Hello readers.

Welcome to my story. This is a series currently being cross-posted from Royal Road where it is significantly more advanced. If you would prefer to read it on that site, you can find it here. To catch up with the main story, I will be posting on ScribbleHub several times a day. After we've caught up on here, I'll be posting at the same rate as I'm doing on Royal Road (five times weekly from Friday through to Tuesday).

All that said, enjoy the story!

Now

I’ve been trudging through the forest surrounding me for a few hours now, following the river as it wends its way onwards. I keep my ears and eyes open, having already learned my lesson about that several times over. For a while the coast seems clear, very few creatures entering my field of vision, and none that try to attack me. I almost start to relax. Almost.

But I can’t forget that this place is perilous, far more so than the place I left behind. At the sound of snapping branches, I flinch. Swiftly putting my back to a tree, I stare around myself suspiciously. I’m heading through a dangerous area – a dense section of forest which is more bushes than trees. There’s still plenty of space to walk, but there’s also plenty of coverage for any ambusher. The weight of my rudimentary mace drops into my hand as I pull it from my Inventory.

It goes quiet for long enough that I start to relax, wondering if perhaps it was just some other prey animal, as fearfully hoping the other creature hadn’t heard it as I am. When the attack comes, it’s only the flicker in my peripheral vision that allows me to avoid it.

The creature – or creatures as I realise it is in reality – leap at me from the bushes all around. I flail around with my mace and knife, alternately trying to knock them out of the air and stab at them. I’m not dual-wielding, nothing of the sort, really, and any hits come more from luck than skill. Or perhaps we could say that they come from probability: if I flail fast and hard enough, I’m bound to hit something.

I shriek and curse the air blue as something bites down on my skull and liquid runs down the side of my head. Dropping the knife, I reach up at the thing and pull. It doesn’t want to let go, and I’m pretty sure a good chunk of hair has come with the wretch, but at least it’s not biting my head any longer.

Throwing it to the ground, I try to stamp on it, but the bugger is too fast and scurries out of the way before my foot lands. In the meantime, three others have attached themselves to my leg, foot, and calf. I shout, very tempted to bludgeon the painful leeches, but knowing that if I swing my mace at them, I’m more likely to hit myself than them.

This is not a good match-up. They’re fast, agile, and too small for my wild mace swings to do more than hit one out of the air every so often. In the meantime, they’ve broken skin in multiple places and I’m starting to look painted in red. The bites aren’t deep, but they’re painful and any blood lost is an inch towards my end. Actually, thinking about that, I cast Lay-on-hands: that should help keep me going a bit longer.

I’m going to have to be smarter.

I take a few moments to think through the situation, trying my best to ignore the hangers on, even when they’re joined by two others and then two more. Moving, my attackers seemed to be claws and teeth attached to flashes of green. Now they’re biting – chewing, really. Did that one just swallow part of my flesh?! I can see they’re like a cross between lizards and weasels. The shape and approximate size of a weasel, but in appearance more like a small monitor lizard. Teeth probably like them too, but I can’t see them because they’re buried in my flesh.

Right, time to deal with these like I’ve dealt with some other unfortunate attackers. Unfortunate for them, that is. Since no more fleas have leaped from the bushes to attack, I guess that this pack is limited to the seven currently attached to my legs. How I’m succeeding in not shouting and screaming and going out of my mind at the pain of literally being eaten alive, I don’t know.

Maybe it’s the recent increase of my Willpower, or perhaps Constitution. Or maybe it’s just the burning anger in the pit of my stomach that grows every time I’m attacked by some other opportunistic blighter. And I should be getting on dealing with the situation rather than wondering at my ability to endure it.

Grabbing the weasitor closest to the inside of my knee, I grab its body, then stab, stab, stab until it’s dead. I don’t remove it from my flesh – yet – because I’ve already made that mistake once before and almost died for it.

I succeed in grabbing and killing another before the rest realise they’re in danger and jump away. They disappear into the bushes.

“Oh no, you don’t,” I growl. Casting Lay-on-hands, I pull the dead wealitors out carefully, unhooking their teeth rather than just pulling my flesh with them. Then, pretending to be weak, I lean back against the tree, slumping down to one knee. Fortunately for me, these creatures are great at ambushes, but suck at spotting bad acting. They jump at me again, this time going for higher spots. I slam one against the tree at my back when it makes the fatal decision of leaping from behind at my shoulder blade. I know it’s not dead because I can feel it wriggling, but it’ll have to wait until I’m done with its friends.

I trap another under my elbow against my side. It’s painful. Agony, really, but what’s new? Then, grabbing a third, I stab, stab, stab. Snatching at one of the only two still free, I manage to catch it just as it jumps away with a chunk of my skin in its mouth. Stabbity stab stab. Another one bites the dust. Am I going mad? Possibly, probably, even, but frankly, right now, I don’t care.

I stab the one trapped under my elbow, then crush the one behind my back until it’s barely wriggling. Twisting round, I make sure it’s dead with a knife through its skull.

Presuming there were seven in this pack, there’s only one left alive. If it knows what’s good for it, it will stay far away from me. Right now, unless it got me somewhere vital, it’s not much threat on its own. I still wait for a while, reactions on red alert.

Nothing.

“Huh, perhaps it’s a smart weasitor,” I comment to myself. “Smarter than me.” A note of bitterness creeps into my voice. “Some ‘new life’.”

Leaning against the tree, I cast Lay-on-hands again. If the majority of my life right now is an absolute hellhole, at least the ability to heal almost instantly is awesome. I’ll need to cast it a couple more times, but it’s better to let the magic of each attempt finish first before casting again. Otherwise at best I waste the mana, at worst I cancel some of the beneficial effects out. I probably need to let my health and stamina refill a bit too.

God, I need a drink, I think longingly. But that’s what landed me here in the first place so… Pulling some food and water out, I find my thoughts wandering back to the events which started all of this.