DISCOVERY PART 4D

Day 427; 1813 (Evening)
Focus: 513

513: "...no traps…"

He whispered into the air as his shoulders drooped and his steps grew heavy.

513: "I suppose I should start looking for a place to settle down for the night."

He muttered while surveying the moss-filled forest for an ideal location to make camp.

While on the search, 513 tilted his head from side-to-side, yawning as he wandered between the trees. His sturdy body was capable of taking more punishment, but not his mind.

His head throbbed and stung like it had been hit by a lead weight. Subtle undulations in his eyes caused him to focus even more at the view in front of him. 

His vision suffered, and gradually, so too did his awareness.

Removing his helmet, he placed his hand over his forehead and wiped away the non-existent sweat from his brow. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the cold air as his face relaxed in the dimming light of the sun.

513: “This is what I needed.”

He said, while firmly planting his feet to the hard ground. 

Standing in-place, he took-in all the rich sounds and smells the forest could offer. Gradually, his mental pangs subsided and his mind grew clear.

[How strange.] He thought. [To find myself in a place of death one minute, and a haven the next.]

Finding solace in the simple act, he returned to meditation.

After some time had passed, 513 opened his eyes feeling refreshed and revitalized.

513: “Ah, there it is.”

He said under a low breath, as he confidently stared-out into the distance.

513: “This will do.” 

He continued, as he walked-over several debris mounds to reach a spacious crevice positioned between the folds of a large tree enveloped in moss.

Inspecting the location, 513 concluded that the nook was large enough to accommodate himself and the sled full of supplies. Without delay, he immediately got to work, erecting a temporary shelter, and reinforcing the ground below to keep it from sinking under his weight.

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Day 427; 1832 (Evening)
Focus: 513

By the time 513 finished, the remaining sunlight could barely be seen inside of the forest. The canopy tops melded with the overbearing darkness of the shadows, turning the once serene-looking forest into a grim prison.

513: “♬ Meat, meat, MeAt. ♬”

He awkwardly sang, as he grabbed a handful of dried food from his supply pack and stuffed his face.

As he ate, he glared at the poorly lit ground with a dull, vacant look in his eyes; the small tremor in his hands was masked by the weight of the food that he carried; with every chew, with every bite, his movements slowed as-if he'd lost interest in the meal all-together. The mental fatigue he had endured throughout the day had turned him a languid beast.

When he had finally satisfied his appetite, he wrapped the remaining cured meat in the leather container it was originally stored-in and stuffed it back into the supply pack. He then carelessly tossed the pack towards the general direction of the sled without looking and took a swig of purified water from the clay jug he grasped with his right hand.

[What a feeling.] He curiously pondered as he swallowed a mouthful of chilled water. [To feel so at ease in the middle of enemy territory...]

As he settled in for the night, winter’s bitter cold slowly crept into his tent, freezing plant-debris that had thawed during the day, back into ice sculptures. 

Although his body no longer reacted to the frigid temperatures, his subconscious still had the tendency to feel warmth. 

Shifting himself closer to the small, dug-out fire centered inside of his leather tent, he relaxed his body and stared at the ceiling. There, he watched the shadows of his equipment dance and flicker like distant memories resurfacing from the back of his mind.

With his thoughts in disarray, his eyes started to water.

[No, stop it.] He scolded himself, as he wiped away the tears from his eyes. [Now is not the time for that...get a hold of yourself.] He continued, while he covered his trembling lips. 

Sitting up, he cleared his throat with a few coughs. But it did little to settle the growing knot of emotion forming in the back of his throat.

513: “Haaah...why now?”

He asked with a hoarse voice.

Looking-down at his feet, he pursed his lips, grit his teeth, and quickly lifted his fist into the air.

...Once...

...Twice...

...Three times he punched himself in the face.

[Pain. Please. Rid me of these feelings. I don’t want any of this, not now.] He pleaded as tears streamed down his face.

His struggle with the pent-up emotions he had buried for so long, was on the verge of spilling out into the open.

Suddenly, just as he readied another volley of punches to his face, a group of six creatures entered the range of his True Sense, instantly clearing his mind of any miscellaneous thoughts.

In the distance, the alpha of the pack let-out a primal roar, announcing its arrival.

???: “Skreeeooowww.”

◊◊◊◊◊◊

Day 427; 1840 (Evening)
Focus: False Arachnes

The leader of the troupe unleashed a battle-cry fit for a massacre as it led a team of expert killers navigate between the trees of the forest like a well-oiled machine. In their wake, only the soft sounds of gentle clacking could be heard muffled by the cold air.

Their goal was to find the culprit behind the murder of their own kin.

Earlier that day, the spiders had chanced-upon a site where 513 had failed to completely clean up the mess he had made. The small pool of their kin’s blood, left underneath a mound of plant debris, was enough for the group of False Arachnes to suspect foul play. 

It was the smell of their kin’s blood that led them to their current location.

The six swiftly crept along the ground in search of the origin of the bloody scent. Their eight eyes frantically darted around like over-caffeinated toddlers; their collective vision, allowing them to see the surrounding environment in an array of various perspectives. Drawing closer to the scent, they carefully masked their presence, obscuring their large bodies behind the massive trees of the forest.

Splitting-up into three groups of two, the spiders surrounded the location where the scent of blood emanated from. With the site fully encircled, their advance ceased. There, at the center of their enclosure, was a harmless looking tree, packed full of moss -- an odd site for blood to be.

Of the six, five of the spiders exchanged confused looks between one another as their leader tapped its prominent leg on the frozen ground. Having made a decision, the leader of the troupe lifted its leg forward and performed several purposeful strokes in the air, telling the others of its plan and signalling them to follow in its lead.

Verifying that the plan had been properly transmitted to the group using a series of complex nods, the leader gestured the start of the operation.

◊◊◊◊◊◊

Day 427; 1845 (Evening)
Focus: 513

[They seem confused...I guess camouflaging the tent with moss from the sled was a good call.] 513 mused, as a faint smirk appeared on his face. He had been viewing the spider’s movements through True Sense. [Oh, what’s this? Sign language?]

Realizing that staying quiet and waiting for the spiders to pass -- so that he could pick them off from a distance -- was no longer an option, he silently stood up and reached around the small fire to grab his short spear and shield.

With the two weapons grasped firmly in his hands, he searched for the fur cloak and utility belt that he had lazily tossed towards the sled earlier that night. Having no luck finding either in the short window of time he had, he gave up on the search and lowered his stance. 

Spreading his feet apart, he readied his legs to explosively dash forward.

[Three...two...one…]

513 lunged forward, unleashing three consecutive spear thrusts at the encroaching assailants. The violent, muddled sounds of their impacts were the only tells of a successful attack.

Wary of the spiders positioned further away, 513 took a few steps back, creating more space between them. He then swung his short spear in an arc, ridding the spearhead of the silvery-green blood that had collected on it. 

As a result, blood splatter decorated the entrance of his hidden camp.

513: “Ey, look at that!”

He muttered to himself, as the painting of blood led his keen eyes to the twitching silhouettes of three recently slain False Arachnes.

Before he could crack another joke, the remaining spiders took the offensive, spraying purple mist out from their spinnerets. As the mist travelled through the air, it turned anything that came in contact with it into a decaying tar that spread blight.

513: “Damn it, my camp!”

His voice cracked as he yelled in a high-pitched tone; the fringes of his camp were being liquified into a toxic goop.

Tightening his grip on his two weapons, 513 put strength in his legs and dashed laterally, circumventing the slow-moving mist. The pressure-wave resulting from his dash, blew the mist back towards the spiders, causing them to stumble over the rough terrain while they frantically retreated from their positions. 

Seizing the opportunity, 513 performed several quick side-steps around the leader, flanking it from the side. Once positioned, he lunged forward, lifted his right hand over his head, and then slammed the bladed tip of his shield into the leader's thorax. As the shield buried deep into its thick carapace, the voluminous crunch that came as a result, overpowered the leader's screams in a wash of noise.

513 then pried his shield out of the leader’s sunken head -- causing its insides to empty onto the ground -- and turned his attention over to the remaining spiders.

Dashing from side-to-side, 513 used serpentine movement to make his body harder to follow. With his abnormal strength, he swiftly crossed the short distance between him and what remained of the spider troupe. 

As he reached within striking range of his short spear, 513 aligned the sharp edge of his weapon with the intended motion of a swift cut. Then, finding a target, swung his spear like a sword. The diagonal slash sailed through the air like a lightning strike, quickly making contact with the spider’s thorax, instantly cutting through. 

A thin ribbon of warm, green blood pooled over sections of its body where the spear had made contact, causing steam to escape from its insides. Confused, the spider tried to counter by stabbing its razor-sharp legs at 513, but it was no use -- it no longer had control over its body.

Seeing the spider struggle, 513 left it immobilized, and instead, approached his final target. The spider on the other hand, angrily leered at 513 as he walked-away. Eventually, it died from having two-halves of its body slowly drift apart while its entrails smeared across the cold, hard ground, due to its own weight.

Ignoring that fact, 513 chased after the last assailant, which had fled from the scene. 

It was hiding behind the trunk of a massive tree when he had caught up to it. The moment their eyes met, he kneed it in the face, crushing several of its pitch-black eyes in the process.

Stunned by the blunt attack, the spider's legs gave way, and its body crashed to the ground. 

Before it could recover, 513 swung his short spear at the spider’s direction with a rising slash. The impact cut through the length of the spider’s body, splitting it open like a coconut.

Watching the spider's eyes turn dull and lifeless, 513 casually flicked the tip of his short spear, dislodging the blood that had accumulated on the spearhead. As he did this, a heavy stream of veridian shot through the air and doused the adjacent trees nearby in a greasy film of foul-smelling ichor. Looking at its source, 513 shrugged his shoulders and repeatedly kicked the spider's limp body until the purulent fluid stopped flowing from its rear.

Having succeeded in his first defense, 513 went down on one knee and commemorated the moment in silence. Upon standing, he took a gander at his tent and mumbled a few thoughts to himself.

513: “Six breaths...my speed needs some work...oh shit, my camp!”

---Chapter End