In the Western Lands, at the center of a forest the size of a city near a better one was a Druidic commune. Great Cat's Grove was one of the lesser known "Green Towns", as it's commonly referred to by the “ignorant insiders". That’s the nickname those of Nature faith have for those without the good sense to worship dirt. The proper term was "Community Settlement in Balance" or "CSBs". Insiders, both those who are neutral and those actively hostile towards nature tend to think Druidism is "worshiping nature". I mean yes, it is but it’s more complicated than that. Even an alchemical scientist touched by the divine like myself can recognize it. Lowering my mindset to that level is a challenge.
Young Dag Smashmouth once lived in Great Cat's Grove. He grew up there, moving from the deeply unfortunate city of Coughing Stack with his parents after they converted to Druidry of the Fields. Coughing Stack is as pleasant as it sounds. Even though it's almost two dozen miles away, on a hot summer day you can still see industrial waste creeping up on the sun. He had no memories of the city, but would later visit. Dag was a human and a rookie ranger of considerable talent, for a non-elf.. His parents were farmhands who converted to their Druidic practice after growing disillusioned with city life. They enjoyed the honesty of farm work and the satisfaction of watching crops grow. What they hated was doing it for well-heeled, white-gloved nobles. They were tired of their sweat producing more food than they needed all for the benefit of someone with a fancy last name. If only they were smart enough to practice alchemy.
His father died shortly after Dag tumbled and cartwheeled into what humans call “adulthood”. According to the locals, it was the one mule nobody liked. His mother passed a few months before he had the pleasure of meeting yours truly. I wasn’t there but I know non-elfiods pretty well. I mean they are technically “people”. I imagine back then he was kneeling by her grave as the afternoon sun bowed to the oncoming evening. Dag would later tell me about himself and his history. Sometimes, his stories were even worth listening to. I’ve made a few corrections here and there. It goes without saying I know better, so I’ll spare you the chaff.
The elders of Great Cat Grove had designated a half mile plot from their main settlement for those who wished to be buried in accordance to past beliefs. It was not the sort of thing they thought of when the founders wrote their charter in (what they call) “holy” sap onto the walls of their long stone hall over two thousand years ago. It just kept coming up. Converts and pilgrims who lived here for decades or even more would often, in their last moments, want to be buried with the rites of their previous faiths. I can relate. I myself had a profound spiritual event that changed my carefully cultivated world outlook after my lowest moment.
This regression was the exception, not the rule. The vast majority of Great Cat's Grove citizens surrendered their bones, skin, muscle, and sinew to the community for what they call “recycling”. The dead continue to serve the community by becoming tools, fabrics, and decoration. The rest of their bodies were utilized as fertilizer for their underground mushroom fields. It's a beautiful ceremony that ends in a wheelbarrow. In this case, the elders were relieved Dag buried his mother this way. They were quietly worried her penchant for painting her fingers and toes might leech into the soil.
Inscribed on his mother’s modest headstone, likely cobbled together in amateurish authenticity by non-elf paws or whatever was her birth, death, name, and the words "Marie Smashtooth, gone too soon". Dag planted a small tulip by the grave. Killing a flower and leaving its corpse at a grave was frowned upon. He thought of the day she died. It was in the last weeks of winter. Spring was in the air, eager to start but it was still cold. The slightly warmer air made the snow wetter and more frequent. Dag, Marie, and the whole commune were all set on hunkering down until it was over. There was still plenty of stored food. They hadn't yet broken the magic seals on their preserved supplies. These dirt worshipers are more sophisticated than one would thnk. This was one of the milder winters.
They say Marie was painting her toes a crimson red when she first fell ill. The fumes in their stone apartment were not always ventilated properly. Dag was outside, making snowmen and then shooting them when she first passed out. He had been out there for hours. Dag loved archery. He loved to flip, dodge, duck, weave, leap, and showboat as much as possible. They say he was as graceful as an elf. I think he’s almost there. As a human, he knew he had a much shorter amount of time to learn how to be the best ranger he could be. That must be hard to cope with. He knew he have the luxury of an elf’s or even a dwarf’s years to master the bow and understand the art of forestcraft. When we shared a watch, he would tell me this was technically not his life's goal. He wanted to serve the Great Cat, her grove, and nature as whole. Still, it drove him. His work friend Ana thought it was endearing, she being an elven druid 200 hundred years his senior. Dag considered her his big sister in a short, wise, anxious package.
Dag set out to shoot and play with himself that morning. He did not return until his body finally heated up enough in the cold to sweat. As a wood-elf, I cannot help but feel sorry for those whose bodies were so poorly made by cruel or incompetent Gods that they have to excrete bodily cooling fluid. Dag reckoned now was a good time for a late lunch. His mother told him of a legendary city recipe made of eggs, cheese, and whatever else you have lying around.
Dag had heard some of the other pilgrims and even some of the elders speak of this "Alm-Let". Marie was the only one who claimed to know how to make it. He walked back to the stone gate that guarded the main settlement of Great Cat's Grove. He had to yell out to the watch a few times before they saw him and let him in. Technically, he could've entered by just placing his palm on the round engraving. Their crude but effective magic would’ve recognized him as a citizen, but that was kinda rude. It made the watch feel useless. The elders had discretely asked the community, one at a time, to play along.
Dag entered and descended underground. The stairs twisted and led to dozens of apartments, a barracks, food storage, the druid's prayer hall with accompanying library, an aquifer filled with barrels, the great stone hall, a few rooms only the elders had access to, and their treasure room. The people of Great Cat's Grove had no currency but frequently had a need to trade with others. Nature, even manipulated with magic, has its limits. As Dag was about to find out. He was shocked to see his mother in her state. She had fallen to the floor and was not responsive. "Mom!", Dag exclaimed as he flipped and cartwheeled himself across the room to her side. He tapped at her face. He shook her. There was no response.
Dag shouted for help. He ran up and down the hallways, trying to find someone who could help. As a ranger, he knew the basics of "Firste Aide", except for how to check for a pulse. As clever as he was, for a non-elf, we all have our blindspots. He saw no signs of injury. He used his hard-wrought spell of the day to detect for magic. As a rookie ranger with some experience, he was required to learn a few spells. Dag would tell anyone who would listen he preferred to just focus on his bow and his footwork. He did not detect any magic that could've harmed his mother. It would've been hard to discern between that and the vast Druidic magic Great Cat's Grove used daily anyways.
Every person he spoke to that frantic afternoon was unable to assist him. Many of them were not spell casters, or they had used up their magic for the day. The worst were the few hardliners, the fundamentalists who refused to use any healing magic at all. They believed sickness, injury, and death were part of the natural order. People like them believed they should only work to prevent harm, not undo it. They, like most played favorites. There were no healing potions in storage. They refilled in the Spring and that damn mean mule was really a hassle that year.
The stone apartments of Great Cat's Grove were particularly under-inhabited that day. Many of the community's elders and best spellcasters were away at a 3-day seminar at Coughing Stack. The topic was air pollution and avoiding smoke. The people of Coughing Stack were cynical. They had been breathing in smoke for generations. Why change now?
Running out of options, Dag decided to set back out into the cold to find a healer. There was a cleric of Othos 6 miles west of Great Cat's Grove. Locally beloved Mark Rosewater lived there in a makeshift temple he ran out of his modest hut. He dedicated his life to the mainstream, most popular God of Healing. His ecclesiastic career was healing travelers and anyone "decent" in need who made the trip. Dag thought surely, he would help his mother! Dag wrapped Marie in her cloak and carried her outside. He gently placed her in a wheelbarrow. He was pretty sure this one was designated for cleared brush and not one of the aforementioned corpse wheelbarrows. He was mistaken. The sun had already set and the wind was picking up. Dag took faith in the Great Cat and let her guide his steps through the dark. Through the snow he pushed the wheelbarrow for what felt like an eternity.
Mark was a half-elf who had served Othos for nearly 30 years. A few winters into what a half-elf calls "middle-age", he was a jolly and studious sort. He had a busy day of healing and rites. The approaching spring had brought more visitors than usual. He was sitting near his hearth with a cup of blueberry tea. He got up and walked over to a locked chest. Despite living alone, there were a few things he didn't want to have out in the open. He grabbed a particularly steamy book of erotic drawings and sat back down. He opened the book and began to untie his robes. He heard a knock. He jumped out of his chair. "Just a moment". He stumbled back towards the chest and placed his titillating grimoire inside. He stood straight, retied his robes, and walked to his door. He opened it and looked at Dag.
"Greetings, traveler. How may I direct the light of Othos for you? By the way, I was not about to masturbate". He paused and then smacked his forehead. Dag did not register his comment at the moment, but would chuckle about it many years later. Dag clasped his hands. "Please sir, it's my mother". Mark beckoned Dag to enter. "Come in, come in.". Mark inspected Marie. Despite a career in magic, he was well versed in natural healing arts. People forget there is science in our world. Science is the magic of the mundane. Mark felt for a pulse while Dag wept. She had one, faint but clear. "Your mother is alive, young man. Do you know what caused her to fall in such a deep sleep?". Dag frowned "No, I just came home and smelled something strong, like a tannery, and found her". Mark put his hand on his chin. "Hmmm, perhaps she breathed in something toxic. That or she fell victim to a mushroom's curse. You people have mushroom curses, right? I can tell by how your tunic you're from Great Cat Grove"
"Great Cat's Grove", Dag muttered. "And no, she doesn't have a mushroom's curse"
"But you people definitely have mushroom curses? I'm not trying to be ignorant, I just heard from my buddy back in seminary".
Dag waved his arm with frustration. "Yes, we do, but it's more complicated than that. Our family follow the Druids of the Field. We don't do any of that shit. You’re thinking of the Chorus of The Fungus"
"Oh? That's interesting. ‘Chorus of the Fungus’; Tell me more" Mark went to another chest, this one without a lock, that was full of non-pornographic grimoires. He pulled a quill from his desk and started writing.
Dag sneered. "Can we stop talking about those freaks and focus on my mom? CAST A SPELL, PLEASE!"
Mark put his other than lewd book down. "Young man, I'm sorry. I can't".
Dag stared at him, stunned. "Why not? You're a cleric, right?"
"I am. But I've cast all my spells for the day. You caught me when I was about to recite my prayers, so that I may heal again on the morrow. Again, I was not about to masturbate. I just want you to know that". Mark grimaced. I’ve met Mark and his elven half occasionally shines through his base human half but he tends to tell on himself. I don’t know why either. I’ve read the holy tomes of Othos and there isn’t a single verse on masturbation. I’m pretty sure you can just do it whenever. It’s a pretty solid faith! It’s nowhere near the sublime grace of Kossoth of course but don’t tell Mark that. I already did. He asked me to leave.
Dag threw his hands up. "So, finish your prayers and HEAL MY MOM!"
Mark turned away from Dag. He did not want to see his face. Like a good cleric of a good god, he had compassion for every honest soul that came to his doorstep. "That's not enough, we still have to wait until tomorrow. It takes a day. From the moment after my last spell until the next full day. You can't rush these things. My power, the power of all clerics and paladins are a covenant with a god. This is the deal"
"Can't you just say some extra prayers?".
Mark lightly scoffed. "No, it doesn't work that way. I can't get extra spells by saying extra prayers. This isn’t like ordering another round of ale. Everyone who can't even cast a cantrip thinks this and I'm sick of it! You're a ranger, you should know this. Can't you make the Sign of the Hunter or do something weird with a root? I don't know the rules of dirt worship".
Dag fell to his knees. He began to cry.
"I'm sorry young man. I can't help your mother right now. Stay the night, maybe wait outside for about 20 minutes or so, and the moment I feel my magic return, I will heal her. She may even clear up on her own".
Dag was a hotblooded young human. Kind and sometimes wise, after years of my mentorship of course, but he was quick to anger. Years later he would look back and wish he had made better decisions that fateful night. Dag rose to his feet and pointed at Mark. "FUCK YOU OLD MAN!". Filled with angry, dumb human strength, he picked up the wheelbarrow and barreled towards the door. He stopped and fiddled with the lock as it was old and a little rusty. "You got to jerk it back and forth a little bit young man"
"SHUT UP!". It was giving him a hard time. Mark and Dag could hear the latch scrape.
"Do you want me to come over and help...."
"I FUCKING GOT IT, SHIT!". Dag loosened the latch and kicked the door open. He set out a third time into the cold. He made it back to Great Cat's Grove by sunrise. He was frost bitten, as was Marie. Her fair skin was darkened on her extremities and lips. Remembering what he saw Mark do through his tears, Dag felt for a pulse. He must've misremembered the technique, for Dag felt for a pulse on his mother's elbow. There was none. The words "She's dead" skulked their way across his mind. Only vaguely familiar with his family's former burial rites, despite witnessing his own father's funeral, he pitched Marie into the deepest hole he could find, and started packing snow on top of it. No one stopped him until it was too late.
____________________________________________________________________________________
"I miss you mom". Dag stood up from his mother's headstone. He wiped a tear from his eye.
"I'm sorry you gave your mom an early dirtin", a deep but youthful face offered. Dag turned around. It was Dush Marshwood. Dush was half-orc and rumored to have an elven father. Good for him. That would make him a rare hybrid, a term I’ve been informed by muddled-blood persons is “offensive”, so pretend I said something else. His father died not too long after Dush’s birth but his side of the family were very involved. He and his mother were the closest thing Great Cat’s Grove had to “old money”.
He was a tall and muscular paladin. Dush, like his mother, took a paladin's oath to serve the Ancients of the Land. The Ancients aren’t Gods but instead something both greater and lesser. They were to be served, honored, and feared. Interpreting their holy decrees was another matter entirely. The Great Cat herself, Cernunnas straddled the line between God and Ancient of the Land. You could have a conversation with her, sometimes, depending on her mood. She is a cat, after all. Like all druids, he was dedicated to the preservation of nature. His faith was more non-denominational than Dag's. He saw "a little bit of good in all, or at least most" of the Druidic faiths".
Dag turned towards his friend. “You know what the worst part is?”
“That you buried her alive in the snow?”
Dag winced. “Okay fine, do you know what the 2nd worst part is?”. He was too annoyed to wait for an answer. “That I did it wrong. I just dumped her. I didn’t put her in a coughing”
“Coffin. I think they’re called coffins”
“THANKS DUSH!”. Dag picked up his quiver. He had two, one for combat and one for practice. He looked for his worst-looking practice arrow, knelt, and fired it into the air at a slight angle. It tore off into the horizon. For a moment, it looked like it was going to hit the setting sun. The two friends watched it go. “Dush, are you trying to piss me off?”
He smirked. “Maybe a little. You wanna spar?”
Dag did want to spar. “I think I do”. Dag loved archery but wasn’t passionate about combat. He loved doing flips and leaping off objects. He enjoyed identifying animals by their tracks, their calls, and what they leave behind. He liked stalking prey, even when he had no intention of harming them. He liked wandering into forests without a plan and creating his own path out. Yet in this moment, Dush’s invitation to a sanctioned brawl felt like exactly what he needed. He couldn’t bring his mother back, but he could kick Dush’s ass. He started shuffling his feet. He wanted to get his heart rate up.
Dush preferred prayers before a battle. He closed his eyes and gave thanks to the Ancient’s of the Land for this beautiful spring evening. He felt the gentle breeze carry his words to the four corners of Slzewskia. He placed his hands on the top of his shield. It, like his armor and gauntlets was made out of wood. As per his vows. It was a carved, oblong sequoia stump with straps on the inside. The stump was reinforced with resins and enchanted prayers. Dush broke combat tradition and held it with his dominant left hand. “It’s heavier”, he told his instructor. The veteran refused to let this go until Dush bested him soundly, upside his head on the day of his last lesson.
He, in accordance to his traditions, vowed to never fight with metal. Insiders tend to think this puts paladins like him at a disadvantage against more metal-friendly warriors. They’re mostly true but it’s more complicated than that. Dush’s family, his mysterious father’s side in particular, were connected. They had resources. Dush planted his shield into the ground and unsheathed his sword. He pointed it at Dag and then towards the setting sun. His sword was a dull pink and made of diamonds. He could not use iron or steel in a fight but diamonds molded in alchemically-tinged blacksmithing was acceptable. I don’t understand why this exception is permitted or even how such a thing was made.
Neither Dush nor his mother knew the history behind this blade. It arrived via courier a few days after he reached what his half-people call “adulthood”. I suspect it’s Goblin made. Their attempt at worldwide conquest was a long, bloody failure but their wonderful toys still remain, despite their best efforts. I can’t blacksmith but I understand the science, the craft. I’d love to get my hands on one their fiercely guarded secrets. They melded magic, metal work, and alchemy in a way that makes practicing any of those skills individually look like child’s play.
The elfoids, the non-elfoids, the devils, the celestials, and just about everyone else with half a brain love to give their “best” weapons flowery names. We’ve all heard seen something like a shortsword dubbed “Dawnbringer”, a greatclub named “The Giant’s Finger”, or a shield called “The Dragon’s Talon”. Not the Goblins. They save all the romance for the item itself. They could not be bothered to give one of their deadly masterworks a fancy name. A title. A legend. They let their weapons to speak for themselves. Dush’s garishly pink and rocky sword was what the Goblin Nation called “A plus sword”.
Just by holding it in your hand, you were a more skilled warrior. Your swings were more likely to connect. Your blows became deadlier. This sort of enhancement over a conventional blade was not uncommon outside of the Goblin Nation. The Goblins took it to another level. That level being +5, +6, or even +7 whereas the rest of us are lucky if we can find something greater than +2. Dush was already a skilled young warrior without this treasure.
“This will be my family’s heirloom”, he told the elders of Great Cat’s Grove the day it arrived. “It starts with me”. His weapon was feared but tolerated. Since losing their war, The Goblin nation had largely faded into memory. When they resurfaced, it was usually them violently reclaiming one of their lost weapons. Dush knew this. That autumn, he would leave Great Cat’s Grove and protect nature as a wanderer. He wanted to meet the other Ancient’s of the Land. He met Cernunnas once. It left him awestruck for days.
Dag reached into his sack for his practice arrows. This was a sparring match, after all. “Use the real ones, Dag”. He paused. “Are you sure?”. Dush grinned. “Yes, I’m sure. If I can’t handle a few pussy arrows, I’ll never make it. Give me the real stuff. I can take it”. Dag shrugged and reached what he thought was his real arrows. “You wanna put on a helmet, Dush?. These things are flat but they can still stick you”. Dush said nothing as he charged towards Dag.
Dag lobbed three arrows immediately. Dush blocked two but the third managed to lodge itself into his wooden armor’s center mass. He felt a slight pinch as he closed in on Dag. He swung his shield outwards in a sweeping but it was already too late. Dag flipped over his large friend. He used his right arm to spring off the top of Dush’s head in a manner that should not align with what I thought was how the physical world without magical intervention works. Please do not tell him this, for he, like most humans, are insufficiently humble, but his movements can occasionally even surpass your average elf!
He told me once the flips, leaps, and cartwheels are his way of “Getting my blood up”. He feels more competent and emboldened with each athletic flourish. Yes, they do serve a tactical function of keeping a distance from his target and positioning himself for the best shots. He soared behind Dush, he fired a few more shots in a downward angle. One missed but two connected to the back of his neck.
Dag landed a few yards behind Dush. He prepared to lob more arrows. Dush turned around, dropped his shield, and extended his arm. Thick vines burst from the ground by Dag’s feet. They wrapped him in a tight, constructing embrace. He could not move. He could only thrash and sway. Dush picked up his shield again and walked towards Dag. He smirked and sheathed his sword. This was his friend in a sparring match, afterall.
Dag felt Dush’s fist slam into him. It felt like being kicked by a mule. Most rangers can’t take a lot of hits. Especially a young, inexperienced, dumb (even for a human) specimen like himself. His jaw was sore and a tooth felt loose. If he wasn’t so woozy, he would’ve made a mental note to see a healer next morning. The other two blows hit just as hard but were less shocking. Dag had only been in one real, life or death fight before. This would become an almost everyday occurrence once we started to travel together. For a moment, he forgot this was just sparring with his friend. He felt helpless.
He struggled to free himself as the blows continued. Creating strong, magical vines that would nonetheless dissipate after a few hours was a pretty common tactic of druids, rangers, paladins of the ancients, and the like. Dag himself learned how to a few weeks ago. He wasn’t into binding or trapping his target. He actually preferred that they move around a little. It kept things interesting. Dag thought it would be more fun to use magical vines the opposite way. To push threats away. To fling targets into the air. As the blows continued he thought; What about me?
Dush didn’t see Dag’s lips move. He didn’t see his hand glow. He did see another set of vines spread beneath Dag’s feet. He saw his own vines crack and burst as Dag’s supplanted them. The two vines enveloped each other in mutual strangulation. They fell to ground and would later do something between decomposing and disappearing. I always like to say; magic affects science and science affects magic. They are two roads that usually run parallel, intersecting only when a spell is cast.
Dag flicked into the air like a skipping stone. His rotation from right side up, to upside down, back to right side up did not affect his relentless volley. He drew. He nocked. He aimed. He released.
THUNK!
Dush felt a small pinch. He couldn’t see it at that moment, but Dag’s arrow drew blood in the small gap between Dush’s armor and his collarbone. He reached for and raised his stump shield before the thoughts became words in his mind. Dag drew, nocked, aimed, and released twice before doing it again.
THUNK! THUNK!.......THUNK!
Two arrows barreled there way into his shield, piercing it ever so slightly in almost the exact same spot. The third came nearby. Dush felt a need to make his huge frame smaller behind his shield. It was the first time in his life he wanted to take up less space. Dag drew, nocked, aimed, and released again, and again, and again.
THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!
Dush’s shield began to look cluttered with arrows. He could’ve swore it was starting to feel heavy. The stump was huge but so was he. He started to crouch, to cower in front of his shield. Dag drewnockedaimedreleased. Dag drewnockedaimedreleased. Dag drewnockedaimedreleased. Dag drewnockedaimedreleased. Dag drewnockedaimedreleased.
THUNK! THUNK! THUNK! THUNK! THUNK! THUNK….pffft!
All the joy, all the novelty of archery was gone. Dag felt nothing. No excitement, no anger, no fear, no pain. Just a target. All the color in the world withdrew from his sight. Everything was a stark black and white as his aim sharpened. He didn’t like it but could only acknowledge this change after the fact. His friend Ana called it “the marksman’s trance”.
Another arrow made it’s way to the gap between his armor and collarbone. Dush was able to swipe the rest away with his sword but this one went in deep. He felt the warmth of his blood before the pain. He dropped his sword and laid his hand on the wound. He was lucky to have a spell left over, or maybe his god gave him a freebee that day. There’s a little more room for forgiveness, or spite, in divine magic over arcane. His hand glowed and the prayer slumped from his mouth. The blood didn’t stop but it slowed down.
“I” (Draw) “Ye” (nock) “eld” (aim) (release) THUNK….pffft!
Dag instinctively drew again before his mind registered that his friend conceded. His last arrow struck Dush. Dush held his drawn bow for a few moments as color returned to his world. He slowly put his arrow down. Dag at this moment realized he had been drawing from the wrong quiver. He was using practice arrows the whole time.
“Are you okay Dush?”
Dag sat in the apothecary’s stone apartment. She was a young-ish dwarf with a thick accent. She was peering into his mouth. Ella was not a druid but a cleric of in service of the Ancient’s of the Land.
“Hey dere, I’m sorry it took me so long to see ya. You punched a lot holes into Dush! I thought you were just sparring?”
“We were. I guess I just…spared too hard?”
“Ha!” She slapped her knee and in one fluid motion, put her hand on Dag’s jaw. Dag winced as he felt the unique pain of a brand-new adult tooth growing beneath and displacing the one beneath it. He spat out a chunk of blood and something more pink onto the stone floor. She frowned.
“Ah okay, I have a bucket for stuff like that but the floor is fine too, I guess”.
The End
