in secret.
His eyes locked on the girl again.
He had to make a choice: one that might render dire consequences for him or his potential rescuee.
And only seconds to make it.
A) Cliche rescue the damsel in distress!
What would you do?
