A cluster of mushrooms caught my eye, so dull they practically screamed "Eat us! We're not poisonous, we promise!"
But I hadn't maxed out alchemy to get played by mushrooms. These were Widow's Grace, a key component to creating the poison salves used by rogues to coat their blades.
"Yeah, no thanks," I scoffed. "Not in the mood for liver failure."
The day stretched on. The forest offered little in the way of solace, trails splitting and curling back upon themselves like a tangled ball of yarn. I should've marked trees as I'd gone. Instead, I had my wits and luck, and neither proved reliable allies.
I paused after what felt like a full day of trudging, where dusk bled into night. The trees nodded solemnly, their leaves whispering secrets in languages ancient and unintelligible. Every muscle complained. More than that—the armor itself seemed to fight me with every step, like an unruly patient refusing to comply.
Ripping the bracer off seemed as necessary as peeling off surgical gloves after too many hours on call. It fell to the ground with a clunk, an anchor cut loose.
Suddenly, the world tilted.
“Wh—”
I blacked out.
When I came to, starlight threaded through the leaves overhead. The air breathed cool against my skin. My throat was scraped dry, parched. Beneath it all, a faint throbbing underscored the growing ache that had gone from background hum to full-on symphony of pain.
Awareness clicked through the fog of pain, and the significance of the missing bracer hit home.
“Nice going, Emily,” I muttered. The words rasped coarse as sandpaper.
My bracer laid there, a few feet away. I reached for it, groaning as every joint from wrist to shoulder protested. There—that sudden weakness. It had all come on too strong, too fast.
I gritted my teeth and struggled back into the armor, the bracer biting back into place and offering strength I was too foolish to realize I needed.
I remembered now: the Stonewall Regalia set came with bonuses to constitution when the wearer equipped matching items in the set. Constitution: the stat that controlled strength, stamina, and resilience. Everything that I was now lacking.
"Why wait for a mob to kill me when I can just kill myself?" I laughed hysterically, but my dry throat translated it as a cackle. "Emily Easton, crafter extraordinaire, DIY queen."
I was too hurt and hungry to sleep, but too tired to stay awake. I needed to conserve my strength if I wanted to continue my search in the morning. I consoled myself that "Go to sleep; don't wander around in the dark and break your neck" did count as a plan. I had a plan and everything would be fine. I would go to sleep, and when I woke up, maybe I would be in Animal Crossing.
Something hit my ribs like a battering ram.
I woke with a yell and a mouthful of dirt.
Another impact slammed into my side. My torso jerked; the Stonewall cuirass barely shifted.
A furious squeal left my ears ringing.
I rolled onto my back. Two beady eyes glared at me over a blunt snout. Coarse bristles. Curved little tusks. Foam at the mouth.
“Boar?” My voice cracked.
It lunged again, forehead first into my stomach plate with a hollow clang.
Pain: none.
My UI flickered awake at the edge of my vision.
Grumbleboar hits you for 0 (absorbed).
The name floated above its head: Grumbleboar – Level 2.
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I stared up at it, chest heaving, heart still trying to climb out of my throat.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
The boar backed up, hooves digging at the leaf litter, huffed once, then charged with all the terrifying menace of an angry ottoman.
Another 0 bloomed red, then faded.
My panic bled off in a rush, leaving raw irritation.
“Right. Tutorial mob.” I wiped spit off my chin. “Okay, buddy. You scared the hell out of me. That’s on you.”
My warhammer lay where I’d dropped it last night, half-buried in leaves. I scrambled upright, armor joints creaking, and grabbed the long haft.
“Time to reestablish the food chain.”
I hauled the hammer up in both hands. It felt heavier than I remembered. Longer, too. My shoulders protested.
The boar snorted.
“Don’t you dare judge me.”
I swung. The head whooshed through empty air, missed the boar by a clean foot, and smacked the ground. A shock traveled up my arms into my teeth.
My UI chimed.
You attempt to use: Two-Handed Hammer.
Proficiency: 0/100.
“Zero?” I gaped at the floating text. “You’re telling me I never swung this thing once?”
Come to think of it, that was probably true. I was a healer, and my primary healing weapon was a staff for spellcasting. Even then, I had never tried to brain anyone with a staff before.
The boar trotted sideways, offended snuffle puffing from its nose, then body-checked my shin plate.
Grumbleboar hits you for 0 (absorbed).
We both paused.
“You’re a disgrace to bacon,” I informed it.
I hauled the hammer up again. Muscles burned. Swing. Miss. The hammer skimmed past its ear and crashed into a sapling, bark flying.
Miss.
Two-Handed Hammers: 1/100.
“Oh wow, progress.” I panted. “At this rate we'll both die of boredom before I kill you.”
The boar shoved my knee with its forehead, hooves scrabbling uselessly on my greaves. My health bar didn’t twitch.
Grumbleboar hits you for 0 (absorbed).
Leaves rustled. Birds kept singing overhead.
There I stood: full raid set, gleaming UI, warhammer bigger than the mob I fought… locked in a slap-fight with a starter-zone pig that couldn’t dent my armor, while I couldn’t land a single blow.
Heat crept up my neck.
I was getting tired, but I could not afford to lose this fight. My pride might never recover if I did.
The boar backed up, snorted in what I assume was boar-speak for "This is total bullshit", and disappeared back into the trees.
"Yeah you better run!" I gasped after it, before promptly collapsing to my knees.
I knelt there, breathing hard, until the trees stopped spinning.
When I finally tipped my head back, the canopy loomed like a black ceiling. No stars. Just layered branches, leaves, and—
A soft, honey-colored glow, high above me.
For a second I thought lantern. Campfire. People.
Then my brain caught up. The light floated alone at the end of a thick branch, round and ridged, skin like a grey wasp nest with faint seams of amber pulsing through it.
I let out a sharp, ugly laugh.
“Glowgourd. Of course.”
Pumpkin-sized. Hard shell. Full of juice and flesh. Starter-zone hydration and calories in one convenient, physics-defying package. I’d run loops for hours in WOE to farm these for early alchemy.
Now one hung fifteen feet up, mocking me.
My stomach cramped so hard I folded over my knees.
“Okay. Fine. You win,” I muttered at the gourd. “But I’m not face-planting off a tree in the dark for you.”
The branch blended into the night. Bark slick with dew. One bad handhold, and I’d discover just how much fall damage Stonewall Regalia absorbed.
I eased onto my back and stared up at that warm little sun.
“Morning,” I told it. “You and me, first thing.”
Of all the stupid deaths I’d listed out in my head over the years, “fell out of a tree in full plate” had never made the cut.
“Sepsis, sure. Hit by a bus, standard. But this?” I muttered at the glowgourd.
The branch flexed under me. Not a comforting amount. More in the “about to file a complaint with gravity” range.
I hugged the trunk with my thighs and inched along the limb, metal plates grating bark. The armor spread my weight, but it still felt like I wore a car. My gauntlets scraped for purchase, fingers catching in cold moss and flaky lichen.
The glowgourd hung just beyond my reach, smug and warm, braided vine twisting it to the branch like a noose.
I stretched my right arm, elbow locked. The branch dipped. My ribs pressed into the bark. The gourd swung lazily out of reach, pulsing that soft amber light like it enjoyed the show.
I gritted my teeth.
“Fine. We do this the dumb way.”
I shuffled another inch. Bark crumbled under my boot. One hand clamped on the branch above my head. The other reached. The gourd brushed my fingertips, rough and cool.
Not enough to grip.
I couldn’t pluck it. Not without letting go with both hands, and that felt like volunteering for a CT scan with “blunt trauma, multiple” in the notes.
Push, then.
I curled my fingers, set my palm against its side, and gave it a shove.
The glowgourd swung away on its vine, then back. The branch bounced under the shift.
“There you go. Loosen up a bit.”
I rocked it again, harder. The vine creaked. Fibres rasped against the bark overhead.
Another shove. My shoulder flared. The gourd swung wide, light smearing across the leaves, then snapped back, hit my wrist with a dull thud, and set my teeth on edge.
“Come on, come on—”
The vine above emitted a dry, tearing sound. Halfway there.
I shifted my weight forward for one more good push, armor groaning, boots scraping. My center of balance slid past the safe zone, my stomach tightening in a cold knot.
“Last one. Then breakfast.”
I drove my palm into the glowgourd. It lurched, spun, and the vine finally gave with a sharp, fibrous crack. The gourd dropped out of sight, its light tumbling toward the forest floor.
Relief barely had time to register.
The sudden loss of resistance pulled my arm down and out. My hips followed. The branch rolled under my boots like a log in water.
For one weightless heartbeat my chest hovered over open air, fingers clawing at smooth bark.
Then the whole world tipped with me.