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Squib Ep.39 - The Planting Of Seeds

ButonflyFeb 21, 2020, 5:35:56 AM

(Start at the beginning here)

The dizzying, ringing sensation of a head beaten into submission greeted Herule as he knelt before the Dryad. While one half of his face was wracked with throbbing pain, the other was swollen and numb, the uncommon sensation distorted his sense of balance and made one cheek feel huge within his mouth. Despite his condition the sight of the Ancient One was a sobering force and a flurry of more pressing thoughts drew sharp attention to the true problem facing the Lizardman.

‘Herule you fool!’ The chastisement rang in his head. ‘This will be all you’re remembered for!’ The thought came as a bitter pill, the swallowing of which caught in his throat. He coughed, feeling a very real irritation and brought forth a half fingers length of twig, the taste of earth, and some other form of swamp muck which he promptly spat on to the ground. He looked at the contents, realising it had come from his fight with the Dark Knight, and began delving deeply into his memories right before consciousness escaped him.

The Dryad motioned with her hand, “Rise, fruit of my vine. A defiler stands in your mother's grove, and duty calls your name.” She stomped the soft earth, the moss trembling about her foot. Two twisting roots sprang from the ground, entangling each other as they came to form a thick post. The Dryad grasped it in her hand and kicked at its base. The post had cleanly snapped where the roots met the earth, forming a sturdy polearm.

Dumbstruck by this mystifying display, Herule climbed slowly to his feet, amazed when the Dryad held the polearm out for him to take. “This should serve,” she motioned instructively. Herule weighed it in his hands, spun it expertly into an offensive pose, and trained his eyes on the two wicked points at its tip that formed a fork on which to impale his enemies.

The Dryad turned her attention back to the Knight. “As your Lord peddles only death, and submission is his singular demand, it is evident His 'diplomacy' serves only to offend. His thirst for conflict will be slaked with that which he seeks-" The Dyrad's pallid facade darkened, it's voice bearing promise. "War. Begone, Death’s Hand, before I sever you from your master and spread you to the four corners of my domain." At this the Dyrad turned and with a flick of it's wrist dismissed The Knight, the subject concluded.

Ever so slightly the Dark Knight bowed, a silent pause putting a conclusive end to the affairs. “His Coming gladly accepts your terms, and looks forward to the day he raises your fey corpse to lead your swamp born legions as his army.” The words came cool, matter of fact, as though a rote read planely from a pre written addendum. The Knight turned to make a peaceful withdrawal back down the path he came.

Herule watched as his quarry vanished into the shadow of the wood. With him the malignant energy he carried seeped through the trees with him. Thus it was a surprise to see Squib step out from the foliage behind where the Knight had been stationed, his dagger drawn, and a heavy line of discontent marking his brow.

“Undead bad for swamp, goblins no soldiers, should kill our enemy now!” Squib said, pointing after the Dark Knight with his blade.

The Dryad shook her head, “He is merely an envoy and here by some manifest rite, otherwise he could not be here at all. I share your sentiment, little greenskin, but I feel it would be marked against me in this conflict, and I’d be playing into his hand should I try.”

“Ssuch things are above you, Ssquib Sswampskulker, The Sseed’s wisdom ssupersedes your petulant ways. It sshould be obvious that a petty thief is far beyond his element in thesse matterss.” Herule stood tall, speaking proudly from his position at the Dryad’s side. He still remembered the purple powder theft, felt the slight of it burn like a brand upon his breast. The scorn putting the goblin in his place served as a much needed justice.

“Herule!” Bandana called from behind. He’d barely noticed her in all the goings on. Despite the language barrier he faced, his name and her tone was enough to tell him he’d misstepped in her eyes. He half turned, closed his eyes, held up a hand with his chin elevated ever so slightly above the level of his jaw. “Excuse yourself, woman. As a human not born of the sswamp, these matters do not concern you.” Herule puffed up his chest, emboldened by the weapon he now held in his hand, a gift from the Ancient One herself, a royal staff of status and power, a symbol of his very ties to his homeland of which his Dryad queen held dominion.

Bandana made another verbal appeal, her face displaying emotion, a hand gesturing toward Squib, the finer details tied to her human tongue all lost to the Lizardman.

“Tell us more great Lizard warrior. Your experience of defeat at enemy hands, being dragged by toe into grove, has made you greatest expert we know!” Squib chided his return, glowering and baring his teeth scathingly.

“Squib!” Herule heard Bandana say in much the same manner as she had called to him. What reason she added was a distant sound as Herule’s blood boiled and he forgot himself amidst his self possessed regality and standing within the grove of groves. He clutched his spear, hissed with bared teeth, rushed forward as Squib gripped his dagger tightly and did the same. He thrust into the Goblin who stepped to the side, brought his tail around in a low sweep which caught the greenskin by surprise. Squib went tumbling across the mossy ground but came up on his feet. The goblin’s claw clutched as the soft earth and tore a clump free as he hauled himself forward. Herule lashed out with the bunt of his polearm, catching Squib on the shoulder, but it was a glancing blow. Squib twisted in with the force of it, using the momentum to bring the dagger around in a lashing arc leaving a gash through the inside of the Lizardman’s thigh.

Herule sprung away, leaping clear before Squib could plant the dagger anywhere less forgiving. He readied the polearm for another charge but was surprised to see Squib dashing away in the opposite direction.

“Coward!” Herule called after the goblin only to realise the greenskin was unslinging his bow. Herule balked and began making a beeline for Squib, but the swiftness of the goblin's bow-work had Herule come up horribly short. The notched arrow sprang from the bow and twisted through the air catching Herule in the chest without him even attempting to evade the missile. The sacrifice was not without cause, Herule bearing the brunt from the missile to throw his own. He was already halfway through the motion, the impressive balance and sharp point of his polearm serving as a well formed spear. The flat footed goblin was caught suddenly by surprise. Squib shreaked, did his best to cartwheel to one side, caught a glancing blow upside his rib-cage and went tumbling, along with the spear, into a tree.

Vines descended to entangle the thrashing Herule while tree roots grasped the fallen Squib, holding them both at bay. Herule let go a cry of pain as the mindless greenery ran over the shaft of the arrow, ripping the barbed head from beneath his scales, leaving a bloody tear in the flesh on his breast. Squib could only seethe as he clutched at the spear with both hands and wrenched to dislodge it from his wound.

“Enough.” The Dryad proclaimed, seemingly disinterested in the squabble despite its intensity and the seriousness of its inevitable outcome. “I have need of you, Herule, and of you, Two Bandana Anna. Squib, I made a promise to fulfill your heart's desire. I will not have your journey end here over some petty feud. There is still work to be done.”

Herule watched as the Dryad made her way over to Squib, the goblin holding his wound beneath bloodied hands. Squib starred up, eyes wide, wordless as he watched the fey pick up the fallen polearm now stained with his blood. She turned and walked toward Herule, his feet dangling above the earth as he struggled amidst the vines. He relinquished the fight as she approached, hanging suspended as he was, his great strength rendered inert. She held out the polearm once more, the lengths of vine growing slack, releasing him and withdrawing slowly into the trees.

“This weapon was not made to fight your territorial enemies.” She placed it in his hand and folded his great fingers around it’s gnarled shaft. “It is intended to fight in defense of the territories, as will be the call to all the Lizardkin tribes. This will be the message you deliver to the tribal chiefs. You will be my army, defenders of my realm, as you were planted to be.”

Herule bowed his head, humbled by the charge, shamed for the second time that day before the Dryad. From sorry eyes, Herule watched as she turned for Bandana and brought forth from within herself a dark round object the size of a balled fist. “Prepare yourself,” The Dryad’s voice came, foreboding.

Bandana’s face was a look of confusion as she held out her hands. “For what?” She asked as the object was exchanged between them. It rolled from the ends of the Dryad’s fingers, fell into the waiting palms of Bandana’s hands. She cried out in sudden pain, her knees buckling at the surprise. The Dryad responded by sliding her hands under the mercenaries arms, holding her weight as steadily as any tree in the glade could. Bandana grit her teeth, gasped for air, drew in a series of labored breaths as she arched her back with tender apprehension.

Herule found his curiosity peaked by the confusing display and listened carefully to the soft words the Dryad spoke into Bandana’s ear.

“It is by Fate’s map that you have found your way here. Now follow a new map to plant this seed, for me. The shadow hanging over this swamp threatens to consume every creature, enthrall every living soul, poison everything from leaf tip down to the roots that draw their life. But with you, the one who travels outside the swamp, who has traveled across the known world, there is a chance to plant a new seed. Do this, and if you want it, the gift of Fate’s map will be lifted from you. The Seed of the swamp must live.”

Herule watched as Bandana’s pained expressions waned, her recovery marked by the drawing of a heavy breath. She hung from the Dryad, finding her feet upon shaky legs and began to laugh. It was a manic, joyful, yet disbelieving laugh, the mix of emotions something Herule had trouble understanding. Human’s could be fickle creatures, difficult to comprehend, especially from one human to another.

She sucked at a drop of spit that threatened to escape her lips, wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, lifted her lolling head to stare sidelong at the Dryad. “It takes two to navigate the map. I’ll need my sisters to help.” She said with a croaky voice.

“I will help you with that. Squib, come, it’s time for you to go.” The Dryad walked with Bandana, half carrying her to a large tree near where Squib lay. Squib cast a cruel glare back at Herule and got painfully to his feet. The goblin hobbled to join Bandana, the two wrapped so tightly in their own woes as to have nothing left for each others. The Dryad raised her hand, motioning at the tree as if instructing some servant to action. The tree twisted mightily, the knot in its trunk opening to form a gap big enough for either goblin or human to step into.

“This will take you where you need to be.” The Dryad instructed, and removed Bandana from her frame. Bandana stumbled awkwardly onto the tree, catching herself. Squib took a step toward the portal and took one last cautious glance around. “Find your she-goblin, and you your sisters, with my blessing.” The Dryad said to them both with a nod. Herule watched as they exchanged one final look with him, Bandana with a nod, Squib with a glare, before stepping forward into the tree and disappearing from view.

The tree twisted closed and the Dryad returned her sights to Herule. The shock of shame he’d felt before had waned under the unraveling events but his prior bluster had not returned to take its place. He merely watched as she approached, with him the ready, waiting servant.

“Go now, rally your kin, prepare to defend the swamp.” She nodded westward toward home. Herule bowed deeply.

“It will be my honor.” Herule replied.

‘Run Herule,’ He thought as he picked up his feet. ‘Run to glory,’ He sang in his mind, high praise and happiness. ‘Run for The Sseed’s ssuccess,’ He paced through a gap between the trees, leaving the glade behind him. ‘But more than anything, run for Herule’s name..’