#against the backdrop of a dark and dim and foggy wood.

[girlfox]

i'm theorycrafting my dungeon meshi au for ahri and honestly it's kind of hilarious thinking about her in that world because. yeah, she'd eat everything and anything. absolutely zero qualms about consuming monsters. in fact, i think she loves it. no culinary innovation, either, just gobbling up dungeon creatures who roam into levels they shouldn't.

i think she inadvertently manages the ecosystem of some level really far down by doing this, while also caring for the monsters who stabilize things.

[captivesrp]

Embers erupt around the creature’s hooves and burn where its eyes should be. It rushes at the dreamer, sides flecked with blood as sweat as ash. The dreamer cannot move aside; she is trapped, her legs a shapeless, shapeshifting mass of darkness. The creature looms, teeth like burning, smoking brands, and a tongue of fire licks across them. Every hoofbeat is an anvil falling upon an anvil, every breath is of a terrible forge bellows. Yet as it nears the dreamer it grows smaller, as if fading into the distance, but it is ever rushing toward her, always coming.

Upon its back rides a child with a skinless face.

*     *     *

True to Asgell’s word, the next morning sees Cydwag lifted from the pit, gripping onto the butt end of a spear. Her arms tremble under her weight and as a veil over her vision plays the creature-dream, vivid and intricate. She hears Heulwen speak indistinctly in her periphery, but before she can turn to acknowledge her friend she is lifted above the edge of the pit. Bright summer light assaults her eyes and her visions disappear. She releases her grip on the spear to land on her knees upon the earth.

“Up you get,” says a brigand Cydwag does not recognize, holding the spear that had pulled Cydwag from the pit. He coughs, then says, “Just a short walk.”

Cydwag stands, dizzy in the brightness, but follows the figure as he leads her into the village of tents. He stops outside a small, boxy tent and lifts a flap of canvas aside, gesturing for Cydwag to continue inside.

The smell of burning herbs greets her as she complies, ducking unnecessarily into the opening. The inside of the tent is dim, lit by three candles melted into place on a wooden bench that sits in front of a reclining figure. A bowl of embers releases a thin coil of smoke beside the candles.

“Have a seat,” says the host. They sit up and cross their legs, adjusting a colourful robe to sit more comfortably on their shoulders as they do so.

Cydwag moves slowly to a small stool on the opposite side of the bench to the host and sits down gingerly.

“My name is Fuldryn,” says the host. “What may I call you?”

“Cydwag,” Cydwag says, surprised at Fuldryn’s soft speech and manner. Beneath the sweet scent of the herbs, Cydwag can smell simple, unperfumed soap—with a pang, she realizes it reminds her of Weyla.

“Thank you, Cydwag. I’m going to ask you a few questions now, to determine the avenue of your potential.” Fuldryn’s eyes are strangely red, but perhaps that is just the nature of the light. “We recruited you for a purpose, Cydwag, but within that single purpose there are a few paths to take, and I’d like to make sure you are set onto the right one.”

“I … I don’t understand,” says Cydwag. “Are you forming a new tribe?”

Fuldryn laughs. “No,” they say, sobering, “but that is a very good guess.” Fuldryn strokes their smooth jaw. “You’re a smart girl. Have you done any studies?”

Cydwag considers the question. “I was a blacksmith’s apprentice.”

“You’re strong, then.”

“I think so,” says Cydwag. “I was strong enough.”

Fuldryn waves a tendril of incense away from their nose. “And you are familiar with weapons?”

“Mmhmm.” Cydwag remembers their feel, rough and warm beneath thick gloves then smooth and cold under her bare fingers. “I didn’t learn their use, though.”

“But you know their balance, their heft, their purpose?”

“I suppose so.”

Fuldryn leans forward. “Your escort’s eyes: what colour were they?”

Fuldryn’s eyes are embers, dim and red. Cydwag hears hooves. “Um, brown?”

Fuldryn relaxes back and smiles. “That was a guess, wasn’t it.”

Cydwag looks down sheepishly.

“A good guess. You’re right.”

Cydwag adjusts her position on the stool and slides her hand underneath her thighs.

Fuldryn uncrosses their legs and shifts to kneel close to the bench. They extend a hand. “Thank you for your honesty, Cydwag.”

Cydwag stands nervously and clasps the proffered hand.

“Allow brown-eyed Gilth to escort you back to your pit. Only one more night.” Fuldryn smiles. “Tomorrow morning, your new life begins.”

*     *     *

“I guess they’re not forming a new tribe.”

Cydwag is sitting back against the pit wall, watching the sky turn from painted sunset to grey. Heulwen is across from her, washing her face from the bucket.

“I’m not so sure,” responds Heulwen, shaking droplets from her hands. “Fuldryn could have been lying.”

Cydwag remembers her interviewer’s strange, reddish eyes. “That’s possible.” She lets silence fall for a moment, and a backdrop of summer crickets and a chittering night bird filters into her consciousness. “I wonder what’s going to happen tomorrow.”

Heulwen sits next to her, taking her hand in her own little brown one. “We’ll face it together, Cydwag.”

“Mmhmm.” Cydwag looks at her friend and nods, pressing her lips together in firm line.

Heulwen squeezes her hand and both girls turn their heads back to the sky, watching a tendril of fog explore the edge of the pit before curling across the opening, pulling its mass behind it, obscuring the last vestiges of colour from view.

Fog conquers the camp, and night accompanies it; Cydwag and Heulwen fall asleep with their hands clasped and heads upturned.

*     *     *

The rising sun does not dispel the fog. Cydwag and Heulwen are pulled out of the pit into a cold, grey world. Around them, they can hear more than see other children climbing or being lifted from the other pits. Brigands are moving everywhere; Cydwag looks into the fog and, for a moment, sees the single golden eye of Logain regard her without expression before a denser bank of moisture rolls over her sight.

“Which one of you is Cydwag?” growls a brigand appearing from the fog mere paces from the two girls. Her dark head is bald and heavy furs broaden her shoulders to superhuman width.

Cydwag glances in burgeoning panic at Heulwen, who matches her look with wide eyes almost black in the dim half-light of the veiled morning. “I am,” she says, turning back to the woman.

“Ungant, take the other one to Arial.” The woman’s hand reaches out for Cydwag, giant and terrifying.

“Where are you taking me?” Cydwag recoils, barely hearing her own voice, her ears suddenly overwhelmed with the murmuring noise of a village in motion that surrounds her.

The woman’s hand falls solidly onto Cydwag’s shoulder. “You begin your training today. Will you follow me?”

Cydwag looks past the brigand’s imposing shape and makes eye contact with Heulwen, whose arm is gripped by Ungant, who fades and disappears into a fog bank. Cydwag sees Heulwen’s lips move to speak—and then she, too, vanishes into the grey.

“Come,” says the brigand by Cydwag.

Cydwag looks up to watch her back move through a few thin veils of moisture, the colours of the furs washing out to grey. The woman turns.

“Come, Cydwag.” The woman hesitates until Cydwag jerks to attention and takes a step towards her. “Good girl.”

The brigand leads Cydwag for a short walk, passing adults and children Cydwag has no time to recognize through the fog, literal or metaphysical, that embraces her. When the woman comes to a stop, the leafed branches of trees protrude like arms and hands above her head, their trunks invisible in darkness and fog.

Cydwag’s guide withdraws two handaxes from her belt and clashes their heads together. “Oi, Draeg! I’ve brought one of yours!” Her voice is deep and loud.

A gruff, masculine voice answers her from nearby, “Here, Máerl!”

The woman, Máerl, gestures with her head and follows as Cydwag moves towards the voice.

Slowly through the fog a white-skinned male replica of Máerl appears—a giant, bald figure dressed in furs. The string of a bow disappears in the furs on his chest and its horn tip thrusts into the air above his shoulder. A quiver hangs loosely from his hip. Cydwag makes eye contact with two children standing by him, a girl as small as Heulwen and a fierce looking boy with long dark hair—Cydwag does a double take as her subconscious processes the latter’s missing eye. The boy returns a level look.

The man’s growl interrupts their eye contact. “You must be …” The man looks at Máerl.

“Cydwag.”

“Right you are.” The man nods at Cydwag. “I’m Draeg. This is Arko and Alrid.”

“That’s ‘Lady Arko’ to you,” mumbles the tiny girl.

Cydwag notices the boy give a subtle, derisive shake of his head.

“What …” Cydwag hesitates. “What are we doing here?”

“Learning,” says Draeg. He coughs violently. Under his breath he mutters, “Dammit, Gilth.” He wipes his mouth with the back of a hairy hand. “I’m to train you little asts in the art of the hunt.”

“Why?” asks the girl, Arko.

“You’ll know what you need to know as you need to, uh …” Draeg pauses, “—as you need to know it.” He lets out a pleased growl, then his eyes turn hard. “You will learn because failing to do so will be painful. That’s why.”

Arko nods dramatically. “Yes, yes, makes sense. Thanks, Drig.”

Draeg squints at her but lets the slight pass.

Cydwag bites her lip, shocked at the girl’s brashness. She looks at the boy, Alrid, who shrugs.

Draeg claps his hands together loudly. “To hunt, you need to be fit. You need to be disciplined.” He grins menacingly. “To eat cooked meat, you need firewood.” He strides over to the bole of a tree, revealed now in a mist that has thinned since Cydwag last observed it, and gestures to three wood-cutting axes resting against a protruding root. “Pick one and follow me.”

Máerl follows behind as the three children step into the woods, each gripping the haft of an axe.

“My name is Alaric, not Alrid.” The one-eyed boy falls into step beside Cydwag. Cydwag notices that they are of a height. “And the girl’s name is Archora.”

Cydwag gives him a nervous smile. “Thanks.”

They walk for a few dozen paces more in silence. Cydwag avoids looking into the foggy voids between the surrounding trees, keeping her eyes on the dark, matted hair of Archora ahead of her. She turns to Alaric, who has kept pace beside her. “Do you have any idea why we were kidnapped?”

Alaric responds, “No, not really. Nothing about this makes any sense.”

“Yeah.” Cydwag watches her feet, stepping over underbrush and roots.

“Stop here,” growls Draeg.

Cydwag looks up, then around. They have stopped near a cluster of tangled, dark trees—or one giant tree with a dozen trunks, all woven together. Otherwise the forest is unchanged from the stretch they had walked through. She looks back to Draeg, anticipating further instruction.

“This is a Dranclwmcoeden; it produces good firewood. You’ll bring home a trunk this evening or you’ll be cutting when the sun ain’t shining.”

“Just one?” Cydwag asks. The trunks do not seem very thick; she figures she could wrap her arms around one.

Draeg grins. “Just one, between all three of you.” He lets out a laugh, but it quickly devolves into hacking coughs. He spits to the side and wipes his mouth. “Máerl and me’ll be over here, not helping.” He steps around Cydwag and relaxes against a tree.

Cydwag looks at Alaric and Archora. “I guess …” she starts.

“Sounds good to me!” says Archora, hefting her axe and moving quickly to stand beside the dark mass of trunks.

“Last to get through a trunk has to carry the axes back,” grins Alaric, and joins Archora by the tree.

Cydwag gives a small smile and follows, taking up a position halfway around the cluster. The axe’s shaft feels solid and familiar in her hands.

“Ready?” calls Alaric.

Cydwag hears a thump.

“Already cutting!” comes Archora’s voice.

Alaric shrugs at Cydwag, then draws back his axe.

Cydwag follows suit, and brings the heavy iron wedge hard at the trunk before her. It ricochets off, its shaft reverberating in her hands. Thinking it had hit sideways, she tries again. Again, the head connects and bounces away, the shock of the impact sending a burst of pain through the bridge of Cydwag’s crooked nose. Concerned, she lets the head of the axe rest on the ground and leans forward to run her hand over the bark where she had struck. Her fingers find a shallow dent but nothing more.

She comes around the tree where she finds Alaric and Archora standing away from its tangle, similarly mystified.

Cydwag asks, “What do we do?”

“A saw might work better,” suggests Alaric.

“Honestly, I can hardly lift this axe,” says Archora. One of her hands is clutching her forehead and Cydwag can read pain in her eyes.

“We weren’t given a saw,” says Cydwag.

“Don’t stop!” roars Draeg, then laughs and coughs.

“I made a dent,” says Cydwag. “Maybe if we keep at it …”

“We don’t really have a choice,” says Alaric.

Cydwag nods. “Okay.” She moves to the tangle of trunks and surveys them. She puts her hand on a trunk. “This one seems pretty narrow.”

Alaric joins her near the tree. “Should we take turns?”

Cydwag hefts her axe. “I can take first go.”

“Good plan,” says Archora, holding her head now with both hands, her axe resting against her hip. “I’m fine,” she adds.

Cydwag lifts her axe above her shoulder and pauses to take a deep breath.

She swings … and loses herself in the activity. Swinging, connecting, drawing back and up, swinging again. The jarring pain numbs first in her arms and lasts longest in the bridge of her nose, where is pulses long after Alaric takes over.

She sits back against a neighbouring tree, which she is sure would have already fallen to her axe if she had been hacking at it instead.

A chip of black bark falls to the ground by Alaric’s feet.

Cydwag looks at Archora, who is sitting against a tree on the other side of the Dranclwmcoeden. Cydwag has lost count of Alaric’s strokes, but guesses he is nearing the fifty mark she had set with her turn. She stands, leaving her axe against the tree, and rolls her shoulders backwards as she walks over to the tiny girl—keeping her muscles warm, a trick she had picked up in the village smithy.

Archora greets her as she leans back against the tree above her, “Hey.”

Cydwag nods in return. “Are you feeling alright?” She looks down at the girl, who is massaging her temples with her fingers.

Archora snatches her fingers away. “Yeah. I made the mistake of turning my back to an enemy back home and he gave me a solid right in return—right here.” She taps her jaw and winces. “My brain did not appreciate the gift.”

Cydwag stretches her arm across her chest—“Will you be able to keep up?”—then the other.

Alaric’s rhythm falters, then he stops.

“I … I will try,” says Archora quietly as Alaric joins them.

“I’m pretty sure that was fifty,” he says, breathing hard.

“You’re up,” says Cydwag gently to Archora. “Let us know if you need to sit down.”

Archora does not respond, but stands, picks up her axe, and moves to the Dranclwmcoeden.

*     *     *

Archora had lasted ten strokes, and then Cydwag had taken over, then Alaric. Five chips of black bark rested on the torn up loam by the foot of the trunk after their second go. Archora then tried again, and could not even make it to ten strokes before she staggered back from a blow and fell drunkenly to her knees. Alaric had carried her over to their ‘resting tree’ while Cydwag took her turn.

By the thirtieth stroke of her third turn at the Dranclwmcoeden, Cydwag can smell newly fired coals, can feel their heat flush her face. The trunk is a bar of iron—no, it is the anvil: she is striking the raw anvil.

A shard of bark falls to her feet and glints in the sun that is now filtering noonday-down through the dense forest canopy. She holds back from a following blow, confused, and notices the chip in the corner of her axehead. “Nothing for it,” she mutters, and returns to her rhythm.

Exhausted by fifty, she staggers over to Alaric, who is alone by the resting tree. “Water,” he says, holding out a broad leaf.

Cydwag nods, too tired to speak, and accepts the leaf, which holds two swallows of lukewarm water. “Thanks,” she says, letting out a long breath.

“Archora is assessing the backside of the tree,” says Alaric, his eyes darting momentarily to Draeg and Máerl, whom Cydwag had forgotten about, “seeing if there are any more promising trunks there.”

Cydwag is not too exhausted to pick up on the ploy. “She does have a sharp eye.” She is out of breath again, and pauses to collect it. “Take your time, Archora,” she calls.

“I hope that’ll work,” says Alaric quietly. “She can hardly stand up.”

Cydwag nods and drops her shoulder against the resting tree, her axe slipping from her grip to thump onto the earth.

The thump of Alaric’s axe is a sharper sound and begins his series of fifty.

*     *     *

An enormous crack snaps Cydwag’s eyes open and her aching muscles tighten to bring her to rigid attention from where she had been limp against the tree.

Her eyes open to grey darkness. Above her, the sky is clear and deep blue, dotted with stars, bold enough to show their light in the recent absence of the sun. It seems to Cydwag as if no time has passed since her last turn at the tree, yet it seems like a lifetime ago that she first brought her axe against it. Her last bout had lasted thirty strokes, as the one before that. She is not sure if Alaric has been keeping at fifty.

Silence fills the gloom beneath the menacing tangle of the Dranclwmcoeden; Alaric must have stopped his efforts.

Cydwag moves in his direction, her eye naturally drawn to the circle of torchlight surrounding the shapes of their guardians, who are both reclining against trees. When she looks back towards Alaric her vision is gone, filled with the orange glare of fire.

“Cydwag, my axe sunk in on my last blow—look!”

Sure enough, as Cydwag’s eyes acclimatize to the darkness, she can see Alaric’s axe protruding from the trunk of the tree, sunk in to the thickest part of the wedge.

“Oh gods, thank you,” breathes Cydwag.

Alaric shakes out his arms, wraps his hands around the axe haft, and plants his feet. With a grunt, he throws his upper body backwards. The axe screeches but the trunk does not release its hold. Alaric shifts his grip and tries again, and this time he staggers back as the axe leaps free with a scream and a strange bubbling noise.

Cydwag sees movement in the darkness—something creeping down the trunk from the gash—and leans forward. With an explosive hiss, something hot and liquid erupts into her face and she falls backwards onto her rear, blinded.

Her hands come away warm and sticky after wiping what she can from her face. The tree continues to hiss and, even in the darkness and half-blind, Cydwag can see the spray of liquid shooting from the gash in the trunk. Alaric is standing off to one side, observing.

“What in the world …” Archora approaches from around the Dranclwmcoeden, staring with wide, white eyes at Cydwag and the hissing trunk.

There is another enormous crack. Alaric withdraws his hands from the trunk and steps back. “It’s weakened,” he says.

“The … sap,” starts Cydwag, looking at the dark substance on her hands, “seems harmless.” She stands and ineffectually wipes her hands on her pants.

“Did you make it through?” The circle of warm light arrives before Draeg, who breaks out laughing when he observes Cydwag. “Máerl, come look at this!”

Máerl arrives with the other torch, infusing the whole scene with bright, orange light. Cydwag looks at her hands and sees that the sap is dark red.

“You’re a sight,” Máerl says, looking at Cydwag.

The Dranclwmcoeden fills the forest with another explosive crack and Máerl, Draeg, and Cydwag have to scramble aside as a black-barked trunk crashes to the ground. Following a final geyser of red sap that shoots into the air from what is left of it, Alaric jumps down from amidst the tree’s other trunks and lands lightly on the earth.

“Your one trunk,” he says, and gestures to it.

Archora laughs from the edge of the torchlight.

*     *     *

Cydwag is too tired to recall the walk back when at last she is guided into a small tent in the center of the village, where she falls to the bare dirt and curls into a sticky ball. The taste of greasy chicken is faint on her tongue but she does not remember it passing her lips.

The following morning she will remember without detail a conversation with Heulwen, who had been in the tent before Cydwag arrived, but as it happens every word is forgotten even as it is spoken; aches have built to a numbness that embraces every part of her, and Cydwag passes half the night in a state of unfeeling wakefulness before, finally, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.