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That’s twice now he’s almost died to the indifference Orcs have towards his race. If they'd still had Namari on the party over Senshi, that encounter would've ended in a bloodbath.
Scruffed, lifted one-handed and fed foot first to the dogs. Humiliating. That's a rabbit’s fate. In their eyes, he’s not even a thrilling victim to hunt. A ‘Long-Ears’ is stronger, more gratifying to kill. More socially charged. He's just a plaything for their pets to destroy while they enjoy the real prize. There’s a special kind of degradation in not even being worth the effort for a demi-human to bother killing or cannibalising you. He seriously owes Senshi a drink.
Entertainment. Something to watch struggle until it’s snuffed while you kick back with a trail snack.
It’s hardly the first time Chilchuck has been entertainment, offered up as monster lunch. Baiting was a practice meant to protect a life deemed more important. It was nonconsensual, cruel and scarring. But at least, for someone, it had a purpose. Indifference twists the knife. Makes him feel sub-human.
On average, an Orc will live the same life span as a Half–Foot. Dwarves will only grow to be a foot higher than them. It’s the Half-Foot’s looks, the rumours that surround them, that punish their kind endlessly. Yet at one point or another, every race has been persecuted by another, their lives unfairly made hell. Elves especially tend to piss a lot of people off. On paper, there isn’t actually a lot that separates him from his party, from the people he meets. Yet they hold no empathy for his kind. Even Leed only warmed up to him after Senshi pleaded with her to put up with him. There was no extension of grace, of respect, to the party. To him. Only Senshi held their favour.
Over the years, he’s come to realise that mana and muscle mass matter more to people than wit. No matter how many times it saves someone’s ass, it doesn’t seal a dungeon or heal a wound. Along with the rising welfare issues, it’s why the union exists. Less flashy skills presented by weaker-looking folk aren’t valued as much as those of an explosion-wielding lunatic. Any idiot can be dangerous when given a weapon. It takes real guts to prove why you belong somewhere.
Born too late to live in a secluded population. Born too early to live in a perfectly integrated society. Born just in time to have to sort it out himself.
But, fuck. For all the politics he has to face with Humans and Demis, it’s their Wargs he can’t stop thinking about. Indiscriminate killing machines with heads the size of his torso. As if Orcs need any more muscle on their side.
Hung over them like that, it wouldn’t be an instant kill. He may well fill a dog’s stomach, but it still takes a pack to rend his limbs from their sockets. To pull every organ, every morsel of meat from his core. To pick at his bones for hours on end. The ease with which an Orc can carry him is the same ease with which the pack could pull at his feet until his body splits down the middle like a wishbone.
Teeth follow teeth follow teeth. They will be everywhere at once. He will go everywhere at once. Walls of ancient homes washed for the first time in centuries, flush with red and stippled with chunks. Saliva-coated razors shearing his flesh like a sheep’s coat- each powered by enough bite force to crumple his sternum. Every aspect of a dog, a Warg’s body, is designed to pin. To rip. To overcome. If not through their own force, then by that of the pack. There’ll be nothing to find but tiny teeth and doublet stuffing.
At least traps and Mimics end it near instantly, leaving only his pride lastingly wounded. In some sick way, he’s almost jealous that Falin and Laios fill the mouth of a Red Dragon. One well-placed bite and it’s over. Agony. Shock. Fire. Everything. Nothing. There is no way to describe how it feels to be devoured. Drowning in stomach acid seems preferable.
This is what Laios and Marcille fail to understand. You can cheat death by felling a Dragon, only to be done in by a damn wall trap crushing you. On the surface, he had never been another brick in the wall. No way is that how he's going to go out. The dungeon and the life therein are only going to become increasingly hostile the further down they go. More desperate to kill, more cruel in their methods. Larger monsters with critical thinking. Criminally active parties and dungeon-dwelling warriors. The honest to God mad mage himself is already pissed at them- and his creations will reflect that.
If, when, they run into something bad, there’s fuck all he can do to stop the onslaught. To prevent the loss of his friends. It’s just typical that he finally admits he cares, and he’s rewarded with certain death. This is what availability gets you.
Should he feel comforted, having seen Falin reborn from mere bones? Should he feel safe, travelling with someone who's lived long enough in the dungeon to be friendly with Orcs? Or a dark magic user, skilled in forbidden necromancy? If they ever make it back, he’s…
He’s so lost in his head that he doesn’t notice carrying on straight while the party takes a turn. His pace picking up as frustration drives him forward. Stepping on a dark root trailing from a grate in the walled garden.
Above Chilchuck, an overhang of leaves peeks over the wall, as though pausing before hauling itself fully over. Thick leaves trail the length of the brick, each one laden with warm orange pollen dispelled by the flowers hidden below the growth.
A shudder runs up his back, and Chilchuck sneezes. Germs spray out in a fine mist, visibly lingering in the air with the dust particles. Ugh.
Nothing happens. And that’s the odd part. Marcille doesn’t bless him, nor does she chide him for not covering his mouth. Senshi doesn’t grunt in surprise, a little noise he tries to suppress. As though nothing should even slightly alarm their expert guide. Laios doesn’t tell him that cock and bull story about dark spirits emerging from his nose if they don’t bless him.
All he hears is a growl, which, for the first time that day, does not come from his stomach.
Chilchuck turns his eyes before his head, slow to commit to the action.
A Warg. An enormous, truly massive, uncharacteristically large Warg. Piercing yellow eyes stare him down as two more reasonably sized canines flank their leader. One is shaggy, hiding thick muscle beneath a wider frame. The other is lithe and noisy, teeth chittering away at the other two for a cue.
Dominant individuals are often larger, owing to their increased muscle mass. He remembers Laios explaining that, regarding a Yeti-like monster with an unusually conical head. In that case, a taller head meant more jaw muscle and, consequently, more bite force. A warning of approaching power. This beast put that idea to shame, its entire frame twice the standard size—every aspect in overdrive.
Those vast, unblinking eyes never left his. The growl remained low and constant; a long, droning sound meant to instil dread. A single thread of saliva hung from the panting mouth, lips pulled back far as though somehow smiling, showing off canines the size of his fingers. Intimidation, dominance asserting tactics. They were working.
When?
He can die to a Mermaid’s song, lured forward before anyone else ever hears it. A succubus can leave him a crisp husk before another person even notices it. If another wills it, he will walk straight into his own demise.
How did three Wargs get so close?
Just as it takes generations of farmers to stop a herd of cattle caving in their knees, or their horses shattering their spines, dogs are specialist animals for a Half-Foot. The average dog is the same height as them and heavily armed. They’re kept as work animals and herding aides, not pets. But Laios kept dogs. Trained them. What else had he said about them? Surely he couldn’t have tuned out everything…
Three is a strange number for a pack. Maybe they found the others plastered, smouldering on the street and dissolving inside the Dragon. Three is a small, odd number. A weak number that doesn’t inspire confidence against adversity. It’s probably the only reason he isn’t dead yet.
He needs to assert some dominance. Maintaining eye contact, Chilchuck bodily turns to the group, puffing out his chest and shoulders. As he does so, his pack slips neatly off, weight thudding on the stone below. One Warg blinks, ears flinching. Chil is alone, outnumbered, and surrounded by predators that match his full height. A simple trick of confidence won’t deter them for long, but a few seconds is all he needs. Compared to Tall-Men and Dwarves, his voice is much lighter than that of other men. He can’t produce the same deep, throaty bark as Laios. Instead, he breathes deeply, inflating his chest for a moment more- before breaking into a sprint.
Turning your back on a monster is a stupid idea. Running on an empty stomach is a stupid idea. But if it’s three-on-one anyway, there’s no glory in waiting to be destroyed. The pack already has him in their sights, so there’s no need to worry about the sound of his boots pounding the pavement. Forget stealth and focus on movement. Keep going until you lose them. Don’t faint. Strategy is key.
Dogs can’t climb vertically, but they’ll easily manage the stairs of the Castle Town. Of course, they live on a floor with no trees or towers, no sheer drops. There’s nowhere he could jump or scale that they couldn’t easily follow. Okay, well, they also can’t dig through stone. Getting underground would help. However, the town’s layout keeps shifting, which is what led them to get lost and exhausted in the first place. Maybe if they’re lucky, they can eat the dogs.
There’s no way to tell at a glance which houses have a cellar. Even then, any indoor entrance would have a relatively thin wooden door. A material that an oversized mutt and its friends could easily pound until it breaks. He’s not going to trap himself with them. Not underground, not in a warped house with three bricked-up doors and a total lack of windows.
Presuming he could find the entrance to the sixth floor, even that wouldn’t save him. The passage down is flat and open, perfect for running. Assuming by some miracle he made it down, a large canine is still perfectly equipped to pursue and survive in snow and icy water. He, meanwhile, would only slow.
So he has to stay out in the open. Fuck!
They don’t have the time, the mana, or the calories to spare for this bullshit. They have to get home; Falin needs them. Chilchuck needs them. This is precisely the kind of unnecessary risk he didn’t want to take, a trial they didn’t need to face. He doesn’t want to start proving himself right. There’s no room for error.
Haunted by visions of hunts past, Chil’s mind races as fast as his feet. He’s done this too many times to lose.
Behind him, fenced in by the narrow streets, the pack splits.
Noticeably slower than the others, the bulky Warg brings up the rear from the start. Instead of trying to outspeed him, it diverts to the side, charging audibly through the houses around him in a curving motion. A Minotaur in a ceramics store, he can hear the signature crack of wooden furniture breaking beneath the weight of pure muscle. On reaching a home with a second floor, it tries to cut him off with a pounce, powerful back legs launching it from an open window. Hearing the frame’s shutters slam open, Chilchuck dive-rolls out to the side, redirecting his path down a new alley. Behind him, the creature lands with a wet thud, sweat and blood equally coating the ground as a leg crunches beneath it. Unbeknownst to Chilchuck, it does briefly rise, but with stamina much lower than its strength, it’s the first of the three to tire. A heaving chest and an injured limb leave it unable to give chase any longer. Continuing to weave his way through the buildings, Chilchuck muddies his trail and loses it entirely after a few blocks. Strafing is always better than running straight, even if it’s slower.
Appearing from an alley to the right, the slimmest of the trio hesitates as it passes the downed animal, giving Chil valuable seconds of distance before it resumes chase. Lighter on its feet, the dog bounces up stairs and flies along an elevated walkway, able to spot prey in the distance once more. With a more calculated leap than its friend, using dormers and balconies as steps, it rejoins the chase back on ground level. The damn thing hadn’t shut up the entire time, barking constantly as it ran. Don’t let panic strip your senses. Hear your pursuer, not your heartbeat.
Seeing a skybridge up ahead, Chilchuck throws himself around the corner- pressing his body flat against the underside of its staircase. He stops breathing. Half a minute later, the beast runs by his spot, visibly confused as it charges blindly ahead. Mouth stiff, pursed into a small O shape, Chil lets out a long, quiet breath. He's still exposed here, and the third Warg remains unaccounted for. He can’t let either find a vantage point again. He has to move. Double back on your attacker. Lose them, no matter what.
Running back the direction he came, he passes the injured Warg. It's convulsing in a small pool of blood, caked in sweat. He's almost back to the starting line! He can find Laios, catch his breath, and cook a whole ton of good meat with the others. It hasn't been for nothing. He can gloat about saving their asses over a good meal.
Chilchuck runs. And runs. But the overgrown walltop never does get any closer. The fifth floor only laughs as it continues to win the same game it’s been playing with him the past few days. The dungeon itself revels in making an expert mockery of his navigational and problem-solving skills. Effortlessly, it reroutes, puppetting without even touching, until the Half-Foot is fed neatly into a dead end.
Fucking- again!? Pissing dungeon! Just let them leave! Chilchuck’s whole body heaves as he pants, age and exhaustion catching up quicker than any creature could. Disbelief weighs heavily on his frame as realisation sets in. Nothing but a sheer stone wall in front of him. One final, fuck off massive dog behind him. It’s over. He fucked it. On a different floor, at another time, it would’ve been possible. But with the House in on the game, he never stood a chance.
He hears the final beast before he sees it, turning in time to see a nose flaring at the ground as it pads leisurely into view. It seems remarkably unbothered, as though it hadn’t given chase at all. As though it knew things were always going to end like this. That exertion wasn’t necessary to claim the mark. Perhaps when your strides match the length of a man, a single target hunt doesn’t tax you.
From the floor, its head rises slowly, not fully, hovering around shoulder height. Ears, shaped like teeth, lie flat against the head as it watches Chilchuck’s foot sweep the floor with each slow step the man takes backwards. All too quickly, he’s pressed up against the hard surface, hands feeling every brick with a growing sense of futility. There wouldn’t be a trap, a passage here. That isn’t how this floor works. But if he stops trying, he’ll be admitting to himself that it’s hopeless.
Beneath his fingers, the ancient stonework is flat, worn smooth with time. Yet the mortar still fills the gaps, held perfectly in place by the magic rearranging the town. As though the filling had never aged, as though it had never moved at all. Even if his boots grip the stone, there’s no hold for his fingers. No way to scale the wall, no way through it. No way legs that long couldn’t jump it in desperation.
All he’s got is a little wooden knife, crappy dinnerware from earlier. With precious little else in the party left to serve as a weapon, the paranoid voice in the back of his mind had told him to keep it handy. Slipping the tool from the pouch on his belt and into his hand, Chil holds it with a vice grip at his side.
It’s not a favourable outcome, but, physically, he can come back from this. He can be revived, even if it’s detrimental to their goal. His friends won’t leave him down here. Life will continue. The job will continue. He’s got a masochistic love of the game. But, Island Lord above, it’s gonna be a bad way to go.
He is not gonna piss his pants.
He is not gonna piss his pants.
Wet, golden eyes pin him in their gaze. A front paw slowly rises, taking tentative steps forward. Any moment now, the mutt is going to realise he’s defenceless and strike—any second.
Chilchuck waits, braced.
But it never lunges. Only delicate steps, almost testing the ground as it approaches. As though somehow it might break through the floor. This is torture. Waiting. Waiting for suffering, for the breath to be stolen from his lungs before he can cry out. Waiting for what is predestined, to pass. Just let this be done.
It’s not his small clothes that flush with warmth, but his cheeks. Tears break the waterline’s threshold as emotional agony runs equally free. It’s the jaws of hysteria that squeeze Chilchuck first, his breaths puffing shorter, shallower, faster. Around warm wood, his fingers turn cold, legs failing to hold him steady. Everything feels much more… much.
If fear were a monster, it'd be a Slime. It hides just out of reach, waiting for the moment you relax. Then it chokes you. Surrounds you. Absorbs you. Sinks the proverbial fingers into your neck, down your throat, filling your lungs. Fear finds easy purchase when you least expect it.
Years. It has been years since he’s felt this familiar brand of fear. Years. It feels as though years are passing, just waiting for the inevitable. He’s going to throw up. He’s going to pass out. His heart is pounding so hard from running, from fear, that he might actually die of a heart attack before any monster gets him. Maybe that would be better. Is this what a panic attack feels like? It feels like the first time, all over again. To feel fear in its entirety until you spiral far enough to be consumed? He feels as though he’s already died. In purgatory.
No adventurer should ever be seen breaking down on the job. Newbies make him cringe, running out of the kitchen as soon as the temperature begins to rise. It’s a fundamental he tries to imbue into every Half-Foot who comes into his guild. You can’t be seen to be weak, or you’ll be targeted. You’ll never be treated as an equal. You can never let them know that it gets to you. It’s profoundly unfair and often detrimental to their mental health, but they have to try to change opinions if things are ever to improve. You have to prove them wrong before they’ll trust you.
Other Half-Foots may resent him for being outspoken, but it’s better than dying lying down. Half-Foots are resilient. Quick learners. Brave. Adaptable. Overachievers and underappreciated. Homemakers. Skilled. Humble. Precious to him. Half-Foots are more.
Never trust. No matter how much they play at submitting, at feigning gentleness, it won’t work. He won’t let anyone fuck him over again. He’s a professional; he’s supposed to be too old for this shit. For questioning ethics and discovering new fears. Wisdom, respect and experience mean nothing in the face of absolute terror. Plan ahead. Act first. Colour their opinion before their lines are drawn. You’re more than they expect.
Just let it be done!
With as full a force as he can muster, he rushes forward, swinging his body and stabbing the Warg- which jolted and scuffed a dodge. Managing to miss anything vital, the knife drove only into the shallow flesh of a foreleg. Fuck! This shitty wooden knife is so much lighter than a dagger! He may as well have swung the blunt end of an arrow!
A monster is at its most dangerous when surprised or wounded. Blind panic and survival instincts take over. Anticipating flailing claws, Chilchuck’s entire body tenses as it shrieks- and to his surprise, loses its footing, collapsing neatly at his feet and knocking him over on the way down. A warm, fat head lands in his lap. Chil’s hands fly up to his shoulders in shock, as a broad paw reaches for the knife.
Huh. That’s not supposed to happen.
He blinks in surprise, tears blurring his vision. Below, the grey-brown blob grunts as the offending article is pulled free without ceremony. Through the water, the fur turns more blonde than brown. Huh. Hurriedly wiping his face, he’s stunned to see… Not a Warg. But Laios. With a bloodied hole in his sleeve and a slightly pale look to his face.
Chilchuck’s eyes are wide as he sucks a sharp breath in. “Fuck, shit, sorry! I’m so sorry!” A slow, shaky breath out. “I’m so sorry.” Chilchuck’s hand hovers over the area, quaking from adrenaline and afraid to aggravate the wound. A shallow stab felt like a rupture, knowing he’d caused it.
Despite the mad assault, the wasted time, the burned energy, Laios still takes the time to turn over and smile up at him. Well-meaning and inoffensive as always. “It’s okay. Really!” He’s just a little sheepish as he adds, “I was the one threatening you.”
Chilchuck only responds with a slight, hurt noise, his mind beginning to fill with the static of intrusive thoughts.
Sensing a social fumble, Laios hurriedly continues, “It wasn’t your fault, Chil, I should’ve tried to disarm you well before you decided to strike.” His eyebrows knit sympathetically. “You couldn’t have known, the plant you walked under uses spores to mess with the heads of predators, creating hallucinations to drive them away from its leaves and roots-”
Oh.
No longer held back by some vague notion of dignity or bravado, Chilchuck’s few tears turn to many. They run as freely as Laios’ rambling words. Chil doesn’t know if he quite believes that it’s over. That Laios is okay with this, with him. But the fight leaves him somewhere in the running water, and his body deflates in place. Slowly, Chilchuck folds himself over the larger man, his head coming to rest on the cold stability of neck armour.
Laios trails off, stunned into a small moment of silence. When his voice returns, it’s quiet. “Breath deeply, slowly. It'll lower your heart rate and stop the shaking. You’re safe, it’s only hormones and chemicals hunting you now.” He recites evenly, with a methodical rhythm, as though his field guide is open even now. He’d’ve been great at getting his kids to sleep.
Ha. And here Chilchuck thought pregnancy hormones were potent. With the way his body is still shaking, his sinuses filling with snot, he feels like a fucking battleground.
“Am I okay to touch you?”
Chilchuck stills, as hesitant as Laios’ voice. The Tall-Man isn’t normally one for seeking physical touch. As he thinks, the slow heat of his breath creates a little foggy cloud on the cool metal. He watches as it expands and contracts along with his chest. When a tear hits nearby, it’s as though the cloud has burst, raining. It's only Laios. For all its faults and freaks, they're still the best party he’s ever had. They might get on his nerves, but they've never hurt him. They wouldn’t hurt him. Silently, he nods against the metal. Following the instructions of someone else, someone younger and less experienced, he feels like a child. Fragile.
Slow and telegraphed, Laios’ good arm reaches up to guide Chil’s gently to his hair. “Try focusing on a texture, describe to yourself how it feels.”
That sounded stupid. Like something he did with the girls when they were infants, teaching the difference between hard and soft. Laios may have well suggested they start playing with blocks and identifying animals. The memory alone forced a little smile out of him, loosening his mood. His next breath came out in a little laugh. Laios would’ve loved teaching them about animals; he does it enough for his adult party.
Oh, what the hell. It’s not like his image is emerging unscathed from this anyway.
Laios’ hair is softer than he expected. He's clearly not using the kind of expensive soap Marcille likes, but it's clean and well-maintained. As his fingers comb through against the grain, it springs back into place, ready to be petted again. With less length than Chilchuck’s own hair, there's not much natural movement to it. But it's not coarse either. It's kind of how he'd imagine a new rug, or a short beard might feel. It's... like a dog's coat.
The discomfort melts out of Laios as he relaxes into the touch. Eyes shut, his mouth slips into a slight smile. There's more colour to him, and a look of peace on his face as he enjoys the gentle exploration of his scalp. As his breath evens, Chilchuck’s own slows to match.
“Your hair is sweaty.” Chilchuck opts to comment instead, lighthearted and tired.
That’s a little more like the Chil he knows.
After a moment more, Laios moves to sit up, prompting Chilchuck to follow suit. Scooting so that his back is against the wall, Laios waits as Chil gathers himself. After unceremoniously wiping his face -and snot- on the back of his glove, the smaller man adjusts to sit with his knees to his chest. One gross arm protectively holds the form together, while the other rests on the floor. Both parties are quiet as Chilchuck catches the pleased look on Laios’ dumb, caring face.
“Thanks- for not killing me. Or for being mad and freaking out about me stabbing you. And… and for helping me calm down.” Suddenly bashful, Chilchuck looks away, his cheeks flushed the same colour as his bleary eyes. “You're a good guy.”
“Huh? You were in trouble. Anyone would've done the same.”
Chilchuck’s head meets his knees, and he stares out ahead, frowning. “Not anyone.”
The uncharacteristically flat inflexion, for once devoid of sarcasm or dry wit, made Laios believe him without question. He resented himself for believing it. For understanding the deeper meaning, when he didn't want to imagine, even for a moment, something happening to his friend.
“Chil, having you around… makes me feel calm.” Laios looked to the sky, as if searching his brain for the right words. “It's different to Senshi cooking or Marcille casting a protection spell. You're more experienced, and always taking care of us in little ways.” His eyes slide back to look at Chilchuck fondly. “You're the first to notice everything, from oncoming danger to conversations that might cause conflict. You prioritise our safety and the group's integrity. You're always alert. So…” Laios sighs, looking away as he gestures with his hand, unsure. “If you're okay, we're all okay. When you're scared, it sends alarm bells ringing in my head, and it makes me feel…”
Struggling with the words, Laios lowers a hand to the floor, gently putting it over Chilchuck’s free one.
“I don't want to lose you, either.”
Eyes straining at their corners, staring at the hand, Chilchuck’s heart leapt. An act of gentleness, not overpowering, just of unspoken trust. Shitty people, situations, have always plagued his life. Inside the dungeon and out. But even here, Laios, his party… He never had anything to worry about. He’s heard. He’s seen.
Scooping Laios’ hand into his own, Chil helps them to their feet.
“C’mon, let’s go get that healed before lunch ends up infecting you again.” For once, his tone is as fond as he really feels.
“If I’ve got you to watch over me again, I can sleep soundly all night!”
“You sap-!” Chil pokes Laios playfully, not caring if the other is covered in nose slime. “You can’t say stupid things like that! I'm going to be thinking about that and walk into danger again! If anything happens, I'll make sure Marcille leaves you in agony!”
Tugging Laios forward, the pair walk together hand in hand as they move to reunite with the others. Ah. The others. If he’s with Laios, then that was probably Senshi he accidentally crippled. Fuck. He owes that guy two drinks.
As they walk off the built-up emotion, this time his thoughts are lighter. Perhaps he’s better suited to having someone like Laios as a partner. Someone straightforward about their needs, who’s open but not so desperate for affection that Chil can readily screw up. Someone who understands his work, his lifestyle. Who doesn't always need physical contact to close the distance.
Laios is an idiot, blunt and honest to a fault. But, if, to his face, Chilchuck can admit that he’s scared, that he cares. That the life they’ve chosen has made him unable to bare showing an uglier side of himself. And on the other side of those admissions, to find only wholehearted love in return, maybe opening up to him about other aspects of his life wouldn't be too bad. Once they're out. Once they’re safe. Together.
“So, with the pollen, what did you see, anyway?”
Island Lord above, give him strength.