Fang, still a few paces away, was busy breaking up more earth with the hoe. He looked up as Isgram rose to his feet, holding up the potatoes like a prize.
"Is that what I think it is?" Fang asked, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Potatoes?"
"Not exactly like what you're used to," Isgram said, eyeing the tubers with mild skepticism, "but close enough. They're good to eat. Starchy, filling. Cook 'em right, and they'll do the job."
Fang looked impressed, but skeptical. "I mean, they're not quite like the potatoes back home, are they?"
"Not exactly," Isgram said, turning the tubers over in his hands. "They have a bit more earthiness to them. The skin's tougher, and they might need a little extra cooking to soften. But they'll serve just fine for what we need."
Fang nodded slowly. "Alright. That's good. We've got food, then."
Isgram grinned. "That's right. But we're not done yet." He turned his attention back to the ground. A few paces away, he spotted something else—a patch of wild herbs. He crouched down again, his sharp eyes picking out the familiar shapes of the leaves.
"These here," he said, gesturing for Fang to come closer, "these are herbs. They remind me of basil and oregano from earth, but they've got their spicy kick. See how the leaves are shaped? These would go great with some roasted potatoes."
Fang knelt beside Isgram and inspected the herbs. The leaves were a rich, dark green, with a slightly fuzzy texture along the edges. He reached out and gently picked a leaf off the stem.
"What's the taste like?" Fang asked.
"Take a bite," Isgram said with a smile. "You'll figure it out. The basil-like ones are more peppery, a bit sharper. The oregano-like ones have a touch of sweetness but also that herbal bite. They balance each other out."
Fang hesitated for a moment, then chewed the leaf in his fingers.
His face lit up slightly as the flavor hit him. "Yeah," he said, nodding thoughtfully. "I can taste the similarity to basil, but it's… sharper. The oregano-like one is more herbal, less spicy. Interesting."
Isgram smirked. "That's right. If you mix 'em in with the potatoes, maybe even some roasted meats or fish, it'll be just the kind of meal we need. Not bad for a few plants from a burnt forest, eh?"
Fang laughed, the idea of it sounding better with every passing moment. "Yeah, definitely not bad. I'll take a few herbs over metallic mushrooms any day."
"You're welcome to take as many as you want," Isgram said. "But we need to take some, as many as we can, and plant them in the ground before that."
Fang stood up and stretched. "Well, I guess we've got food and herbs. Maybe we'll survive this after all."
"We should start with planting, The rain is supposed to come every day now as it is nearing winter."
"More work then," Fang muttered, glancing at the freshly tilled garden. "We've got the space. Let's make it happen."
"Exactly," Isgram said, his tone turning more serious. "We are going to take those elf Assholes to a whole other world. This is earth-style survival!"
Fang smiled. "Let's get to it."
Fang knelt beside the shallow pit they had dug earlier, carefully selecting the sprouting potatoes from the pile Isgram had gathered. Purple shoots straightened from the holes of a few of them.
"These ones are ready," he said, placing them gently into the dirt. "They'll take root fast."
Isgram crouched beside him, steadying the earth with one hand as Fang covered each potato with a soft layer of soil. "A couple days of good rain and they'll be fine," he said. "Just make sure the shoots stay upward. Roots go deep fast, and they like it damp."
"Got it." Fang pressed the last potato into place and sat back, brushing his hands clean on his pants. "Alright. That's the future handled."
Fang sat back on his heels, wiping his hands. "Alright. Let's take care of the rest."
They walked back to the small pile of remaining potatoes, those that hadn't sprouted yet. With no sack, they worked by hand. Isgram pulled up the bottom of his tunic into a crude net, and Fang used a leather from the cave as a bag for it but it didn't help much.
Back at the cave, Fang cleared a spot near the shaded wall—cool and out of the way. He laid the potatoes down one by one, forming a neat corner pile.
"These should last us a week if we don't get greedy," he said.
"Wouldn't be the first time I lived off potatoes and herbs," Isgram muttered, brushing dirt from one.
Fang looked at the pile, frowning. "We need to get them off the ground. If it rains hard, this spot's gonna soak. I was thinking—a net, maybe? Hang it up high with vines. Let air in from all sides."
"Not a bad idea," Isgram said, eyeing the cave wall. "But how do you attach a net to stone without rope, nails, or hooks?"
Fang shrugged. "That's what I don't know."
Isgram stepped to the cave wall and ran a hand along the surface, then squinted upward. "Cracks," he muttered. "See here? This thin one near the top. If we shape hardwood wedges just right, we can jam them into those gaps tight enough to hang weight."
Fang raised an eyebrow. "Wooden pegs?"
Strong ones," Isgram nodded. "We'll shave down some branches, hammer them in with a stone. Use long vines to braid a net.
We can also widen the cracks with my fire magic, we can melt it a bit so it will reform.
The wall looks like it has some metal in it.
Probably copper, judging by the color."
He paused, then added, "We'll use bark strips and roots. I'll show you the knots. They'll hold."
Fang grinned. "You dwarves think of everything."
"I don't see myself as a dwarf more than I see myself as a chosen one. Besides, rock doesn't give gifts. You learn to take what's there."
Fang stepped out of the cave and started scanning the nearby underbrush. "Alright. You get the branches. I'll find us some long vines."
Isgram chuckled as he followed. "Now you're thinking like a dwarf, huh?"
Isgram and Fang stepped out of the cave, talking quietly about the vines and branches they'd need for the net. The late afternoon light filtered through the scorched trees, casting long, broken shadows across the ash-littered ground.
Then—thunk.
An arrow slammed into the earth just meters from their feet, the steel tip gleaming in the dirt.
Both men froze.
Isgram's eyes narrowed immediately as he glanced down at the shaft. It wasn't some rough forest hunter's work—this was unmistakably forged steel, barbed and straight. Guild arrows.
His voice dropped. "That's no village crap. That's a guild tip."
Before Fang could respond, a sharp voice rang out from the treeline.
"Hands up! Now!"
Fang raised his hands slowly, his expression hardening but calm. Isgram followed, but muttered under his breath, "Great, now this."
The voice didn't repeat itself. Whoever it was, they weren't nervous. They were Confident.
Fang turned his head slightly, scanning the edges of the clearing without moving his feet. "We're unarmed," he said, loud and clear. "No threat."
There was a pause, and the sound of a nooked arrow sounded again.
Then, the underbrush shifted.
From behind the thick bushy growth, two figures stepped into view, each holding a drawn bow aimed at the ground before them.
Their faces were familiar to Fang.
Guild archers, the same ones who had helped Fenel and tracked Isgram earlier.
"So you're the mighty magistos," one of them said, his voice laced with suspicion. "Why didn't you kill us when you had the chance?"
Isgram looked confused and then talked with a confident tone, but he feigned confusion, "Why would we kill someone who is just looking for money? I don't kill beggars, it doesn't matter how dangerous they are.
To be a guild's worker is to beg for money for all I care for."
Fang stayed silent, his eyes scanning their surroundings, but he knew better than to get in the way of Isgram when it came to matters like this. The fire mage had much more experience on this planet.
The archer's eyes narrowed at the jab, but he didn't respond immediately. Instead, he and his companion exchanged a quick glance, trying to read the two men standing before them.
Fang stayed silent, his eyes scanning the edges of the clearing, his hand resting loosely on the hilt of his sword, though he made no move to reach for it. He had learned by now to trust Isgram's way of handling things. When the fire mage spoke, he spoke with purpose—and usually, with an edge that made others pause.
The second archer, the one with a scar running across his cheek, took a cautious step forward, his bow still at the ready.
"You're not as straightforward as you seem," he said, his voice low but sharp. "We've heard stories of the Magistos. Cruel and Unpredictable. And yet, you spared Fenel. What's your game? Why let him live?"
Isgram shrugged nonchalantly. "He was no threat," he replied, his tone almost bored. "A bit of a fool, really. We're not in the habit of killing anyone who isn't a real danger to us."
Fang stepped slightly closer to Isgram, his gaze sharp as he looked at the two archers. "But, just to clarify," he said, his voice smooth and steady, "if we had been interested in killing, you'd both be dead already."
The words hung in the air, charged with quiet menace. The archers stiffened slightly, their eyes flicking to each other again.
"We know you're mages, you do not scare us. I can put an arrow to your skull in a secon-"
But before the archer could finish his sentence, a flame ball shot from Isgram's palm which was pointing toward the ground, cutting both bows in one clean scorching moment.
The bows were dropped instantly, and the archers drew on their blades ready to attack.
Isgram didn't flinch.
The instant the blades came free, he surged forward with a burst of flame at his heels—closing the gap faster than either archer could react. His fist connected squarely with the scarred one's jaw, sending him sprawling into the underbrush with a grunt. Before the second could bring his blade to bear, Fang was already in motion.
A flick of the wrist, and the shadows beneath Fang's feet twisted—tendrils of darkness rising like snakes from the ash. They caught the man's arm mid-swing, locking it in place with a sickening pull. The archer let out a strangled cry as the life was pulled from him in a cold, creeping wave, his body slumping backward just before Fang released him.
Isgram stood over the first archer, who was dazed but conscious, his mouth bleeding and one eye swelling shut. The second lay still, breathing shallowly but otherwise unharmed—if drained.
Fang crouched beside the downed man, pressing two fingers to his neck to check his pulse. "He's alive," he said quietly.
Isgram cracked his knuckles. "Good. I wasn't finished with them yet."
The first archer groaned and tried to push himself up, but Isgram placed a foot on his chest, holding him down.
"You're going to talk," the fire mage said. "Because I'm done playing at civility. Who sent you? Why are guild archers crawling through dead forests like rats?"