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It’s stuck. It’s not coming out. This is the end. He should’ve known it was too big, and now every passing monster can see him in his compromising position.
The Celtic Guardian bends closer to the tree to try to and obstruct their view. He grunts, tightens his grip, digs in his heels and tries to extricate himself. With a pitiful squeak, his sweaty hands fail him and he goes flying back, leaving the hilt of the sword wedged firmly in the Hermitree he was practicing on, which gives an annoyed rustle.
Moaning, he lies on the moss for a moment, listening as all the creatures of the forest muffle their laughter. It’s enough to make the ground shake. ...Not metaphorically either. Cautiously he pats the soft earth he’s lying on, which, as it becomes rapidly apparent, isn’t actually moss, but most certainly fabric. The Celtic Guardian weighs up his options for a few moments, and decides that playing dead is the best option. He keeps his eyes closed, and lets his tongue loll out of his mouth.
The monster underneath him stops laughing and shifts a little, sitting up, he thinks. But they don’t continue to extricate themselves, and instead he feels a tell-tale whump in the air, and hears pages rustling. They’re a magic being? Oh just send him to the graveyard now. The creature tugs at his hair with their free appendages (hands? Please be hands) as they read, settling in for the long haul. The Celtic Guardian isn’t sure if this is a power thing - “Two can play at this game”, or if they’re allergic to manual labor and just assume the problem will resolve itself eventually, which sounds like a lot of the magical monsters he knows. He heard of a Dark Sage who, when the bridge gave out in their castle, instead of fixing the thing, simply waited until the castle crumbled around them and the stream dried up before they left.
The hands - they do appear to be hands - keep pulling his hair around, as the Guardian continues to lie still, the greenish light coming through his eyelids steadily shifting from east to west as the day passes. They’re braiding his hair. This is humiliating. What if he were an actual corpse? This would be indecent.
He hears a crunch, and a drip falls onto his forehead. The Guardian pretends that the rumble of his stomach is a storm building in the distance, and hopes the monster has enough courtesy to do so too. A finger swipes the apple juice from where it’s starting to drip down his temple, and he swears he hears the monster lick it off. No shame. No honour. No nobility. Certainly not a being that understands the concept of fair play. He doesn’t know what code magical monsters live by, but it’s obviously not a very good one.
“Ughmm…”
The low, questioning noise from the north almost surprises him enough to open his eyes. Not quite though. He’s trained. Do they think this is his first time pretending to be dead?
“Ummm…”
The Hermitree swishes its branches as it makes an enquiring sound again. The Celtic Guardian can’t see what it’s doing, so extends and heightens his other senses to try and paint a picture of what’s happening. This is a mistake, as it hurts much more when he is roughly pushed off the monster’s legs and his head bounces on the mossy ground.
Very slowly, he opens his eyes a fraction, to see the monster gliding quickly towards the tree. A Dark Magician? Welp. He tries to stay very still and think dead thoughts, but can’t help but try and watch what’s happening in his tiny range of vision.
They rest their hand on the uncomfortable looking Hermitree, trying to calm it, then run it gently down to the sword, and barely ghosting their hand on it, slide it out. Humph. He loosened it. Or it’s magic. Whatever.
The Hermitree gives a loud sigh of relief, uproots itself, and slowly makes its way deeper into the forest. The Dark Magician watches it go, and inspects the sword in their hand. They’re not supposed to be physically strong - their kind built for patience and…books and stuff. But this one turns and flips his sword effortlessly. Rudely. Like he can’t use it - which he can. Watching them handle it makes him feel funny. Frustration probably. All this is just showing off, he can obviously add ‘no courtesy’ to the list of the Dark Magician’s lack of virtues. They should be ashamed.
The magician turns and walks towards him, and he quickly shuts his eyes, trying not to twitch his exposed tongue.
There’s a snap of a book shutting, a reverse whump and a rather terrifying sensation of the air beside his ear being sliced in two as the Dark Magician plunges the sword into the earth. The Celtic Guardian’s tongue snaps back into his mouth, and he hopes it goes unnoticed. He hadn’t realised the aura of amusement that the magician had been giving off, until it was taken away. It’s the stupid tree’s fault. Can’t be his - he’s dead.
The sound of the Dark Magician walking away sounds like failure somehow. What happened to the gliding? Probably too lazy. Yeah...
The Celtic Guardian sits up, his hair now in braided plaits dangling around his ears, tickling his jaw where they’re unraveling at the ends. An uneaten apple rolls into his lap, where it had been silently resting on his armor. He gets to his feet and puts his hand on the hilt of his rescued sword. Really should’ve been put in a scabbard, the earth will dull the blade, weaken the metal.
Well, he can’t expect everyone to act as chivalrously as he himself would.
He tugs at the sword.
It’s stuck.