John ducked behind a tree as it was quickly turned into a pockmarked pincushion by arrows, bolts, bullets and rays. As it turned out, the proprietor of Fred’s Discount Swords was no fool and was able to see through the brothers' grift, and moreover protected his customers rather openly. As such, John found himself hunted through the woods, separated from his brother, with his prised cart, and liquor supply within it, burnt to the ground. He would have preferred it if they had just robbed him; burning it was a waste of good drink.
The worst part of losing his booze was that it meant he couldn’t fight back. Well, couldn’t effectively fight back. While Jacob had gifted him a lot of powers to begin with, as his own class skills started to get stronger they started sharing less, with John able to survive on his own merit. But a bartender gained more abilities the more they drank. Having no drinks meant no power. In fact, he had been sober for long enough that his class was actually weakening him. One of the only abilities he could still use was his brewing flame ability. When he first got it, he could only adjust the temperature of existing fires, but when he practised with it a lot, he became able to make a small fire in the palm of his hand. It wasn't the hottest of fires, compared to a bonfire, you could probably even call it cold. Still, he could burn paper and cloth with it, and it made a handy light. Its main purpose was that it allowed him to be able to brewing drinks mid-air, just by placing a pot filled with ingredients on his palm. He had seem many forms of power wielding in his long life, but that was one of the least helpful he knew of.
He ran a hand through his hair with frustration, and thought about what to do next. If Jacob were there, they might have been able to win the fight, even so vastly outnumbered. Alone, running was about all he could manage, and the sobriety penalty was making even that difficult. He had though that they would have stopped chasing if he ran far enough, but they hunted him like wolves, just waiting for him to get tired and slow down. His one real option was to run towards the most dangerous monsters he could find and hope that the so called players tasted better than he did. Not that that would stop them. Those demonic bastards didn’t die when you killed them, and would simply come back with a new body and resume the fight. It was extremely unnerving. As much as he was grateful that he wasn’t in the great city when it fell, he did miss the good old days, when you could put a knife in a guy and feel safe knowing he’d never bother you again. Though, that wasn't always the case in those days either. The most powerful power wielders could call souls back and reforge bodies, ensuring that death had no real bite for them. That wasn't something he had ever needed to worry about, since neither he nor his brother was ever involved with anyone important enough to even know a wielder that strong.
The woods he ran through were uncomfortably hot, a temperature that was made worse by an unnaturally dry climate and a canopy that trapped the heat inside the woodlands. Part of him wondered how the woods stayed so green despite the lack of water, though he knew that his knowledge on all things natural was so limited that he wouldn’t be able to come up with an answer no matter how long he thought about it. He quickly pushed those thoughts down and continued to push himself forward. As he ran, a bolt struck deep into his calf. The metal tip hit bone, and he could feel a shattering pain spread through his fatigued body and he rolled forward with his balance lost. The effort involved in moving, up until that point, had numbed his body, but even that comfort had disappeared in that short moment, only to be replaced by the agony of hellfire, eating away it his leg. It was clear that the barbed bolt head hadn't been clean, and the player seemed to have used something to make it more painful; either a poison or just salt.
As he collapsed to the ground, like a felled tree or a sack or rocks, he began to roll sideways, down a nearby steep decline. Unable to control his speed with his exhausted body too rubber to respond, he rolled ever faster, praying to whoever or whatever would listen that he wouldn’t hit a tree. Apparently his plea went unheard, or at least ignored, as just as he reached the peak of his speed, he collided with an old and rotting tree, jutting at a cliff edge. John struck the thin stump side on, and he could feel his body contort and break, struggling to shape itself around the tree. The tree also had a hard time dealing with the impact, breaking under the strain and rot. It fell backwards to land on top of him, though it was braced by its stump and the hill and there was little pressure on his broken body despite its size.
He could hear a distant cracking sound or rocks moving and felt his mind slip and blackness overtake his sight.
He came back to his senses, after an indeterminable amount of time, in an instant, his awareness returning with absolute clarity. The sharp pain from his leg had magnified itself several times over, as a hoard of small rats stripped the flesh from his leg. He screamed and panicked. He kicked and battered them with his other leg and a nearby branch, apparently a remnant of tree he had hit. Seeing him active again, the rats fled.
His leg was beyond hope. What little remained of it was a blood soaked stub, more blood stained bone was visible then flesh. He could feel his blood flowing steadily from what was once his leg. While the shock was still fresh, while he couldn’t truly feel it through the pain that had become too much to understand and instead turn to numbness, he coated his hand with his brewing flame and started to sear the wound. The fire was nowhere near hot enough to seal it in an instant, and instead was a slow boil, cooking his leg instead of simply cutting away the damage. If he had been thinking more clearly, he could have used his flame to light the wooden club, then used that to seal it faster. Instead he prolonged his own pain and suffering. After nearly a full minute of burning his skin, the job was done. He felt weak. The blessing of sleep called to him. If he had been even the slightest bit wearier, he would have passed out again. However, he knew that if he did, the rats would return and he wouldn’t wake up ever again.
Bracing himself on a long branch, he pushed himself up, once again feeling new ways that his leg could hurt. He was in a dark and cold cave, or some other type of natural cavern, with nearly no light, aside from his own flame. What little light that occurred naturally in that place was the result of some glowing bugs of an unusual size. The air of the cavern didn’t provide any answers as to which way to go; it flowed strongly in one direction, then turned around and blew the other. It was like the steady breathing of a stone giant.
He pushed himself forward once more, hopping slowly with each step to avoid putting pressure on his now stump leg, hoping that the stick he relied on would hold his weight. He coughed, phlegm filled his throat and he struggled to get air. Panic and will to live fired once more, and he started striking his own chest to try and force his airways clear. Shaking, coughing; he tried all he could to grasp air. He fell forward as his struggles broke his brace, and he hit the cold stone ground with a hard impact. Luckily, the impact dislodged the phlegm and he could breathe again. The bad news was that the phlegm was actually blood, and a broken rib was likely lodged somewhere it shouldn’t be. He crawled, almost dragged, himself. He could hear the rats, like vultures, waiting for him to stop; waiting for an easy meal.
As they flooded towards him, he had some of his first good luck of the day; he recognised a nearby tree-root, that was protruding from the cave wall. It was the root of a tree that was jokingly called a booze-bush, though he didn't know its actual name. One of its unique traits was that the roots contained a very high sugar content, and, as the tree started to die, it would ferment into a very sweet, yet earthy, liquor.
Grabbing at the root and breaking it off, he prayed that the tree was dead, or else he would surely soon be. This time is prayer was answered, and he could hear the viscus slosh of the natural brew. Without a moment to lose, he downed the drink and activated one of his best bartender abilities. A green-purple flame burst from him mouth, spreading like a serpent through the air. The rats tried to react but within a moment, the cave was alight with the spirit fed fire. He could hear the screeching, and smelt the scent of burning fur.
With some small satisfaction, he lay on his back and let out a laugh. Pain filled his body beyond anything he had ever imagined possible, but that still seemed small compared to the simple joy of killing those rats. More than anything else, he hated the world.
