by Pirateaba
A place of war. And a place of death. I’ve reached the outskirts of the Blood Fields by the color of the soil. I stare ahead. The ground is flat, but on the horizon a swathe of red seems to occupy both land and part of the sky.
Time to sleep. I make camp without a fire and mechanically eat and drink. Brush teeth. Pee.
I try to sleep. But the night is cold and I am alone. And the voices keep speaking. Haunting my thoughts and my dreams. Whispering.
Try.
—-
When I wake up on the fourth day, I’m freezing. Today is colder—far, far colder than before. The thin blanket I brought wasn’t enough and the ground is hard with frost.
Winter. Apparently it doesn’t hit this continent much harder than this until it actually arrives, whatever that means. Weather like everything else here is screwy.
I get up, eat, and keep going.
The ground turns fully red. But as I walk I discover the truth behind the ominous colors. The soil is red, yes. But not from blood.
Rather—the color comes from the plants that have infested each part of the soil. It’s some kind of moss. Some kind of strange, rooted plant. And then I understand. The Blood Fields host one kind of plant. Something that drinks blood.
Hence the name. And the red ground begins to sprout the closer I get to the center. Red grass, strange stalks and leaves of plants begin reaching towards the sky. Like hands or—or strange fungi.
It doesn’t look like any scene from my world. If there is a hell, perhaps it looks like this. I walk on. The plants aren’t dangerous. I did a skin test with one of them and I don’t have any kind of reaction to them. They’re just creepy.
Red plants. Now I see what was on the horizon. The end-stage evolution of these plants are tall, twisted structures vaguely resembling trees. Only these plants have no bark and they stand alone, like sentinels. Their thin, mangled forms rise above me as I walk through the Blood Fields.
The plants bother me. What do they do? Just drink blood and grow like normal plants? That squares with what I understand of biology, but it doesn’t make sense in this world. This is a place of curses and death magic. Surely there should be some kind of danger inherent in them.
But it might also be the cold that keeps the plants inactive. Not only is this a cold day, but this is the winter season. Yes. They might be hibernating. Without food or much sunlight—what would this place look like in the spring?
I stare at a long stalk that seems to bend at every angle and wonder what flowers would bloom from it. What dark fruits would blossom here?
And I’m uneasy, for a second. But I’ve come all this way. I’m here.
Now what?
—-
On the fifth hour after waking, Ryoka realized despair. She had reached the Blood Fields, but she had found nothing.
Nothing. There was no dragon. No monster to fight. No mountain to climb. The Blood Fields were a wasteland. A place of death.
But not a place to die.
She had expected a terror like the High Passes, some kind of guardian, a terrible landscape that would have taken all her wits to survive and pass through. But this place was simply empty.
And try as she might, the one she sought, the mysterious target of the ring and letter she held— Az’kerash—was nowhere to be found.
Ryoka looked. She searched desperately. The Blood Fields were vast. Many miles wide. But she could see far even through the native flora and she saw no signs of life.
She ran through the towering growths of crimson, searching. But the fields were endless and she was tired. In the end she simply stopped.
Ryoka stood in the center of the red jungle and began to laugh. Death was around her. In a thousand places she saw broken pieces of armor. Skeletal remains—weapons and scars on the ground from battles long past.
She’d already cut her feet on fragments from weapons. The soil drank her blood and the plants seemed to shift towards her.
In despair, she stopped in an open space in the center of the Blood Fields and looked around. Nothing. Not a thing.
What should she do? She had a task. But she had no way to complete it. What should she do?
Ryoka closed her eyes. Her mind was still—still broken. Still hurting. Still confused. But a part of her still whispered.
So she listened.
—-
This is pointless. There’s nothing here. You were stupid to come.
I—did Teriarch lie to me? Or is Az’kerash not here?
He said he thought he was around here. Not that he was. And he said that he would be surrounded by the dead. Well, there are a lot of dead things around here. But no one else.
What now?
Ryoka sat and put her face in her hands. Nothing. She’d come all this way expecting to fight for her life. She’d burned her friendships, torn her feet to shreds, run here in the middle of her pain and regret. And there was—nothing—
“Ha. Haha. Ahahahaha.”
She started laughing. It was hysterical; bitter. She couldn’t stop.
Tell me. Who is Ryoka?
No one.
What does she have? What does she want?
She has nothing. She is nothing.
She has a family. A father. A mother.
Nothing more. She does not love them as she should and they do not understand her. The family never acts like one. The parents work and seldom sit with their child and the child lashes out. Ryoka Griffin is alone.
She has many gifts.
That’s the problem, isn’t it? Many gifts. A nice home. A rich family with a father who is influential. All the things to make me spoiled. Useless.
I have not built anything. Lost anything. I have nothing to fight for. No cause. I am not a rebel without a cause because I have nothing to rebel against.
Society. But that’s just an excuse. I hate everything and everyone. Sometimes. Another excuse.
I am a prisoner. But not one tethered by social class or money or any of the things that most people struggle against. I am a victim of my success. I have never had anything I truly needed.
Question. What does Ryoka Griffin need?
So useless. I came here to deliver something and there’s nowhere else to go. I wouldn’t even know where to start. There are no clues. This is an empty place. Do I just start running in a random direction and pray I find—something?
Teriarch. That bastard. Giving me a useless mission. How dare he order me—
He seemed sure this Az’kerash existed, though. And he is powerful. But something is off about that mage. Is he an Elf? Who lives in such a dangerous place with no apparent defenses? Even if they were magical, why didn’t I trip them?
I am lost. Bereft. What do I do now?
Question. What is Ryoka Griffin’s next step?
What do I want? After I deliver the ring and letter and go back to Teriarch, then what? Do I keep running?
No—learn magic. From—not Ceria. Someone else. Learn more magic without those stupid Classes and Levels. Learn spells—a way to run faster? Something to defend myself with. Earn money. Once I have enough to buy potions and keep myself fed wherever I go I can start travelling.
Where? …Anywhere.
And then I’ll climb the highest mountains. I’ll go out at sea and see the full fury of an ocean storm for myself. I’ll see all this world has to offer. I will test myself against this world and see wonders. That is my dream. That is what I’ve always wanted to do.
To be alone.
To be free.
To hold my own destiny.
And then I’ll die. At some point my luck or my body will run out. If I keep climbing mountains, eventually I will fall. That is the knowledge every climber lives with. If I keep running eventually I will stop. But that’s enough. If I can live enough, that would be fine.
What does Ryoka Griffin want? Answer:
A place to die.
It’s wrong.
I know. But there’s nothing else for me. The only joy I
’ve ever felt is in the moment when I run past my limits, take a breath at the top of the world. Stare up at the night sky and feel insignificant realizing how vast this infinite universe is.
There must be something else. Something. Or else all you’re looking for is a way to kill yourself.
What does Ryoka Griffin want? Addendum:
Something to die for. Something worthy of dying for.
I would have been a charity worker in my world when I graduated from college. Or—a soldier. A mercenary perhaps. A vigilante? A firefighter. Nothing that was safe. Nothing that would fit with the grain. I’d always be trying to push at the limits. Find something worth giving everything towards.
I hurt them. I made them suffer. And they were good. If—
Too late. I’m broken. A jagged piece of glass who cuts everything that touches me.
I wish there was another way. I guess I’ll keep searching until I run out of food. What else do I have? What else could I do?
What does Ryoka Griffin lack? Answer:
A friend.
My thoughts—grind to a halt. I stop. For a second I turn and stare back the way I’ve come.
Yes.
No. It’s stupid.
But.
But it’s all I want. And now that I hear it, the truth of it rings in my mind. Yes. Ever since I was young maybe—
I was always afraid. And when I reached out I got hurt.
But it’s what I want.
And suddenly, I am filled with regret. Truly, painfully. It comes and bites me after I’ve pushed it away for so long and the pain stabs my heart for the first time. True guilt. True regret.
I shouldn’t have run. I should have gone after Ceria. But instead I do what Ryoka Griffin does best: run away.
A friend. Something I’ve never had. Never truly. Never—never someone I could really trust. And the Horns of Hammerad—Garia—they were the closest. But when I came close to opening my heart I slammed the door shut on their fingers.
I regret.
Slowly, I kneel in the soft red grass. It is soft. Like death. Clumsily, I clasp my hands together. It’s been so long. I’ve forgotten how.
But I begin. I put my hands together and pray.
Oh God. Gods and goddesses. Spirits and bodhisattvas, and deities long dead from this world. Anyone who’s listening, really.
Please—
Don’t let me die alone.
Don’t let me die—
Without having made a single friend.
—-
After a while I stand up. I have never prayed before. I don’t do it. If there is a God, surely the duty of humans is to rebel against him. A quote from Philip Pullman’s trilogy His Dark Materials. Words that resonated in my soul when I heard them.
But this time my plea comes from the heart. I want a friend. I want to not die alone. And if I can—
I’d like to apologize.
I need to go back.
I look back the way I’ve come. The road is long. I spent four days coming here. And I’m running low on food and water. But I can make it back. Time is no obstacle. My delivery will have to wait.
I have to make things right.
I take two steps away from the red soil and pause. My feet have stopped moving. I try to move, and suddenly I can’t. I’m rooted in place.
I want to go back. But another part of me wants to keep searching. I must complete my delivery. I promised.
But I didn’t. I was told. And suddenly—I realize.
Teriarch. When he first met me he controlled my every action. And yes, he ordered me to deliver his message. And I have carried out his order quite fitfully ever since meeting him, haven’t I? And that’s odd, because Ryoka Griffin is notoriously stubborn. She doesn’t like being ordered around.
But I’ve been going towards the Blood Fields as fast as I can. Because of Teriarch.
Ever since I met with him I’ve been heading in a straight line. Towards the Blood Fields. Towards my goal, this Az’kerash or whatever his true name is.
In short, following the task Teriarch set me.
“Magic.”
I am under a spell.
I try to move my feet. They refuse to budge. The spell is locking me down quite easily. And—was it doing something to my mind? Making me not want to turn back?
Perhaps. But I’ve realized my errors. I have to go back. And no magic will stop me.
Easier said than done. I try to lift my foot. Surprisingly, that’s really easy. But moving it to take a step?
Impossible.
I struggle. For an hour I try to move my feet. An hour. It’s an eternity. I try moving back and I can. I can run around. But the instant I try to move with the purpose of going back—
Immobility. I’m locked down. I can’t resist.
But I will.
It’s like pushing a boulder uphill with matchsticks for arms. Impossible. This is magic. How could you resist that? But I will.
I have to go back. I grit my teeth and push. My foot lifts—
And I take a step.
Instantly, my skin starts burning. I shout in agony and look down. Something—there are glowing runes, magical symbols like the one Ceria wrote tattooed on my arms! Did he write them? Part of the spell. They’re burning, searing my flesh.
The pain is unbelievable. Every part of me is telling me to move my foot back. For a second I nearly do, and then something in me rebels.
Teriarch might be a legendary mage. He might be the greatest damn sorcerer in the world. But he made one mistake.
He chose the wrong spell. The wrong person to cast it on. Maybe the geas is my death. Maybe I will die. But that’s fine.
I would rather die free.
The magic is burning me. Am I screaming? I think—
I’m pushing against a wall in my head. Except that it isn’t a wall. How can you fight your own thoughts? There’s no wall. There’s nothing to fight against and that’s why it’s so hard. But I’m good at raging against nothing. And I refuse to stay. My feet move.
North. Back to where I should be. But the fire burns. It’s agony. Burning pain. Desire. I have to search for him. Deliver the message. I have my duty.
But I don’t. I never agreed to it. I have my own will. My choice.
My destiny.
The air feels hot. The symbols on my arms are glowing, searing. I’m standing on a cliff. If I keep going I will die.
But I will be free.
So I take another step. The pain stops. Something breaks in me. I—
1.41
“Fire! Put out the fire!”
Of all the ways to wake up, hearing that shouted from below still beat being stabbed in the chest. But the Horns of Hammerad were still out of bed and racing downstairs within seconds of hearing it.
A cloud of black smoke billowed out of the kitchen as Erin stumbled out, hacking and coughing. Toren followed her, holding a smoking, flaming pan. He charged outside and the Horns of Hammerad saw him hurl the pan to the ground and begin stomping on whatever had been inside.
The smoke began to clear a bit, but it still stung the eyes. The smell of burnt grease and charcoal lingered unpleasantly in the air.
Erin stared up at the adventurers staring down at her from the staircase. She grinned weakly and waved.
“Oh. Hi. Um. Anyone want pancakes?”
—-
Much to Erin’s surprise, the Horns of Hammerad actually knew what pancakes were. Apparently, pancakes weren’t a product of the modern age and so she served several heaping plates to her guests until they were all full.
Pancakes were fun. Pancakes were easy to make. Erin could let Toren stir the batter together while she cooked them on a pan over the fire. She used a spatula and oiled her pan well to get the pancakes to stop sticking. She’d tried flipping it like chefs did on TV, but she stopped after the pancakes kept landing on Toren and the fire.
She joined them for the last bit of the meal once she’d reached a critical mass of pancake. E
rin munched on her food as the adventurers ate their way back into the waking world.
“What was all that about?”
Erin looked at the bald mage and tried to remember his name. Soulstorm? It was something like that.
“Oh, uh, I was trying to teach him how to cook.”
Erin pointed to Toren as the skeleton walked into the room with a pitcher of milk. She accepted a refill of the glass as the other adventurers stared at her.
“What? I thought it would be easy. Fun fact: it’s not.”
“A skeleton…cooking?”
“Well, he already does all the other chores. If he could do stuff like make eggs, stir soup and flip pancakes it’d make my life even easier. But uh, skeletons don’t really understand the difference between ‘cooked’ and ‘burned’.”
Gerial exchanged a glance with a female mage and shook his head. But Ceria looked intrigued.
“It’s not a bad idea. I’m still not sure what Pisces was thinking giving you only one skeleton as a guard, but I suppose that’s all your mana supply could take.”
Erin froze, fork stuck in her food.
“My what? I don’t have any magic. I mean, I can’t use magic.”
Ceria frowned at Erin.
“Really? Who told you that?”
“Pisces.”
“Ah. But I wasn’t talking about spellcasting. I just meant your internal mana supply.”
Ceria looked around and saw blank faces around her, except for the other two mages.