Path of Dragons

Nerthus sat on the branch of the juvenile ancestral tree, basking in the potent life coursing through its limbs. The tree wasn’t nearly as powerful as its forebear, but then again, Nerthus had never expected it to be. It was still young, and it hadn’t been afforded the same opportunities for growth. Even so, it was maturing well, and now that it had finally connected to its progenitor, Nerthus could at last visit it in person.

However, for once, he was less interested in the tree than in the curious creatures scurrying around its base. Nerthus had never had much opportunity to observe other people. Before he’d come to Earth, he had been barely more than a seedling, and his sapience was almost entirely undeveloped. Of his old life, he mostly only remembered emotions. Warmth. Love. Comfort. And of course, safety. He had an image of his progenitors, but it was blurry, and at times, he thought that those memories were a figment of his imagination.

So, everything he’d witnessed since awakening inside the ancestral tree that had brought him to Earth had been new for him. More than four-and-a-half years later, the novelty of it all still hadn’t worn off. From Elijah’s stories, Nerthus knew that the planet was a wild, unforgiving, and violent place. He’d lost count of how many times Elijah had nearly been killed – which would have been a disaster, both emotionally as well as from a practical standpoint. Until now, though, Nerthus had only known peace.

Certainly, there had been the incident with the Voxx surging out of the tower, but Elijah had dealt with that before it had affected Nerthus or the grove. The same was true with the invaders who’d come from Ironshore, intent on either vengeance or greed. So, given that, as well as the fact that he’d spent his pervious years safe in his progenitors’ embrace, Nerthus had lived quite a sheltered life, short though it had been.

Which was why he found the little creatures below him so fascinating.

In most ways, they looked a lot like the dwarves and gnomes who’d skirted the island on their way to the tower. They were tiny, with slightly stubbier proportions and an exuberance for life that surprised Nerthus.

That was on display as they chased one another through the area known as Druid’s Park. They laughed and screamed as they ran among giant mushrooms and the vibrant flora that had grown amidst the ever-increasingly dense ethera surrounding the juvenile tree. At first, Nerthus thought the little creatures were engaged in a battle, and he’d very nearly intervened. After all, the off-shoot of the grove was no place for fighting. Yet, as he watched, he had come to realize that the aim was not to hurt one another. It was a competition, and one whose rules were nebulous at best.

The tiny people shouted at one another, making rules up as they went, and Nerthus found himself smiling at their antics. They were all so innocent, completely unaware of the issues of the wider world. Elijah had given them that. Without him, the entire city would have been overrun with orcs. Or subjected to the dangers of a surging tower. But with his help, they were now safe. The city prospered. And the grove remained safe from outside interference.

As he watched, Nerthus channeled Plant Authority:

It was the signature ability of his class, Forest Prince, though he enjoyed various other spells and abilities as well. Shifting his attention from the playing children – yes, that was the word; he was certain of it – he looked at his list of abilities. Elijah referred to it as a spellbook, which Nerthus thought was an apt label:

As a spyrggent, Nerthus did not get quite as many abilities as most others. His memories were fuzzy on the subject, but he thought that had something to do with his race’s origins. Though even with abilities like Ethereal Mind and Improved Memory, he couldn’t quite remember why that would have anything to do with it, and it wasn’t as if he could visit a Branch to find out.

Not yet, at least.

Perhaps one day Elijah’s grove would grow large enough to earn an existing Branch. For most groves, that wasn’t an issue. They were collectives populated by not just Druids, but by nature-attuned Warriors, Rangers, Tradesmen, and every other archetype. But Elijah was something of a loner, and it didn’t seem likely that would change anytime soon.

But maybe the very children chasing one another around the park would end up with a nature attunement. Or Miguel would choose to form a bond with his uncle’s grove. The opportunities to expand would present themselves, Nerthus was certain. He need only wait.

After a few more minutes of watching the children, Nerthus noticed that the person on whom he’d been waiting had arrived in the park. The gnome stayed to the edges, obviously hesitant, but the entire park was within Nerthus’ purview. So, he had no issues slipping into the tree, following its widespread roots to a location just a few feet away from the gnome, and rising from the ground.

“Hello, Biggle,” he said. “Have you come to agree to my terms?”

The little Alchemist whipped around, startled by Nerthus’ sudden appearance. That was gratifying to the spryggent, but Nerthus wasn’t certain why it amused him.

“Gods below, you scared me out of my skin!” Biggle said in a squeaky voice. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“My apologies,” Nerthus said with an acquiescent bow. However, he did allow himself a slight smile that he was sure Biggle wouldn’t recognize. When he rose to his full height, his face was once again unreadable. “Do you agree?”

“Nice to see you, too,” Biggle grumbled, unshouldering his pack. He reached inside and retrieved a small pouch. “This is what you wanted, right?”

As he asked the question, Nerthus cast his awareness to the seeds in the pouch. “Cascading briar,” Nerthus identified them. “Poor specimens, but that is no matter. What of the others?”

“All here,” Biggle answered, patting the larger pack. And indeed, Nerthus could feel the wide variety of seeds inside. Some were meant to increase the density of the ambient ethera within the grove, but others would be foodstuffs to replace the inefficient berry bushes that took up so much room. As much as Elijah liked those fruits, they used an inordinate amount of ethera, at least compared to the effects they provided. There were many other fruits that would provide similar – or better – results while absorbing a fraction of the ambient ethera.

The rest were meant for a project concerning the rest of the island, and they would either provide defensive measures or further raise the density of the local ethera. Nerthus’ instincts told him that he’d only barely managed to scratch the surface of what was possible, and from the guides he’d had Miguel or Carmen purchase, he knew it wasn’t uncommon for a true Druids’ grove to possess an ethera density hundreds of times thicker than the surrounding area. As it was, the island fell far short of that mark, and Nerthus wanted to change that.

Part of that determination was based on his instincts. He wanted the area to thrive. However, it was also because his class – as well as his race – was inextricably tied to the grove. As it grew stronger, so too would he.

“Good. Then I will allow you to grow your little fungi here,” said Nerthus. He had initially planned to destroy the invasive mushrooms, but had instead chosen to use their presence to his advantage. They were even more ethera-hungry than the berry bushes, but it wasn’t such a big deal outside the true grove. He could work around it in Druid’s Park. “You will leave the pack on the beach before tomorrow morning. Until then…”

Nerthus trailed off.

“What is it?” asked Biggle, for once reading the spryggent’s expression.

“I must go,” Nerthus answered. Then, without warning, he slipped through the ground and into the ancestral tree’s roots. Without hesitation, he sped along the ethereal connection between it and its progenitor. He moved far more quickly than normal, but he didn’t stop once he reached the grove. Instead, he raced along the roots of the larger ancestral tree, aiming for the edge of the island.

Because a watercraft he didn’t recognize had just come into range.

* * *

Guinevere Mcintosh gripped the aluminum edge of the raft, crouching low as they approached the rocky shore of the island. It looked inhospitable, but it was still better than the island that had been her home for the past four-and-a-half years. The mere fact that the local airspace lacked giant, predatory birds or monsters was enough to make her feel safer than she’d felt since the world had ended.

Still, the vegetation only a few feet from the shore was as dense as any jungle she had ever seen, and as such, she was well aware of just how many dangers it could hide. That was how the new world worked. Everything – even the flora – was capable of killing them. She’d learned that lesson the hard way.

“What do you think?” she asked, glancing at John.

The man didn’t look away from the shore. His appearance was nothing like it’d been when she had first met him. Back then, he was clean-cut, with a square jaw and a face that wouldn’t have been out-of-place in a comic book. Now, he wore a great, bushy beard, his hair was long and unkempt, and he bore a large, puckered scar that cut diagonally across his face from his right temple all the way to his jaw. In addition, he was missing all bout four fingers, and she knew for a fact that he walked with a limp.

Guinevere had plenty of her own scars to show for their hardships, but none were as visible as his. And she was one of the few survivors who had managed to keep all her digits.

“It’s land. We don’t have much of a choice,” John said, finally pulling his gaze from the beach. “The others are depending on us to find help, and this is our only chance.”

Indeed, the raft they’d built was barely holding itself together. That wasn’t surprising, given the punishment it had endured. John and Guinevere weren’t the only ones onboard, but they were the only two in any condition to make decisions. Rajesh, Leo, and Ada had been knocked unconscious by some tentacled nightmare they’d encountered on the open ocean. The only reason they hadn’t been shipwrecked was because of an enormous dolphin that had attacked the monster. Even then, the damage had been done, and the raft they’d spent so long building had been reduced to little more than flotsam. The ones who’d been stung by those tentacles had slipped into comas from which they’d yet to recover even a week later.

But if there was one thing they were accustomed to, it was hardship. They had learned to endure well past what could be expected of any reasonable human being.

And they would continue to do so because they were survivors.

“Nothing else for it,” John said, paddling them forward. Once, the raft had been a true boat, with three banks of oars and the benefit of the most powerful enchantments their Tradesmen could imbue into its hull. But the rough seas and the tentacle monster from the deep had changed that. Gwenivere was used to making do, though. It was the same for the rest as well.

Soon enough, the raft crunched into the pebbly shore. A few hundred yards away, Guinevere saw a huge crab scuttling along, but it hadn’t noticed them. It looked fearsome, but her Eyes of the Sentinel ability told her that it was far less dangerous than its size would suggest. Durable, sure. And potentially annoying to kill. But it lacked intelligence and offensive prowess.

Besides, she and the rest of the survivors were used to much deadlier monsters than an overgrown crab. Still, she kept an eye on it as she dismounted the raft. The moment her feet hit dry ground, she wobbled, then stumbled to her knees. They’d been at sea for too long, and the lack of rocking back and forth made her dizzy.

She pulsed Recovery, increasing her Regeneration as she looked around. The forest was thicker than anything she’d ever experienced, but that wasn’t saying anything, really. She wasn’t that well-traveled, and before recently, she’d only ever been to her home country of Ireland.

That felt like a lifetime ago, though. She had been so naïve. So soft. She barely recognized the woman in her memories.

Once she’d gotten her feet under her, she reached down and helped John to drag the raft fully ashore. However, they’d only just managed it when a rustle in the nearby forest drew her attention. She whipped around, hefting her axe. By that point, it was too late, though.

A creature made of roots and branches burst forth from the trees, roaring in fury. Before Guinevere could react, six ambulatory trees threw themselves from the forest and surrounded them.

She shouted, embracing Flowing Blade as she leaped forward, intending to hack the root monster apart with her rough-bladed machete, but before she could do anything, vines erupted from the forest and snaked around her, John, and the three unconscious bodies. They moved so quickly that she hadn’t even had a chance to react.

Then, as if being trussed up wasn’t enough, a quartet of deer – one with a giant rack of crystalline antlers – charged through the brush, joining the monstrous trees.

It was then that Guinevere realized that her journey had come to an end. She had been through so much, had endured so many hardships – it was galling that when she and the others had finally escaped that terrible atoll, they’d meet such an ignominious fate.

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