Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

Sunday walked sullenly deeper into the woods. It was still early morning and they had been walking for a few hours. The sun was establishing itself slowly but firmly by chasing away the remnants of morning cold and the shadows left in his mind. Vyn was drunkenly dragging his feet somewhere behind, and Sunday occasionally checked on him. They had already passed the bare skeletons of some small animals. There were no forest sounds accompanying their walk.

It was very probable that Vyn was more qualified to lead them when it came to any sort of wilderness, but the man had barely gotten any sleep and the amount of alcohol he had consumed had set back the village’s stock by a lot. Sunday witnessed it, as he had spent most of the night practicing the Black Breath, recovering his essence, and counting the loot from the mayor which had come out at a shocking twelve gold coin and eight silver. A small fortune to a starving undead mage with no marketable talents.

The villagers had warmed up quite a lot to them after Sunday told them to use the leftover healing water for sick animals or any other wounds or infections. He had monitored it all, never ceasing to be amazed at the Omen of Duality. There was a part of him that wondered if he could heal too much and cause complications, but there was no way he would simply test that on someone.

What was truly worrying was the worshipper. The man had doused himself in liquor and set himself on fire in the middle of the village, and no one had decided to report this to the Guard. Worst of all, the suicidal maniac had left a message for Sunday, which meant he was watched. It was not simply a matter of someone around him knowing where he was going, as the event had happened roughly around the time, he accepted the task. He dreaded the thought of some higher power with mental issues watching his every step.

“C-Can you slow down?” Vyn asked, his voice hoarse.

“No!” Sunday barked. Serves you right. I can’t even try to get drunk without pissing away all the money I have. “Will you even be able to hold your sword? Fight?”

“Fight?” Vyn repeated. His voice came from further behind and Sunday stopped as he heard the rustling of bushes. “I c-can fight. Just… a moment.”

Sunday closed his eyes and started humming. Not that he hadn’t seen others empty the contents of their alcohol-drowned stomachs in the early mornings. Sure, it hadn’t been in a pretty green forest without a trace of civilization around, nor had he been in the midst of a ghoul hunt, but that didn’t mean witnessing the event was a priority.

It took Vyn a few minutes to gather himself. The man was prepared and had two full waterskins at his side, and a large breakfast in his bag for when he could hold it down. Sunday was glad all he had to carry was the clothes on his back, coin just in case wild monsters were susceptible to bribery, and his selection of flasks which he had refilled last night with both wine and moths.

“What are we even trying to do here?” Vyn asked after he caught up, still wiping his mouth.

“I don’t know. Chase away some ghouls or run if there are too many.” Sunday answered with a shrug. He was quite confident that if nothing else, the moths of life would prove a good shield against any undead trying to take a bite out of them. If they could stop Jishu’s mind-controlled freaks, then they could stop some angry woodland ghouls. From the size of the claw marks on the woodcutters it was apparent that while aggressive, the creatures were much smaller.

“Plus,” Sunday continued, “Didn’t you say you’re very good with your sword?”

“I’m not trained in monster slaying, although I’ve some experience on that front. My sister, who’s also my teacher by the way, made sure I was ready for anything.”

“Before she fucked off and left you, eh?” Ouch, that was harsh.

Vyn laughed, rather than get annoying which only made his image rise in Sunday’s eyes. “She had her reasons. I don’t understand them, but…whatever.”

“I see. What’s the name of the style?”

“What style?” Vyn asked confused and swayed dangerously.

“Sword style, I don’t know. Don’t you have fancy names for those?”

Vyn laughed again. “You don’t know anything about swords, huh?”

“I know which end to hold them by.” He was sure there was more to it but sharp objects were not his area of expertise. I can’t go around slapping anything with my bare hands, especially if there are monsters around. I should finally see someone who can make me a bat. A good bat. With nails. No! With ghoul claws dabbed in poison. Or better yet, acid. Is there acid around? Acid and garlic for the vamps when we eventually cross paths.

“While there are fancy moves with fancy names, styles boil down to the type of sword, and what you’ll be fighting with it. Some monsters would require knowledge that normal sword fighting won’t give you. The best swordsman does three things. They read a lot, they practice a lot, and they lose a lot against those better than them.”

“Haven’t seen you hold a book or practice…” Sunday muttered. The topic was very interesting to him. Slapping simply was not a viable long-term strategy. “Tell me more about those ‘monsters’ you keep mentioning.”

Vyn’s smile faltered, but he nodded. Just as he opened his mouth Sunday stopped him.

“Or better yet, leave it for later.”

A pair of yellowish eyes were looking at them through the foliage.

Sunday looked back at the creature with curiosity and wariness. It was a tiny thing, maybe the size of a small dog, or a cat. It was not half as cute as any of the comparisons that popped into Sunday’s head.

Its sickly green skin was akin to a toad’s but lighter in shade and rougher, littered with patches that seemed almost mushy. In places the skin hung from the monster’s tiny frame as if something had tried to skin the thing and revealed the dark fleshy fibers beneath. Was the little ghoul falling apart?

Sunday stopped himself from grimacing. Is it decomposing? He hadn’t read that far in the book, but he recognized the thing as a wild ghoul. A commonly seen sub-species that popped out in places of death or slaughter, like all ghouls, but commonly in the forests. It was a small dangerous thing whose claws carried many diseases that could be fatal for the living.

He eyed its limbs. Despite its tiny frame, the claws were there, menacing, promising violence at levels much greater than that of a furious street cat. Sunday knew firsthand how much damage a cat could do if it put its mind to it, and he had seen the marks left by the tiny ghoul's claws on the villagers. He wouldn’t write them off simply because they were more than twice smaller than their swamp counterparts. And even more disgusting.

“Get ready, this one is likely a distraction,” Sunday said in an even tone. He vividly remembered the monsters’ attempt in the swamp, and while that might have been a result of their connection to Jishu, taking chances was stupid. All predators had habits and intrinsic knowledge of how to lean on their strengths.

As Sunday understood from the book, ghouls were like an equivalent to vultures or hyenas. They were scavengers first and foremost. Attacking living beings much larger than them was not a typical behavior for the species.

However, the mesmerizing yellow eyes were proof that the book was not completely correct in its assessment. They begged for his attention, desperate and shining despite the fact that the sun was not yet high enough for its rays to fully chase away the shadows and create such an effect. It’s trying to woo me like a lady at a bar before she spikes my drink, robs me blind, and takes my kidney. All it’s missing are the fake lashes. I’ve played that game with better-looking ghouls than you, fucker.

Sunday slowly stepped to the side never leaving the small ghoul out of his sight, while also making sure to scan the surroundings. There you are. The small forest was not like the swamp with its massive trees and almost constant dusk. Some colors popped out under the morning light that managed to slip past the canopy of branches and leaves.

The monsters were small things capable of hiding much better than their swamp counterparts. He was sure he didn’t notice all of them, but a few here and there were enough to know he’d been right. Not that it made much difference. There was not going to be cardio this time around.

Like a proper adventurer, eh?

Vyn seemed calm in comparison to how he had reacted during the meeting with the cultists – a good thing. His sword slowly left its sheath without making a sound. Sunday hated to admit it but he relied on the man’s confidence with the sword as he could hardly protect anyone but himself. The Omen of Duality could not be used often until he expanded his soul space, so being strategic about it was important. He wouldn’t shy away from burning the bastards with a touch of life if things got tricky though.

The ghouls seemed to sense they’d been found out and more poured out from behind the trees and bushes, freely circling them and coming closer without the slightest show of anger or aggression. The quiet was disconcerting but Sunday was used to it.

“You scared?” Sunday asked.

Vyn exhaled slowly probably to calm his nerves, but most likely to stop another bout of vomiting. “I’m still drunk, so no. And you can patch me up, right? I can go crazy and not die from an infection.”

“I can’t bring the dead back to life so not too crazy.” The one in the village seemed much better after drinking my moth water. How bad could a bunch of supernatural rot-eating monster’s claws be for the human body?

Vyn didn’t seem to notice Sunday’s strange look focused on the surrounding enemies. “Aw, man,” he said, then burped.

The ghouls slowly stepped up to them as if they were about to present their backs for pets – not that anyone would want that.

Sunday relished the calmness that permeated his mind and the sense of dull adrenaline pumping through his dried-out veins. Each day he felt different and with each day he felt more in tune with himself.

His body was more ready than ever to follow his mind’s commands. It was a well-put-together construct made for destruction. Despite it being dead each movement and twitch belonged to him and him alone. No joint aches, no muscle weakness, no bad habits to be mindful of. Control. Had he felt like that before? Why was it he was noticing this just now? Was he getting addicted to the sensation of combat?

“It’s awesome,” he whispered.

“Wha—?”

The ghouls’ little faces twisted to reveal Swiss multitool knife-sized teeth as they lunged. Sunday sidestepped the first one and the Smash Ball went out sending a second one straight into a tree close by. The tiny thing crumpled under the weight of the spell and the force of the impact like a frog under a car’s wheel.

The Smash Ball was like a dot on Sunday’s mind's radar. He knew where it was without looking and with but a wish from him it would take in some of his essence and shoot out again, flattening the chest of yet another tiny vermin.

Sunday’s sword left the sheathe and he swung it almost blindly, trying to hit the monsters with the sharp bits. It was not difficult and there was sizzling as the steel effortlessly cut an offending appendage, and then another, making black blood color the surroundings a darker shade. One of the hurt ghouls screeched but continued its attack until a second took to the top half of its skull.

There was no time to appreciate the disgusting sight as three of the monsters came at once with more following. The Smash Ball took one from the side and interrupted a fourth he hadn’t seen, while Sunday stabbed at the closest two. He swung the sword like a butcher and chopped limbs amid the chorus of gnarly sounds and flying flesh.

A few clawed limbs reached his legs and got tangled in the thick leather of his pants purchased specifically for the task, struggling to tear them apart and get to the dead flesh beneath. The pants were proving a good investment despite Vyn’s and Sunday’s uncertainty if the undead suffered the terror of chafing the same as the living.

The sword felt no resistance as it passed through moist gnarly flesh and sent showers of dark liquid and organs to the side in a flurry of steam and screams. The sizzling of the ghoulish flesh was very pronounced, nothing like when the sword had visited Sunday’s intestines. It was like it was coated in acid, or hot to the point of searing all it touched.

Despite witnessing the pathetic fall of their brethren, the other ghouls still came. Rabid, mad and desperate. Was it hunger driving them? Was it fear? They were suicidal beyond reason and he knew that was no typical behavior.

Sorry, this sundae is not for consumption.

He kicked and slashed, used the Smash Ball sparingly, and muttered under his breath. He had no desire to slap the things and wondered if the talent thought them beneath itself. Could talents think? That would make them parasites. It could be a built-in function by the one who’d bestowed it upon him too. It seemed to have a thing for all things Divine or arrogant.

Or it could be Sunday’s own hesitance to touch the creatures playing part. Soft, slimy, and squishy with the permeating smell of swampy rot was not his thing.

Soon the forest floor was littered with remains and there were no more ‘whole’ ghouls. Despite being dismembered, hacked apart, squashed by the spell, or stomped on, parts of the monsters still struggled to reach him, dragging themselves forward or opening and closing their jaws in futility and proving themselves deserving of being lumped together with the rest of the undead.

It was a pathetic, desperate sight that made Sunday cringe and step back. He was covered in rotting flesh and blackish blood. In comparison, Vyn was doing much better, even though he was once again bent over and emptying whatever poison remained in his stomach over a bunch of ghoulish remains.

Ah, nature. Sunday thought and kicked to get a piece of intestine off of his boot.