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A Gamer's Guide 355
🕑 Added 2025-06-07 09:51:07 +0000 UTCThey returned within less than half an hour, though even that felt like too much considering that every minute mattered now. Sundown would be in seven hours. Going by the scent of whoever the army’s leader was, it would take more than three hours to reach them.
She found Prince lying face-down in the snow, straddled by a pair of kids she recognizes as Lisa and Ginni-ritt, using him as a stepping stool for throwing snowballs at the other kids who had more sensibly built snow fortresses.
Letting down Nils, she steered Grandma towards them while pulling a rope from her belt. Tying it into a lasso, she began taking aim, carefully maneuvering both herself and Grandma to avoid being hit by the full barrage of snowballs being thrown their way. He had taught her how to do this when she was just a lass, but she remembered it well. Ready it, circle it, and… Toss!
The loop slipped around one of his splayed feet, and with one good tug, the lasso tightened, also allowing her to fully pull him out from under the two girls, who both toppled to the snow squealing. They didn’t even hit the ground before both being struck by stray snowballs, crashing to the snow in dramatic splashes. Jolene shook her head. The price of war is always too high.
Once she had brought herself, Grandma and Prince outside of the battlezone, she was able to let him down, hopping down as she did. It was now that she found that he had an odd expression on his face, weirdly similar to the look Nils had had upon viewing the buck being possessed by the god of hunting. “Prince?” she said to the unmoving, seemingly dead body. “Prince, are you in there?”
“Horse priest…” he muttered at her, which was better than nothing, because it meant he was at least alive. Now that she thought about it, they’d both forgotten their daily ritual of reading a chapter of the horse priest story (‘For The World’s Behoof; Myself’). A damning loss, though one that she had good reason to believe would persist tonight as well.
“Are you alright, or should I pull out the banjo?”
Focus returned to his eyes with a theatrical flourish, and he abruptly rose to his feet, only to instantly fall over due to the rope still attached to one leg. The snowy ground cushioned his fall, but not by much, as she could still count the stars circling his head as he stood back up. Charmer. “I’m good,” he said, with his delightful deep-South accent, “Real good. No need ta worry your head about it, Rice. I’m ‘fraid I got myself a wee bit caught up in those there games them kids be playing. Worrying stuff. I reckon they’ll be done reenacting the civil war by the time the rooster crows.”
“Will be too late,” Jolene found herself saying, her voice as grave as it had every right to be. Still, the words caught Prince completely unawares, eliciting a response from him akin to that of a cat being picked up by the scruff of its neck. Mostly confusion, but a fair bit of resignation, too. It was a fitting simile, now that she thought about it. He had always been very cat-like. Another charming quirk of his.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Situation’s changed,” Jolene continued, trying not to look too much at all the kids having fun. Would the church still be here after everything had passed? Would she? “Let’s talk about it inside. Wouldn’t wanna upset them kids too much, you know how they can get when it’s all doom ‘n gloom on the horizon.”
“There’s doom an’ gloom on the horizon? Whyever for?”
Taking him by his cold, soft hand, she led him inside. As she did, she recounted as best as she could both what the god of hunting had told her and the form he had chosen to do it, which Prince then decided to aptly call ‘Darn spooky.’ Occasionally, she did wonder why he didn’t use one of the more conventional methods for contacting her. Other gods were perfectly capable of simply sending a system message in bold for her to read, but him? No, always with the dramatics. Scaring people half to death.
By the time they had arrived at their shared bedroom, Prince was fully up to date. “It’s coming for me. There ain’t no other explanation.”
“How come?”
Prince shook his head, taking a seat on top of his bed. “That there god’s been after my hide for years now, all ‘cause I did him the disfavor of killing a few of his little heralds. I know you’ve been doing the same, but… Call it a hunch, I s’pose.”
“In that case, we’d better keep you away from the church as well.”
“Good idea. I’ll head for… You said the herald was coming from out yonder? The direction of old Krutchett’s farm?”
“That’s it.”
“There’s an open field out there I’m sure would be suitable for a battle like this. After you’ve left, I’ll tell everyone else about the plan. No need for the kids to know. Like you said, it’ll just get ‘em all riled up for nothing. If we’re lucky, they’ll never even knew it happened.”
“We can only hope.”
Something about what she had said must have hit home, since Prince abruptly turned away from her, letting his gaze move to the window. “Yeah. That’s about it, isn’t it?” And for only a moment, there was calm. Neither of them said a thing, and outside, solitary flakes of snow had begun to fall. “Right!” Prince erupted, leaping to his feet. “No time to waste, Rice! Fly now, before it is too late. You have a long journey ahead, as do I. Keep me updated to your adventures, and I’ll do the same for you, and if the wind is with us, we’ll be sure to meet at the field come sundown.”
“Aye!”
With no time to share pleasantries, Jolene quickly set off, following her nose towards the setting sun. Had it not been for the fact that the army was heading in her direction, it was unlikely that she would have reached them before the time was out. Even then, she knew every second counted.
Grandma was a strong drake, but even she was beginning to grow tired and weary after three hours of constant haste. But the smell was growing stronger. The only scent her boon allowed her to pick up was that of the army’s leader, a scent which was far from enjoyable. Most goblins had an unfortunate habit of stinking worse than sweaty horses, though a number of the orphanages children were relieved of this thanks to the soap Holly and Glyph invested in. Aside from herself, the only other person whose scent was bearable was Prince. He didn’t smell like anything. Or maybe he smelled like water, and she just didn’t have the receptors to pick it up.
The same could not be said for whoever it was she was about to meet. The most obvious scents he carried were that of yipsum flowers, orulu, and sweat, the two of which most likely made up some hideous perfume he was using to cover up the rest of his stench. This wasn’t especially rare; few army leaders were bereft of noble birth and hence unable to afford perfumes. This was simply another one of the rich, snobby elite, out to do whatever it is this army was trying to do.
If this had been it, she might not have thought anything of it. But that wasn’t the case.
One aspect of her boon that often helped her in catching prey was that it allowed her to smell the feelings of her targets. Most of the time, the smells couldn’t be attached to any prior scent she knew. They were all fresh, new smells, comparable only to themselves. But not all of them.
Fear was a very distinct smell. Fear smelled like urine and sweat. The stronger the smell, the stronger the fear. And on this man, the scent was strong enough to be nauseating. Typically, she could tell apart different kinds of sub-emotions from the larger emotion, such as indignation within anger or surprise within joy. But not now. The fear was so deep and thick that it was impossible to tell whether there was anything else in there at all.
Rationally, Jolene assumed that this meant the army leader was currently in the middle of a skirmish, or even facing a personal battle in this very moment.
When she then rose above a naked hill to find the army moving somberly in a dull march with no sign of nearby battle, she was confused enough to pause completely. Down below, the army moved along a simple dirt road, all to the beat of a single drum, its snare ringing out over the entire horde. There must have been tens of thousands of goblins, all moving as one, their dead faces downcast, most of them wearing tattered, makeshift clothes. If they were supposed to have a matching uniform, Jolene could not see it.
Sniffing, she came to realize that the leader was in front, way ahead of the marching foot soldiers. Taking a few seconds to regain her bearings, she commanded Grandma down the side of the hill and to the road. The soldiers didn’t even glance up at her as she approached, and as she trotted beside them, fast enough to outpace them, she began to notice soldiers lying by the side of the road, passed out from sheer exhaustion.
Once she began reaching the front, the rank-and-file soldiers were replaced with riders seated on the backs of drakes, their faces somehow just as dead and fish-like as the foot soldiers. As she watched them with pity, one of the riders disengaged from the rest, sidling up to her. His dress was noticeably fancier than that of the other riders, with vivid colors and a large, feather-bespeckled hat to match. “Pardon, hoeksak, but I must ask your allegiance—” As the goblin’s eyes trained in on her, recognition flashed, and in an instant he had torn his hat from his head, pressing it to his chest in reverence. “Lady Huntress, forgive me, I failed to recognize—”
Once again, Jolene was denied the joy of pretending not to be an apostle. Perhaps next time. “Make not worry of it,” she answered, answering his hat-removal by tipping the brim of her hat.
At that, the goblin quickly bowed, returning his hat to his head. “A thousand pardons. May I ask…”
“What is your name?”
“Oh, I? This one is Sythe Elt, of the house of Limerron.”
“Sythe… Curious name. And what ask?”
“Yes, pardon. What business does your divine self have with this entourage?”
“Take me to your leader,” the extraterrestrial visitor said to the local military officer. The thought made her chuckle, and because she chuckled, the officer in question also chuckled, because when an apostle of the original gods laughed, one laughs along, even if the joke is nonexistent.
“Of course, lady Huntress. It will be my pleasure.”
The carriage containing the leader wasn’t too far ahead, though by the looks of it, the leader couldn’t have been anything more than an arch judge, or perhaps a very rich judicarian at a stretch. There were few intricate details, the wood was starting to rot in places, and there was no arms to show from whence it came. Led by the somewhat slimy Sythe, they approached it, though not before being blocked off by another drake-riding guard. “Halt, why do you presume to approach his majesty?”
“The Apostle of Hunting seeks an audience with his majesty, sire.”
A single glance at Jolene was enough to convince the guard, who hurriedly took his hat into his hand. “A thousand pardons! Of course, your ladyship, it will be done at once.” Turning to the carriage, the guard knocked at the door. A small shutter slid open, though Jolene couldn’t see anyone in the shadow of the carriage. Was he sitting in complete darkness? After some whispering back and forth, the guard returned his attention to them, straightening up as he did. “His majesty Simel the Blessed of Three, sole survivor of the Purging of Acheron, chosen king of Acheron and officiate to the imperial throne accepts your audience. Please step inside and I will take your drake.”
