"What on earth is he doing?" Ket's voice was muffled by her hands, which were pressed against her mouth.
"It's... unclear. Why does he want to keep it? Does he think they're waiting to just stick it back on again or something?"
"Not Shanky—the farmer!" Ket sounded appalled. "What does he want with a random leg?"
"Oh. Probably intends to use it as fertilizer, like they did with the bodies after the battle."
"How undignified! No wonder Shanky doesn't want him to take it!"
"Shanky helped them bury those bodies all over the shroomtree farms. He knows it's for the greater good. I'm surprised he's getting"—I almost choked—"cold feet."
"Too soon!" hissed Ket, sparking furiously.
The farmer, clearly realizing he was no match for Longshank even in his weakened state, let go of the limb and backed off. Rather than looking triumphant, Longshank just slumped over the limb. After a pause, the farmer edged forward cautiously. He crouched beside the wounded scout.
After a short but seemingly heartfelt conversation, the farmer nodded, wiping his eyes. He eased the severed leg away from the now-unresisting Longshank, wrapped it more firmly in its blanket, and placed it carefully in his bucket. Then he stood and extended a hand to the scout.
With an impressive minimum of wincing and moaning, Longshank climbed to his feet—foot—and then, supported by the farmer, hopped his way out of the room. The agony must have been intense, but Longshank endured it with gritted teeth. His pain threshold must be on par with that of a mole-rat. That, or those mushroom elixirs are stronger than I thought.
The pair made their way painstakingly over to the nearest field, the one on the south side of the stream. There, the farmer dug a hole amid the shroomtrees, then offered up the bucket to Longshank and held onto him while he unsteadily placed his lost limb in the hole and bowed his head over it.
Once buried, the flesh would decompose and become part of the soil, nourishing the shroomtrees that provided the foundation for the Grotto’s buildings. The bones would remain for a while longer, joining the crumbling skeletons of almost a hundred kobolds. They'd only died here a couple of weeks ago, but dead organic matter decayed extra quickly in my mana-rich Sphere.
After a few minutes, they filled in the hole together, covering the leg from sight. Both gnomes flinched a little when a figure detached itself from the shadows of a looming shroomtree, but they relaxed when they saw it was just Ris'kin. I watched in mild surprise as my avatar approached Longshank and offered him a long, knobbly walking stick—a stick I recognized as once belonging to Granny, the tribe's former overseer.
I didn't have a body, therefore I didn't have a throat, but somehow I had a lump in it. So I did what any reasonable person would do when faced with the discomfort of fresh grief: I channeled it into more familiar outrage instead.
"Why would she do that? I didn't tell her to do that!" I exclaimed. "And after he's been such an arsehole with Gneil, too!"
"Well..." Ket sniffled. Apparently she'd found the gesture a lot more moving than I had. Typical. "Ris'kin is your avatar. She's her own person, but she's also the embodiment of your will. I doubt she'd do anything you didn't also approve of, even subconsciously."
I grumbled something about how both Ket and Ris'kin were subconscious pains in my arse, mostly to make the sprite stop talking. I suppose Longshank had earned a little of my (grudging) respect. He'd shown determination and fortitude in the face of great pain. And the way he'd brutally murdered the monster that injured him had been pretty spectacular in its own way.
"Whatever," I told Ket. "He can have the walking stick. But if he thinks this means I'm promoting him to overseer, he's got another thing coming."
Nine
The Lair of the Enemy
Tiri
The lock clicked open. The sound seemed louder than it should, amplified by the heavy pre-dawn silence. Tiri glanced over her shoulder, muscles tensed for flight, but the dim alchemical light globes along the wall showed the corridor remained empty.
Tiri held her own chemsphere—modified to give off pink light rather than white, the better to spend long hours reading through the night without eye strain—higher, withdrew her hairpin from the lock, and slipped inside the room.
It was a mess.
A narrow bed lay along the wall just inside the door. Its pillow and coverlet were barely visible beneath a jumble of papers, books, clothes and random items. Stepping further into the room, Tiri could see some of the papers on top were lecture notes: 'Advanced Tracking (Swampland)', 'Ten Essential Forest Ranger Skills', 'Wild Beasts and How to Harness Them'. Scattered atop these and books with similar titles were assorted oddments: a handful of polished stones, an acorn, several ink-stained feather quills, and a torn archery glove.
More books—Eusocial Species of Kelaria, Inside the Hive Mind, and The Way of the Warlock—sat haphazardly stacked on the bedside table, the now-empty drawers of which had been yanked wide open and left that way. They gaped accusingly at her, reminding her that she was intruding upon a dead woman's private space. Though the chaotically strewn nature of it all suggested she was not the first to come prying amongst Lila Mornier's personal belongings, seeing the relics of the ranger's short life laid out so carelessly before her made her swallow a lump in her throat and look away.
Her breath caught when she saw the second bed on the other side of the room. For some reason it hadn't occurred to her that Lila might have had a roommate. Luckily the pink glow of the alchemical lamp revealed no sleeping form but rather more notes and books.
Thank the philosophers.
That would have been hard to explain, lockpick in hand, rifling through the possessions of her now-dead adventuring companion in the dead hours of the morning. She was growing careless.
She'd assumed those high up enough in the Guild,
