Survival rule #27
Finn came to with his face pressed into the cracked yard floor, air still hard to find. The pressure on his throat was gone, but the ghost of it lingered, pulsing like a warning. His ribs ached. His back flared with pain. But worse than all that—he didn’t see Rosslyn.
“Ross?” he rasped. No answer. Just the drag of feet, muttering inmates, the echo of a guard’s laughter like iron grating on nerves. He looked around from where he lay, trying not to draw attention. Half the yard had seen it: Silas Cray—Calder’s little monster—had choked the fight out of him like he was snuffing a candle. Some of the boys turned their faces. A few watched with grim eyes. No one helped. No one ever helped.
Rosslyn. Where was she? He didn’t shout. Didn’t panic. Just blinked the sweat out of his eyes and started to crawl. A scrap of shadow behind a water barrel caught his eye, and there—tail twitching, one leg bent wrong, breathing fast—was Rosslyn. Hurt. But alive.
“Don’t you die on me, sweetheart,” he muttered, scooping her up. “You’re the brains of the operation.” He tucked her into his shirt, close to the warmth of his chest. She didn’t struggle.
Lights Out. Doors clanged shut. Keys turned. Voices died down to murmurs, then nothing. Finn sat in the dark of his cell. Rosslyn lay curled on a scrap of cloth, her breath shallow but steady. He’d made her a tiny sling from a strip of his sleeve, tied loose around her leg. He’d stitched up worse. In himself, anyway.
Now came the hard part. Waiting. He kept his eyes on the corridor. Listened. Counted footsteps. The shuffle of other inmates. The guard rotation.
And then…Steps. Too soft to be guards. Wrong rhythm, bare feet. Silas. Of course he came. Finn had expected it. Bastards like that don’t leave threats unfulfilled. They come back to remind you.
The lock turned, smooth and confident. That bastard had a key. A private one — and there he was. Silas. Grinning. Finn’s stomach sank. Not just because Silas was back — but because someone in the prison had knowingly let a prisoner loose in the prison with a key.
“You sleep light, old man.” Silas stepped in, closed the door behind him.
“You ain’t gonna see the rope,” he said. “You’ll wish for it, long before it comes.”
He grabbed Finn by the shirt, shoved him hard into the wall. Head hit stone. Cray’s fist followed—a heavy thing like a hammer. The first punch knocked the air out. The second was just punctuation. The big hands started to choke him again. The edges of his vision quickly started to darken. “This is it”, was the traitorous thought that entered his mind.
Finn was flying — like a bird — the land stretched out beneath him. Fields gave way to ancient forest as he angled his arms and dove. His small form shot between tree trunks at breakneck speed, zigzagging as he laughed like a madman. Then he heard his name, though it sounded like Jonathan. A dark form slammed into him mid-flight, shoving him down. Finn crashed into the forest floor with a hard thump.
Heart hammering in his throat, he yanked the dagger from beneath his pillow and jammed it upward between himself and the dark form. The blade met resistance—flesh and cloth—and someone yelped in pain.
Jonathan.
Finn blinked the sleep from his eyes. “What in all the gods’ left bollocks are you doing in my tent, you daft twat? I could’ve killed you, knocking me out of the bloody sky like that!”
Jonathan stared down at him, wide-eyed and bleeding. Neither quite knew what to say to that. “Listen!” the cleric hissed. “The forest’s all wrong. No sound. Inez says there’s something in the trees.”
Still half-dreaming of flight and foolish enough to be half-dressed, Finn grabbed his knives and sling and followed Jonathan out into the morning sunlight. Fresh blood on Jonno’s arm. Not too bad—but still, Finn owed him an apology. He didn’t like owing people. Especially when it wasn’t his fault.
Their tents were ringed in silver-grey mist—not the sickly green from yesterday’s chamber, but a quieter fog. Survival rule #27: When the fog rolls in, two things follow: monsters and bad decisions.
Inez stood a little way off, pointing silently up into a tree. Jonathan, ever the curious one, walked over to her. Finn hung back near the tents. From where he crouched, he could see the tree clearly but stay hidden. Something moved from Inez’ tree to the tree in front in Finn. He had heard the movement, but didn’t see it other than some shaking branches and leaves. Inez quickly walked over to the campfire and lit a torch. “Taking precautions, she is learning,” Finn muttered.
Still no visible movement, but the stalker crept on to the next tree. Finn thumbed his iron medallion. “Harrows,” he warned. “We’re being hunted.” Jonathan blinked. “What’s a Harrow?” Finn looked at him like he’d just asked what rain was. “The kind of thing your god won’t save you from.”
Inez approached the tree with the torch raised. Finn still didn’t know why they called her the brains of the outfit. Up there, part of the tree, was… something…Finn didn’t know what to make of it. It looked like some part of the tree bulged out and moved of its own accord. Two frickin’ glowing yellow eyes blinked at Inez. She lowered the torch, trying not to threaten it, but it leapt—landed—and shifted. Its skin changed from bark to something murky, ground-coloured. For an instant they got a glimpse at a thing that had stepped out of a nightmare.
Tentacles—eight, maybe more—each clutching different objects like a deranged hoarder: a branch, a charred stick, a meaty femur, a metal spike, a rusty axe… It balanced a bulbous head, a frilled collar, and a mouth full of tendrils on — more tentacles. And the most disturbing feature, the tentacles were lined with rows of fingers. Because of course it had fingered feelers. Why wouldn’t it?
It was a merci when it blinked from view, cloaking itself again — but not silently. It made this wet sucking noise that was freaking Finn out to his core.
The thing was twice Inez’s height. A tentacle lashed out — missed her leg by a hair, but cut cleanly through her dress. Jonathan ran forward. Finn fired a stone from his sling — but the shot passed through he though the creature was standing. Finn cursed, drew his chopper, and charged. He might as well have swung blindfolded. The creature dodged with uncanny ease. Fighting this thing felt like punching through a dream. Luckily for them, the thing seemed just as lost, its blows missing the smallfolk darting underneath its reach.
Jonathan tried water. (Of course he did.) He transformed into a halfling geyser and blasted the creature with water—straight into Inez. Her torch hissed and died, leaving her soaked and defenseless. The creature lunged, but the slick water made her too slippery to grip. In the mess of limbs and squirming, it tangled four of its own tentacles. “Hah!” Finn grinned. “Should’ve gone for suckers instead of fingers, eh?”
Now they were serious. Inez pulled her blades. Jonathan picked up his axe. What followed was a blur: steel flashing, appendages whipping, spells and swears and the sharp tang of blood—purple blood. Gods. Finn could tell Inez and Jonathan hadn’t been in many fights. They were focused on dishing out, but were a bit too static, leaving themselves open for the occasional nick from a tentacle. Finn was fighting angry with his heavy knife and had a hard time getting hits in against this monster. Inez, the bookworm and barely blooded in battle was fighting with her brain. Using statistics and increasing her chance to hit by fighting with two blades. What good does it do you when you are decked out knives on every limb, and don’t think to use them. Finn created a bit of space between him and the monster and quickly threw two knives, one penetrating deep into the beast’s torso — tentacle stem — whatever. The creature screeched and charged Finn, grabbing the halfling like a rag doll. The stink — rotting meat, sweat, decay — that wafted over Finn threatened to choke him by itself. The tendrils in its mouth reached for his face. Inez jammed a blade into its back, if that was even a thing. The creature howled. Finn, using the pain as distraction, gripped his buried dagger and yanked it downwards with a roar. It dropped him.
Now it was angry. The fight turned. It struck Inez hard. Jonathan and Finn pressed in, blades flashing. It ducked Jonathan’s swing. Finn tried to leap on its back but slipped. His hand plunged into the earlier wound halfway up to the elbow—and stuck. The beast spun wildly, bucking and flailing about, spinning him around in circles. Luckily the hand tore free, Finn was flung across the clearing. He landed hard. Dirt in his teeth. Head spinning.
Inez got back into the fight, knives stabbing. Jonathan’s axe swooshing through the air, but neither of them connecting; the creature’s veil messing with their sight again.
Finn, furious, grabbed a fistful of dirt and threw it. “See how you like it!” Maybe luck, maybe divine justice—but it hit. Right in the “face”. The thing reeled. It couldn’t see, but it didn’t go down. A lucky tentacle struck Inez. She crumpled. Another hit Jonathan square in the chest.
And that did it. The cleric, calm no longer, channeled something ancient and holy and swung. The blade cut clean through the creature’s neck, purple blood spraying in an arch. The head and body plopped separately on the ground.
Whatever it was—spawned, summoned, or born— the body deflated, folding into itself like a leaky bladder. Its strange veil dropped, revealing garish yellow-orange skin beneath.
The horror lay still, dead. Over. Done.
Finn, still rattled, cracked a breakfast joke. Poor timing—Inez was motionless at their feet. Maybe dead. Jonathan, at least seemed to have his wits about him, he knelt, prayed and pumped some healing magic into Inez. She gasped awake, wild-eyed, as if Jonno had dumped another bucket of water on her.
Finn slumped, coughing dirt and spit, every part of him aching like he’d been chewed and spit out by an owlbear. His left hand still throbbed where it had lodged inside the beast’s wound — felt like it had been pickled in nightmares. Around him, the clearing was quiet, save for the low, raspy breaths of the others and the lazy slosh of something viscous. That’s when he really noticed the puddle. Purple, like blubber left out too long in the sun. It shimmered strange in the light of the morning sun, pooling around what remained of the thing — the horror. Yellowish flesh now slack and crumpled, like a tent made from rotten leather and stuffed with nothing. It had deflated, literally, the moment its head came off. No bones to be seen. Just a heap of soft tissue, twitching slightly, as if it hadn’t quite gotten the message, it was dead.
It looked — wrong. Not just dead wrong. Born wrong. Like a fever dream from a madman.
They’d killed it. Barely. Finn stayed sitting for a moment longer, catching his breath, hand twitching as the purple stain dried into his skin. It didn’t feel right. Felt like something had stayed with him.
Inez apparently just needed a new mystery to forget about her torn dress. She started rooting through the creatures’ strange gear. She claimed the metal spike, pulled out the book she’d bought off Finn at the start of this disaster. (Cursed, probably.) Laid out the book on the floor and held the spike above it while muttering her strange incantations. Then she started peering at it through some ridiculous theatre binoculars.
“Priorities,” Finn muttered.
Finn recovered his blades, sliding them back into hidden sheaths. Returned Inez’s knife. She took it like it was his job.
The owlbear cubs had dragged the monster’s meaty femur off to one side and were gnawing at it like puppies with a soup bone. “Wonderful,” Finn muttered. “If we could just train them to do that before the murder starts, we’d be golden.” Inez gave him a look that said she agreed—while reminding him it wasn’t his place to say so. Fine. If she was gonna treat him like hired help, he’d at least do what made him happy.
Breakfast.
He pulled out some leftover Elkzilla meat. Added a wedge of dwarven deepcheddar he’d meant to save. Stale biscuits rounded it out. Comfort food.
Jonathan ate like it was a feast. Inez had just picked at hers. Her thoughts were somewhere else, her hands went instinctively over her dress — or what was left of it. Bless it, the thing had taken more damage than Jonathan’s shield. Torn up the side, mud-slicked, bloodstained, and worse, there was now a very particular rip that left — well, let’s just say the moon was out early that day. Jonathan, to his credit, kept his jaw from hitting the ground and tried to be polite. Failed. “Did your dress just surrender?” he asked, all priestly innocence.
Finn wasn’t quite so charitable. “Moonlit cheeks,” He said, with a grin he absolutely deserved to be slapped for. “Didn’t know that was the new fashion in Nook. Very daring.”
She shot the halflings a look that could’ve curdled milk. Yanked the fabric around herself like it owed her money. Mumbled something about provisional repairs. Probably would’ve used a fireball if she’d had the spell slots.
Finn caught Inez sneaking glances at his right hand. The bloodstain hadn’t come off — it had soaked into his skin like ink, staining his wrist, palm and fingers a kind of haunted lilac. It didn’t hurt or itch anymore, it just — was. And frankly, he liked the look of it. Mark of survival. Of victory. Maybe even luck. “Probably means I’m blessed by some forgotten god of mischief or — knives. (Lame) Could be it unlocks ancient vaults. Might even glow when treasure’s near.” He leaned in closer, stage whispered to Jonathan: “Or when someone’s lying.” Inez snorted, but didn’t argue.
Funny thing though: Inez kept eyeing it, the way you might a tattoo on a dangerous man you’re not supposed to be thinking about. She went all quiet after a while. Probably imagining how awful it’d be if she had a stain like that. I pictured her in elbow-length gloves for the rest of her life, hiding it away like shame. She’d still find a way to wear her rings, though. Probably layer them up the gloves. Fashion doesn’t die easy in that one.
finished eating — not nearly enough, but that’s halfling problems for you — and started breaking down camp. The fog hadn’t let up, but the party agreed over lukewarm coffee and Jonathan’s version of “morning hymns” that Magki was still the plan. While the others were packing, Jonathan, ever the accidental prophet, was idling about and tripped over something half-buried the water spray had revealed: Stone. Square. Worked. A hatch, or something like it, right next to their campsite. Of course, he didn’t ask why there was a hatch in the middle of nowhere. He just shouted “Adventure!” That seemed to put a smile on Inez’ face.
Finn groaned. Fools attract fools. Trust us to nearly die on top of a bloody mystery.
Finn did his thing and checked the hatch—no traps, no lock, closed. Maybe they could just leave — No, Inez had other ideas.
Mumbling to herself, she made that magic that makes doors open, or just rattle in this case. Her face did that thing where she bit her lip and arched her eyebrow in annoyance, which Finn loved if it wasn’t directed at him. She pulled out her binoculars again and inspected the hatch. She “Aha!”ed and grabbed the spike the creature had carried and slid it into a hole that Finn had dismissed as wear and tear of a century of decay or so. With a loud click, the thing seemed to have opened. Damn. Eager Jonathan pulled open the hatch and proudly announced he was the party’s strongman. Leading the party in, he cast light on his shield again like a proper lantern-boy. Inez seemed almost as eager to follow into another underground lair of doom. Finn thought: “Let them stumble ahead, I’ll just watch their backs for now.”
At the end of the corridor, they found their way blocked by a metal grid. Finn couldn’t open it. The party’s strongman hurt his wrist trying to force his way through. Finn felt a small bit of satisfaction at that. Inez started mumbling under her breath and the grid opened. Magic does have its benefits — sometimes — maybe.
They continued onwards until they came upon a small room with a high ceiling. There were two doors at the end of the room, which was lit with a strange green light. Weird static in the air. Finn’s teeth tingled. He kissed his medallion and asked his ancestors to protect him. Best get out of here. He tried the right door. Declared it safe.
It wasn’t.
A dart flew out, missed his head, and ripped another hole in Inez’s dress. She sighed her disapproval. Fiddling with the lock, Finn’s picks couldn’t find any purchase. Switched to the other door. No traps. Tried the lock—no luck. Grabbed a better handhold and the door swung open — not locked. Cheeks red, he stepped aside. Let the others enter first.
The party stepped into the space beyond the door. The floor vanished.
They slid—screaming, cursing—into darkness.
When Silas was done—or bored or satisfied—he left Finn bleeding on the floor, not dead, not whole. Blood dripped from his nose. His lip was split. He touched his ribs—maybe cracked.
But he was alive.
Rosslyn stirred, sniffed at his face, squeaked low and worried. Finn managed a smile. It tasted like iron. He held up his hand, a small, blackened iron key in his palm. Compact. Had the look of a master key.
“I’ve still got it, Ross, he said,” Finn muttered. He spat a tooth fragment into the corner.
He reached under the bunk. Drew out the loose tile he’d been working on for months. Behind it, the stash: a stolen hinge pin, two lengths of wire, a spoon ground to a point. Small things. Sharp things.
He set them on the floor like cards in a game.
He wasn’t strong. He wasn’t big. But he was clever.
And clever gets out.
Always Has.
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