Chapter 13: Tuskgutter¶
Prologue - Elroy¶
There is a GLORY in hunting legends.
I have stood against bandits and fey creatures, weathered curses and traded blows with the worst the Stolen Lands could muster. But Tuskgutter—TUSKGUTTER!—this was different. This beast had terrorized the Greenbelt for years, left a trail of broken hunters in his wake, and when Vekkel Benzen spoke of his missing leg and the fire in his eyes, I knew. I KNEW we would find each other, that great boar and I.
And find him we did. Amiri lent me her dagger—her DAGGER, mind you, the one she carried from her homeland—because she understood. Some kills must be personal. When that monster charged at her, knocked her to the ground, I did not hesitate. I vaulted over his bristled back, planted myself between those tusks and my companion, and I took the hit. By the beards of my fathers, I TOOK IT. Massive tusks - piercing fury straight through my armor.
But I was still STANDING.
And then—with Rust's healing singing through my veins, with Dravyn and Grotdor's flames still crackling in the air, with Perry's analytical gaze marking every weakness—I cut that legend's throat with a borrowed blade. GLORIOUS. Absolutely GLORIOUS.
The strong protect those who cannot protect themselves. That is not philosophy—that is FACT. And today, we proved it in blood and fire and the last breath of a monster who had terrorized these lands for far too long.
Now. Who's HUNGRY?
The Legend of Tuskgutter¶
Rain fell in grey sheets across the Greenbelt, turning the forest floor to mud and the air to mist. In a clearing beneath an ancient fallen oak, five heroes stood arrayed against a legend.
Tuskgutter was everything the stories promised—a boar the size of a warhorse, his scarred hide mapping decades of violence, tusks four feet long and sharpened to deadly points. One eye socket held only shadow, the other burned with primal fury. Two of his offspring flanked him, smaller but no less savage, their snouts steaming in the cold rain.
Elroy Jenkins stood at the center of the line, tower shield locked against those legendary tusks. The great boar had wedged himself there, refusing to look away, snorting hot breath against the guardian's steel. They had drawn each other's attention with equal ferocity—monster and man, each daring the other to blink first.
Dravyn moved with cold precision. The wizard snatched his wand from the mud where it had fallen in an earlier exchange, traced a sigil in the air, and spoke a word that transformed breath to fire. A cone of flame erupted from his lips, washing across all three boars.
The squealing that followed was terrible. One of the lesser boars collapsed immediately, its hide smoking, finished by the gout of fire. The remaining offspring reeled sideways, sizzling. Even Tuskgutter felt the flames lick through his scarred flesh—but he held his ground, tusks still locked against Elroy's shield.
The guardian seized the moment. With Amiri's borrowed dagger in his off-hand—a blade she had entrusted to him with a hunter's promise—Elroy drove the point into Tuskgutter's flank. The first strike drew blood. His shield-banging taunt echoed through the rain, ensuring the beast's attention remained fixed.
Grotdor let fire flow through his veins. A shape of living flame arced from his hands, threading between the bodies before him. It passed through Tuskgutter's bulk with a sizzling hiss, leaving the legendary boar staggering. Then a lance of fire formed in the kineticist's grip, reach extending beyond his normal arm's length, and he drove it toward the surviving offspring—content to leave the greater glory to others.
Perry Marlowe watched with analytical calm. His mind catalogued the beast's movements, noting how Tuskgutter favored one side—the side with the missing eye, perhaps explaining why the creature's dodging seemed sluggish. The investigator's crossbow hummed, and a bolt punched through scarred hide. He worked his weapon's mechanism with practiced efficiency, readying another shot.
From his position near the edge of the fight, Rust Freelox extended one clawed hand. Cold water infused with divine vitality splashed across Elroy's shoulders, settling into his flesh with temporary protection. Then the goblin's whispered guidance touched the guardian's mind, steadying his aim for what came next.
Amiri—the Kellid barbarian who had hunted this beast before and lost—charged forward with her borrowed greatsword raised. She swept low, catching Tuskgutter's forelegs and sending the massive boar crashing onto his side. Mud sprayed in all directions. But when she tried to pin the beast, those powerful haunches kicked out, catching her full in the chest. The barbarian went down hard, sprawling prone in the muck beside her quarry.
Tuskgutter heaved himself upright, one eye finding the downed woman who had wounded him seasons past. The broken tip of her frost giant sword still lodged somewhere in his hide, a reminder of that earlier humiliation. He lunged—
Elroy moved without hesitation.
The guardian launched himself through the air, vaulting clear over the boar's thrashing body, landing between Tuskgutter and his intended victim with shield raised. The tusk caught him under the ribs, punching through mail to bite deep into his side. Blood welled dark and immediate. The blow would have felled a lesser man—instead, Elroy absorbed the impact, felt the temporary protection from Rust's blessing shatter against the force of it, and planted his feet in the mud.
Steam billowed from Tuskgutter's snout as he locked tusks against shield once more. The beast's one good eye blazed with something that might have been respect.
Dravyn held his magic, waiting. He wanted to see this through properly.
Elroy advanced with shield raised, maneuvering to flank the beast alongside the prone Amiri. His first dagger strike glanced wide—but fortune had other plans. The blade caught Tuskgutter as the boar twisted, steel finding a gap the creature's dodge had opened. The dagger joined the bleeding wounds already crisscrossing that legendary hide.
The guardian's second strike came fast and low, driving into Tuskgutter's haunch.
His third found the throat.
Amiri's dagger—small, plain, borrowed for exactly this purpose—punched through scarred flesh and opened the great boar's neck. Tuskgutter made one final sound, something between a squeal and a groan, and collapsed into the mud. Rain washed the blood from his tusks as the legend of the Greenbelt finally ended.
They spent an hour in the clearing, tending wounds and processing their kill.
Rust worked on Elroy's grievous injuries, his small hands warm with healing magic. The first attempt failed—the wound ran too deep, metal fragments perhaps lodged beneath the ribs. But the goblin persisted, divine energy flowing through his touch, until the guardian's flesh knitted properly.
Amiri recovered the broken tip of her frost giant sword from Tuskgutter's corpse, turning the fragment over in her hands with something like reverence. Grotdor harvested the legendary skull and hide—trophies for Vekkel Benzen, the hunter who had waited decades for someone to bring down his nemesis.
Perry discovered something unusual among the beast's nesting materials: a tabard of purple and gold, spun with rare dye and cloth of gold. The heraldry meant nothing to anyone present, but the investigator's examination revealed its nature—a magical garment that would allow its wearer to quickly reach an ally's side. After brief discussion, Rust claimed it. His healing made swift repositioning most valuable.
"Unusual," Perry murmured, tucking away his notes. He got out his tools and went to work repairing Elroy’s shield.
Amiri requested to keep the frost giant greatsword until her own blade could be repaired. The party agreed without hesitation. She had earned that much and more.
Four hours of travel through rain-soaked forest brought them to the fangberry thicket.
Perry identified the threat immediately: chew spiders, diminutive arachnids no larger than a man's thumb, swarming through the thorny bushes in three distinct masses. Thousands of tiny fangs, serrated and venomous, moved beneath white gossamer silk.
"Area damage," the investigator said. "Splash damage. They're clustered too tightly for individual strikes. My crossbow will be nearly useless"
Grotdor smiled.
The kineticist raised both hands and called down a pillar of flame. The scorching column caught two swarm-masses simultaneously, and the sounds that followed were deeply satisfying—countless tiny pops as the spiders cooked within their clusters. Both masses reeled, their numbers halved in a single gesture.
Elroy charged the third cluster with his cold iron blade, cutting a gleaming arc through the air. The steel found the heart of the swarm, scattering spiders in all directions. He banged his shield and bellowed his challenge, drawing countless compound eyes toward him.
Perry fired his crossbow, but the bolts passed through the swarm with minimal effect—individual piercing damage meant little against creatures that moved as a collective. The investigator grimaced and began considering alternatives.
The surviving swarms advanced. One scuttled toward Grotdor, passing through the lingering heat of his column and igniting further. Both masses began their assault—countless tiny mandibles biting everything within reach. Perry felt blood well from a dozen small wounds. Amiri snarled as the spiders found gaps in her armor.
Rust's sonic magic rippled through one swarm, the vibrations tearing delicate bodies apart. Dravyn's flames finished another, floating fire consuming the last of the clustered creatures. Grotdor's fiery lance drove through the final mass with devastating precision—a strike that would have merely wounded a larger creature, but which obliterated what remained of the spider swarm.
The combat lasted mere moments. Cleaning up afterward took longer.
Harvesting fangberries proved more challenging than killing spiders.
The thorns were vicious. Elroy's heavy armor protected him somewhat, but even the guardian emerged bloodied from his attempts. Rust and Perry fared better, their smaller frames and careful movements navigating the thorny branches with only minor scratches.
They gathered a full bushel and washed the berries in a nearby stream, removing cobwebs, spider bits, and the occasional drop of their own blood. One more task completed for Bokken the alchemist.
The forest grew denser as they traveled east, approaching territory the Stag Lord's forces claimed as their own.
Perry heard the yapping first—quick, desperate sounds coming from somewhere ahead. Investigation revealed a pit trap in a small clearing, its branch-covering long since collapsed. Something paced within, an animal caught where prey should have been.
The investigator approached to get a better look. He thought he was a safe distance from the edge, but the earth crumbled beneath him.
The fall was only ten feet, but he landed badly—prone in the mud, face to face with a brush thylacine. The creature was beautiful in its way, a Tasmanian tiger with stripes along its hindquarters and jaws that could crush bone. It had been trapped here, starving, and now food had literally dropped into its cage.
"Well, well, well." The voice came from the bushes above. "What have we here?"
Two men emerged, both wearing amulets shaped like antlered stags—the mark of the Stag Lord's organization. Their grins were the kind that came from easy cruelty.
"A couple of do-gooders falling right into our trap," the first one said. "Ain't that a pleasure, Jinx?"
"Sure is a pleasure, Smedley."
"Drop your gold and we let you go. Otherwise, things are gonna get real nasty."
Elroy tried to bluff his way through, claiming they were a new crew working for the Stag Lord himself—cleaning out the competition, collecting recruits. His delivery was wooden, his timing poor.
"Bullshit, mate." The lead poacher drew his bow. "Absolute bullshit. You're gonna die, and we're gonna take all your fucking money."
Grotdor moved first.
The kineticist surged forward, fire coalescing around his fists. His elemental blast caught the southern poacher full in the chest, setting the man ablaze. Persistent flames licked at leather armor as the bandit screamed.
Elroy circled wide around the unstable pit rim, giving the crumbling earth a wide berth. His charge ended with steel meeting flesh—a devastating blow that carved deep into the northern poacher's side. The bandit staggered, blood soaking through his scavenged armor.
In the pit below, the thylacine let loose a hunting cry—a growl, a hiss, bared jaws designed to terrify. Perry's analytical mind recognized the intimidation for what it was and dismissed it. Then the creature lunged.
The bite was catastrophic. The thylacine's jaws clamped onto Perry's midsection with bone-crushing force, precision teeth finding vital spaces between ribs. The investigator felt something give way, felt pain beyond anything in his recent memory. He might have died there in the mud if not for what came next.
Rust rushed to the pit's edge—careful to stay back from the crumbling rim—and channeled divine energy downward. Warmth flooded through Perry's wounds as Rust's hands glowed with life itself. Flesh knitted beneath the goblin's will, pushing the investigator back from death's door.
The poachers fought desperately. One marked Elroy as his prey, mace swinging wildly—both strikes deflected by the guardian's impenetrable defense. The other sent arrows at Rust, drawing blood, before succumbing to the persistent flames Grotdor had ignited.
Perry pulled himself together through sheer will. With consummate skill and calmness despite the danger, he whipped up a tincture as he lay on the ground, an elixir that granted him the climbing ability of a spider, then scaled the pit wall with deliberate haste. Once topside, his crossbow found the thylacine scrambling up after him.
Dravyn's arcane fire swept across both poachers, adding more burns to their growing collection of wounds.
What followed ended quickly. Grotdor's column of flame caught the surviving poacher and the climbing thylacine simultaneously—the bandit collapsed, incinerated, while the beast took grievous burns but kept climbing.
It emerged from the pit with fur smoking, let loose another hunting cry. This time the sound found its mark. Rust felt something primal clench in his chest, a fear response older than civilization. He froze, trembling.
The thylacine lunged for the vulnerable goblin.
Elroy stepped in front of the blow.
Sharp piercing damage drove into the guardian's bicep, jaws clenching with desperate strength. Elroy felt muscle tear, felt bone creak under the pressure—but he held his ground, giving Rust the space to recover.
The goblin threw cold iron needle darts with shaking hands. Both volleys went wide, his aim ruined by residual fear. But his touch-healing reached Elroy's torn arm, divine energy easing the worst of the damage.
Perry's next crossbow bolt punched through the thylacine's side. His analytical assessment had revealed the creature's weaknesses, and he exploited them without mercy.
Dravyn spoke words of power, and three bolts of pure force streaked from his fingertips—missiles that could not miss, that struck with mathematical certainty. The thylacine jerked with each impact, and on the third, collapsed backward into the pit it had so desperately escaped.
They collected the Stag Lord amulets from the dead poachers, adding them to their growing collection. The bandit organization's reach extended further into the Greenbelt than they had hoped.
Camp that evening was a subdued affair.
Rust prepared their site with care, camouflaging their position against casual observation. Amiri enhanced Elroy's weapon for the following day's travels, teaching the technique she had learned in her years of wandering.
Perry spent the evening hours examining Amiri's broken frost giant sword. He had consumed a cognitive mutagen, enhancing his already formidable intellect, and now he studied the break with almost obsessive focus.
As he brought the two pieces close together, something unexpected happened.
A shimmer appeared along the break line—faint, magical, but utterly unidentifiable. When held in proximity, the blade fragments began to glow a deep blue. They snapped together like lodestones, fusing instantaneously, perfectly, leaving no seam or scar.
Perry turned the restored weapon over in his hands. There were no runes. No wards. No enchantment he could recognize. The magic was something else entirely—something his considerable knowledge could not categorize.
Amiri's face lit with joy. She snatched the blade from Perry's hands and swung it through the air, testing the balance. "I have no idea how you managed to do that," she laughed, "but that was awesome!"
Perry could only scratch his chin. "Unusual," he murmured.
The mystery would keep.
Morning brought light rain and the promise of new discoveries.
The party followed the Skunk River westward, their map expanding with each hex of wilderness claimed. It was late morning when they reached the ford—a natural crossing where small islets created a chokepoint in the water.
On the central island, a serpentine form basked among piled rubble.
The tatzlwyrm was perhaps eight feet long, its body thick as a man's torso. Scaled hide the color of river mud, jaws built for crushing. A creature of draconic blood—not a true dragon, but dragon enough. Where dragons nested, treasure typically followed.
The party approached, making no effort to hide their presence.
The tatzlwyrm raised its wedge-shaped head, regarding them with cold intelligence. For a long moment, it seemed to be weighing options—fight or flight, pride or prudence.
It chose prudence.
The creature slipped from its rubble nest and disappeared beneath the water's surface, leaving only ripples to mark its passage.
Somewhere below the ford, a dragon waited. And where there was a dragon's lair, there would be a dragon's hoard.
The party readied their weapons and began planning their descent.