The forest didn't particularly have a name, but over the months Emidio got to know it better than any other place in the world. Practically half the signposts were made by him because nobody else cared. Carrying a wicker basket on his shoulder, entered the forest by following along the river that supplies his workshop with water and power. Every couple of meters, the river was slowed by a bed of coarser and coarser rocks. He checked them for junk and impurities: any blood or dirt he doesn't catch goes straight to his stomach.
The first major landmark of the forest was a dried and dead trunk. It was once a massive tree, tall enough to peak over the city, so most visitors knew about it. Emidio heard one story that said it burned down in a fire despite all the trees around it remaining untouched, and another where it changed into a treant and died fighting monsters, and he wasn't quite sure which one was more unbelievable. Sunlight shined in full force on the trunk, but time and rotting leaves at the roots allowed new life to take residence.
Large white feathers sprouted from the decayed root networks of the tree. In truth, they were fungi, but the way they scratched up the throats of people who inhaled their spores earned them the name Featherbreath. To keep the population in check, Emidio cut them down, stripped the rotten roots, and stored the harvested shrooms in airtight packages. He only needed to do this once a month, but by the time the roots were completely gone the spores would surely make a new home elsewhere. It was a job he was technically paid for, but since the pay was so little he rarely took the time to visit the Mayor's office to collect. Only he knew that frying them in oil gave them a texture much like chicken skin, but Emidio decided he'd rather man a workshop than wake up every morning with a scratchy throat from cultivating mushrooms.
Beyond the dead trunk was a clearing that Emidio cut down himself. At first it was for material for tools and fences, but he had since expanded it to a uniform circle 2 meters wide. He had leveled the ground and tied a crude net over the whole area, and all that was left was to wait for winter to see if he could catch a Paru tree before it sprouts. Without anything to do after checking the knots, Emidio walked deeper in , where the canopy became so dense that sunlight could not shine through. A sign was posted at the very edge, revealing the area's name as Trumpet Glade. It was a sign that Emidio himself placed.
Starting to infernite lighter(lamp) to pierce through the darkness, Emidio could see the difference immediately. Though the light was strong and the flame hot enough to deter approach, the animals of Trumpet Glade did not screech and wildly retreat. They reacted differently to the oil fire compared to the light he usually cast with magic, but it was too soon to be certain why. White eyes, yellow eyes, pointed eyes, and in one case smoldering blue eyes watched him warily as he trudged on.
At his feet was his first find already. The spongy mushroom oozed a purple fluid, and Emidio was careful to scoop it up into an empty coconut shell. The shell bubbled and sizzled, but adding a few globs of slime extract diluted it enough to carry. Glass would be better, but all he would have to make do with tying the shells together and sealing the gaps with more slime extract.
Eyes adapting to the sharp outlines of light and darkness, Emidio searched from tree to tree until finding his target: bulbous flowers lying between branches. They would look like regular orchids, if not for the brittle charcoal crumbling from the tree they feast on. As far as Emidio could tell, Hell's Trumpets work their poison by rapidly oxidizing everything they touch. On trees, this is slow enough to convert them to charcoal, but unwary hands and unpolished steel could find themselves with hot, ashen skin and rusted blades.
The last time he tried to harvest the plants, his magical flame was put out by the Trumpet choking all the oxygen. Unwilling to try his more dangerous tricks, this time he brought infernite flame instead. The oil flame did not need air to burn, and Emidio only needed to ensure that the Trumpet's sap did not splatter onto him. It was slow-going work, burning through stem by stem while taking heed of dripping sap. By the time he realized he was out of breath from lack of oxygen, his footing slipped and he fell.
Twisting to catch himself, his arm caught on a vine and pulled the whole Trumpet along with him. Fiber snapped and sap spewed as Emidio madly pulled and rolled to distance himself from the plant. He had designed the lighter to cap and put itself out if it ever fell, and the world was darkness once more. Several eyes looked at Emidio. He brought a single finger up, and uttered in a clear, resolute tone:
"Ignis"
Light burst forth, and the creatures scattered. What hovered above his finger was something like a flame. It writhed and burned, but without needing any kind of fuel or oxygen. Though the heat was searing enough to bend the air into a haze, he himself was untouched. Emidio picked up and started the infernite lighter before trying to extinguish his own magic flame. Just this was a serious effort, his mind fully focused as his hand closed over clench phantom blaze.
The first time, his felt nothing, passing through the fire as if it didn't exist.
The second time, he felt warmth, but the flame did not waver.
The third time, he got it right, and it burned his hand as if punishing its master.
It didn't smoke or hiss, disappearing as if a magician's trick. But Emidio's skin was raw, with bits of burnt flesh flaking off. Gritting his teeth to bandage the wound, he packed up his things to prepare to return.
Next time, I need to remember that people need to breath.
