And so it was that by the fifth evening of the exodus we had the skynet. No more did Binky have to exert himself after the day’s march; instead, it was a matter of mere minutes for the gnomes to assemble the pieces of their newly portable pop-up web ceiling.
The clothiers’ crafting skill increased to tier 10, unlocking Advanced Crafting and granting additional bonuses to their speed and efficiency when working with soft materials. Swift and Cheer’s Tinkering skill had leveled up to tier 5, and all those involved in the creation process had gained extra levels in Survival.
My warriors, too, had begun taking measures to more effectively deter attacks from the hated sky. After much trial and error, and many incidents involving sticky fingers and lost skin, they managed to weave Binky’s silk into a strong rope, thicker and heavier than that used in the skynet. Tying the end of each rope into a loose noose, they spent a good portion of the subsequent few days’ march flinging their new lassos into the air, practicing their aim. They still needed more practice though, since the only things they’d managed to lasso so far were each other.
That they could so enthusiastically devote their energy to lasso practice while also maintaining their pace was a sign of their increasing endurance. We followed the same routine each day, allowing a half-hour's rest for every three hours of walking. The rest of the tribe were also managing to keep up, though most of them—namely the children and non-physical professions—still took turns riding the wagons.
However, it seemed some not permitted to do so would do anything to change that.
"What on earth...?”
Ket’s exclamation summoned me to the rear of the procession, where the reason for my sprite’s frustration immediately became clear.
The two scavengers had foregone their usual trudging gait. Instead they were picking their ungainly way through the fallen leaves, raising each foot ridiculously high before carefully placing it down again like a pair of newborn deer walking on ice. It was painful to watch.
“I see they’ve found a way to walk even more slowly.” Impressive. “What’s that on their feet?”
"I believe they're sheep's teeth," answered Ket, gritting her own. "Molars, specifically."
A closer look proved my sprite correct. They scavengers had somehow affixed a blockish yellow-white tooth to the bottom of each boot, effectively creating improvised stilts. The obvious upside was that it kept their feet and legs out of the mud. The downside was that they now moved so slowly a slug could outrun them.
“At least they’re practical,” I said. “Sort of.”
“It hasn’t rained for days now,” Ket pointed out. “Why? Why do they need them?”
“Why do Swift and Cheer do anything?”
I had my suspicions. The pair were always glaring at the gnomes riding the wagons in front of them, muttering to themselves as they watched them hop down at the end of each day, while rubbing their own sore feet. I’d also seen Swift attempting to bribe one of the older juveniles into giving up their spot on their wagon. But the memory of the scavengers’ recent boot-based extortion attempt was still fresh in my denizens’ minds, and so the sulky scavengers remained on foot.
I’d have felt sorry for them had they not both been perfectly capable of managing the march and more.
Besides, the wagons were all in use. The one they were currently throwing glares at was full: I'd assigned the builders to work on the raincatchers while we were on the move, and the next wagon along was occupied by the clothiers, who had roped some of the children into helping them craft sturdier garments for the tribe. We essentially had our own little mobile sweatshop.
“You need to be stricter with them,” Ket said. She was still seething with annoyance at the scavengers’ latest antics.
“What do you want me to do? It’s not like I can set them on fire or anything.”
The issue was taken out of my hands when Cheer bent down to re-adjust her bizarre footwear. A small object sailed down from a nearby tree and bounced off the back of her neck. She yelped and leapt upright, rubbing her neck and frowning up at the trees.
When Swift turned to see what the commotion was about, another object was launched from somewhere above. It smacked into Swift’s forehead and knocked her onto her backside. She sat blinking in surprise, an angry red welt rising above her left eyebrow.
Something chittered and squeaked up among the branches. Cheer unholstered her net-shooter—which she’d reclaimed from one of the farmers—and pointed it at the sound. A weighted net—originally designed to help the farmers defend themselves from the dangerous whip spiders that occasionally roamed the Grotto’s shroomtree fields—shot out, disappearing into the branches.
With a rustle of leaves and snapping twigs, a gray shape tumbled down from the tree. It landed in a pile of dead leaves, then proceeded to roll around, thrashing against its confines and spitting furiously.
The scavengers advanced on the squirrel, and I suspected it would have ended up as a pincushion had Ris’kin not chosen that moment to intervene. My avatar strode up behind the scavengers, clapping a hand on each of their shoulders to bring them to a halt. For some reason she’d brought Gneil along too. He smiled sheepishly at Swift and Cheer.
They sheathed their weapons and watched resentfully as Ris’kin crouched in front of the net. At first the squirrel only increased its efforts to escape, but when Gneil joined her, it calmed almost instantly.
“He really does have a way with animals, doesn’t he?” said Ket admiringly.
“His Animal Handling skill is at rank nine,” I told her.
“I wonder what rank ten will unlock?”
“Probably something entirely useless to me. A ‘woodland cleric’ vocation, perhaps. Or maybe ‘high priest of owls’.”
Still, I tensed when he released the squirrel from its
