Another fitful night. No mater how tired you are, cold stone is tough to sleep on comfortably, Fyn woke several times in the night, adding fuel to his fire without fully opening his eyes. He tossed and turned as his back cooled, or his front grew too warm.
Thanks to the waterfall, Fyn was spared the sounds of killing and dying that had caused him to shake the night before. The grotto was concealed and tranquil, just not very comfortable.
When he first felt the prick of claws on his chest, Fyn was laying on his back, dreaming deeply enough that he nearly swatted at his torso without thought. Fortunately, the weight that settled onto his stomach, pressing on his bladder, started him into wakefulness before he did. Swallowing hard, Fyn, ever so slowly, opened his eyes.
A cold blue stare confronted him out of a fuzzy white face that was set in mild disapproval mixed with curiosity. Fyn breathed lightly through his nose as the creature sniffed at his eyes and ears, black whiskers tickling his cheeks.
Once the cursory inspection was complete, the animal sank to its haunches, sitting on Fyn's stomach. Fyn got his first good look at the creature that was a cross between a weasel and a rabbit by lifting his head ever so slightly.
Long, rounded ears sat above a narrow head with an extended muzzle. Deep blue eyes peered out of forward facing eye sockets, and pointed teeth filled the animal's mouth. Fyn got a clear view of them when that mouth opened with a smacking sound. More than a yawn, less than a growl, the noise would hardly be called intimidating.
But Fyn was intimidated. Judging from the pressure on his bladder, the animal weighed fifty pounds, mostly muscles, though some of it could have come from its thick coat of white fur. Its body was long for its size and powerful forelimbs which ended in sharp claws would easily tear into him.
Whatever the thing was, it didn't eat veggies and wasn't here to grant wishes.
"Let's be reasonable," Fyn rasped, his mouth dry. Talking made him want to clear his throat. Suppressing that urge made him cough, which caused his body to tense and the creature's back claws to dig into his skin.
"Slow down," Fyn kept his voice low and pacifying, "It won't do either of us good if you attack me. I'm naked, so I'm going to scream at the smallest touch. When the adrenaline sets in, we're going to start biting and kicking each other. I might not do much to you, but my three octave scream attack will hit those ears of yours like a brick."
The creature tilted its head to the side, and for half a second, Fyn thought it was going to answer him. Then, digging its claws in as it went, the animal jumped off him. Fyn hissed, his hand going to his stomach to touch the scratch marks the animal left. When his hand came away free of blood, Fyn turned his head to watch the beast, moving as little as he could.
The white thing circled his fire pit, batting at an ember with one paw, and showing no sign of discomfort. It sniffed at the pile of roots Fyn had set aside for breakfast before turning away from them with disdain. It gave him one last glance, wrinkling its nose, and then moved towards the water.
Fyn wished he could say the creature scampered to the edge of the grotto's pool, but that would be fooling no one. The beast, despite its small size, moved in a way that conveyed threat with every step. It stalked forward, muscles clear through its fur.
Sitting at the pool, short stubby tail twitching, the creature's head moved back and forth, obviously tracking the fish below. It reached out one paw and held it over the water, nearly touching the surface. Then it gave a hard shake of its body and turned away. It prowled to a dark corner of the cavern and was out of sight without Fyn seeing where it went.
Fyn breathed out through his teeth and sat up. Peering at the corner, he tried to spot where the creature had gone and couldn't spot any sign of a tunnel, den, or nest. He wasn't going to examine it any closer either.
The animal hadn't seemed aggressive or overly territorial, but that could all change if Fyn approached its home.
Wetting his lips, Fyn reached for his clothes. Putting them on and pulling on his boots, Fyn felt marginally better prepared. He grabbed his pouch and repacked all the contents except for the pedant and fire stick. Those he hung around his neck, tucking them into his shirt.
Once his belt was back on, pouch and knife secure, Fyn gave serious thought to running and never looking back. He had escaped a mauling this time, there was no guarantee tomorrow would be the same. That creature had probably spent the night hunting and wasn't hungry at the moment. It could be keeping him around for a midday snack.
Then again, it must have noticed him when it left the grotto to hunt last night. It could have attacked him in his sleep. He might not meet its taste requirements. As long as he left it alone…
Fyn cleared his throat, moving to the pool to scoop out a drink, keeping an eye on the corner all the while. Running wasn't really an option. There were things bigger and badder than the weasel-rabbit out there in the forest. This thing hadn't attacked him on sight, if he had to take a risk, he would prefer to bet on it over the blood wolves.
He would keep an eye out for a better location, but for now, the grotto was the best place to camp. Fyn would just have to make sure he didn't upset the neighbors. Keep the music down, mow the lawn, don't piss off the back porch while their kids are playing outside. Basic rules of civilized cohabitation.
Edging his way to the west side of the cavern, Fyn found the pathway there offered better footing. That was a shame, given all the materials he had gathered so far were to the east, but it made for an easier morning. Braving the spray and crash of the waterfall, Fyn went out into the cleaning.
Munching on a peeled root, Fyn started sweeping through the new area. He walked up and down, checking his status every so often to see how much experience he was gaining. It was difficult to determine with any accuracy.
One trip from north to south earned him two points. Then next from south to north, only one. On the third trip, he gained nothing but made up for it on the fourth with five. He thought that might have been due to the discovery of a shrub whose leaves were a natural painkiller when chewed. There was no good way to verify that, though.
A morning spent pacing around, occasionally carrying rocks or piles of grass back to a space near the waterfall, netted Fyn a total of 14 experience. One more than the east side had. It still left him five points short of his first level.
That meant it was back into the woods. The trees were smaller and more densely packed on this side of the river. Fyn found an animal trail and set off, crouching a bit, ready to run or dive for cover at the slightest provocation.
Birds sang in the trees and all around Fyn saw signs of normal spring growth. Insects buzzed, squirrels chattered, he could have fooled himself into thinking he was back home again.
Were all the predators around here nocturnal? So far, apart from the blood wolves, three-eyed crows and his neighbor the weasel-rabbit, Fyn had yet to encounter any serious threat. He had heard them at night, but since coming to the clearing, nothing had struck him as terribly vicious.
Could it be the clearing? Was there something about it that kept predators from hunting there? Fyn's thoughts immediately went to the white beast that woke him. He shook that thought off with a chuckle.
Weasel-rabbit looked tough, but not tough enough to scare off a pack of wolves. There was also whatever had killed and mangled the six animals he had come across yesterday. He wasn't an expert, but that had seemed like the work of something big. Bigger than wolves, and bigger than any mountain lion he had ever heard of.
His hand went to his knife in an attempt to reassure himself. It didn't help. The knife, in his hands, was an average tool. As a weapon, it was about as good as his three octave scream attack. He didn't have the strength, speed or reach to fight with it. Not against vicious predators.
He would have to find a class with a knife fighting skill. Add that to his ever-growing list. Fyn wondered if paper was common in this world. It would be nice to have a notebook to keep track of his ideas in, something where he could work out his thoughts and see them. That always helped him think in the past.
At the moment he was wishing for a means to write, a tingle ran through his body, and Fyn knew, he had leveled up. He had wondered how it would happen, whether he would have to do or say something in order for it to take place. It turned out the process was automatic, which as just as well.
Pretending he wasn't excited, Fyn opened his status.
Name: Fyn
Race: Human
Age:12
Class: Explorer
Level: 1
Experience: 0/300
Strength: .5
Agility: .5
Spirit: .5
(Display Skills)
It must have been an accomplishment, but it took Fyn a moment to find out the benefit of leveling up. Three white improvement points. That was it. No explosive growth of his attributes, no monetary gain, or pat on the back, nothing that drastically improved Fyn's circumstances in any way.
White improvement points were challenging to come by as far as Fyn could tell. Other than the one he had gotten yesterday, these were his first besides the initial ones he spent to get a class. Three more were welcome, just not what he was expecting.
They could be enough though. He could be underestimating the power of white improvement points. Fyn pressed his finger on the bubble next to his strength attribute. There was a moment of discomfort, a flash of aches, like a few months worth of growing pains compressed into an instant. The numbers on his status changed from .5 to .6.
Meaning, even if he spent all three, Fyn still wouldn't be as strong as the average adult. He was now a tougher child, capable of carrying sticks a little heavier, or the same size branches he had been collecting, a little farther.
Fyn pressed his fist to his forehead, digging his knuckles into his skin as he pushed his hand up into his hair and back down in a circle. The tutorial god had been correct. For a while now, Fyn had suspected that his chest was access to all the classes. Count that as confirmed, and instead of being powerful, it actually hurt him.
Unlimited improvement points, that would be a good cheat. Fyn would take extra experience or the power to blow up his enemies with his mind while absorbing their power. That could really turn things on their head.
Unlimited access to classes and skills, without the ability to spend points on them freely, did nothing. Concentrating on one class to get stronger, more versatile skills had to be the way to go. From what Fyn had seen, all the beginner passive skills were barely functional. For all his searching, Fyn had yet to find one that leaped out as outstanding.
And leveling up was bound to get harder. Level two already costs three times as much as Level one.
Poor dead Lucas came out to serve as an example once again. The man had been in his late twenties, and held a level of…13? 14? Somewhere around there. Fyn didn't know whether Lucas was poor, average, or superior, but if leveling was easy, he would have a higher one.
Where did that leave Fyn? Stuck in the middle of nowhere with no support, no supplies and no talking dragon to help smooth things over. Weasel-rabbit has been disinterested and was unlikely to suddenly start giving Fyn advice on how to invest his improvement points properly. It was no wonder the tutorial god expected the souls he brought of this world to live short, tragic lives.
"Well screw you," Fyn's upper lip curled to reveal his teeth as he looked skyward… and spoke softly, just in case any cranky gods were listening.
Bring his anger back down to earth, Fyn pounded at his status, going to the Class selection screen and changing his class from Explorer to Gatherer. It was time to see how fast he could level up while picking flowers in the safety of the clearing.
Squeezing his lips together, Fyn was ready to spin on his heel when a sight down the trail caught his attention. He trudged forward, brow wrinkling.
He wanted to call it a birch tree. That was what it looked like. Thin leaves, shiny white bark, at home he would not hesitate to identify the tree. Except at home he had never seen a birch with a vine growing up it, and he had never seen a vine with bright red gourds hanging from it either.
It was something he hadn't noticed before. His plant knowledge from his class didn't cover trees. It hadn't occurred to him because it didn't seem important. It did now because of the vine.
Weaver's vine had very specific requirements for growth, you didn't find it everywhere. Beyond humidity and light needs, weaver's vine preferred a certain type of tree, but damned if Fyn knew what that tree was. It was the strangest gap in knowledge he had come across. Gatherers knew plants, weren't trees a type of plant?
Fyn laughed, but it came out sounding hard and angry. There was probably a class like Woodsman or Forester that was all about trees. Unless a library spontaneously appeared, Fyn would need to spend his improvement points to learn about species of trees.
That could wait. It could wait until hell froze over for all Fyn cared. The weaver's vine, and its gourd on the other hand, those were coming back with him.
Stepping up to the tree, Fyn drew his knife. The weaver's vine grew out of the soil and snaked up the tree, wrapping around the trunk as the vine went higher. Fyn hacked at the base, striking hard three times to sever it. Once the base was free, Fyn pulled and unwrapped until fifteen feet of vine and six gourds lay at his feet.
Looking around, Fyn realized there was a grove of looks-like-birch-but-who-knows trees. One in five of the trees had a weaver's vine attached to it. One vine and its gourds would be enough for now, but Fyn would remember this place.
Picking up the vine, and coiling it from his shoulder to the opposite hip, Fyn started back the way he had come. He only stopped once along the way to cut down a tall thin sapling, 8 feet tall but only an inch or so in diameter, which he carried over his shoulder after trimming its branches.
He had work to do. If one level didn't make him stronger, Fyn would try two. He would find every way to gain improvement points there was, and he would make it out of these woods.
No matter what it took.