The air is heavy with the rancid scent of rotten meat. Heaving, Julien adds his share of acidic fluids to the growing puddle in which he stands. Odd bare bones surround a mostly dissolved corpse of some quadruped. It is large. Sticking to the brownish flesh are a few discolored, pink scales.
The green-filtered light above him is close. So close. But too far to reach with a jump. Julien’s red and inflamed fingers throb, and growing gaps at his knees stare at him accusingly. Evidence of his failed attempt.
A slimy, acidic coating covers the pinkish, yellow-splotched, thick-veined walls, dripping down in a slow yet endless stream. The puddle has already grown significantly, covering the entire bottom. A few small bubbles pop at the surface. More fluid rises from below.
Julien casts his eyes left and right. No way out. The rubbery inside of the plant gives no hand or footholds whatsoever. Looking at his bone dagger, he decides to make his own.
The first stab bounces off harmlessly. With a yell, Julien raises the dagger again and stabs downward. And again. The dagger continues to bounce off, launching acidic fluids at him. The biting and burning sensation on his skin causes him to stop. Well, that was useless. He is now more acid-splattered, and the bone dagger thinner than before.
He looks at the sword in his right hand. The space is not ideal. He can’t even stretch both his arms while standing in the middle. But with the puddle now consuming his calves, time is running out.
Swinging his blade proves to be mostly ineffective. A few Crescent Slashes clear the acid in narrow troughs but do not pierce the rubbery wall. Julien starts to panic. He sees several pink and yellow tendrils emerge from the bottom of the puddle. They rise through the acidic fluids and start lapping at his shins. Eager to taste him.
No! I don’t want to be plant food! If only I had more space. But even the Crescent Slash can’t cut through. Calm down, Julien. Analyse.
As he inspects what his work has done, he notices thin gashes on the slimy walls in front of him. However, his efforts have not gone unnoticed. A rippling pulsates through the walls, and the trickling stream of digestive fluid increases to a steady flow.
Crap. Shoot! Shits in a basket! Maybe with a lot more Crescent Slashes, I could get through. A look at his remaining magic pool is enough to show he doesn’t have more than five left. I just cannot land a proper blow in this confining space. All the force is dispersed over a wider area. I could exert more force and cut through if I had more space. I’m sure of it.
But what if… What if I exert all the force I have on a smaller area? Stab. Not slash. Could I weaken that elastic structure? Pop the tire?
He decides to find out.
It must have been a strange sight from the outside. In quick succession, the side of the pitcher plant bulges three times. Again and again and again. As if someone is trying to put up shelves behind a rubber wall. The careful observer would see something glinting pierce the green wall with every third bulge.
Then, in a flashing arc, the pitcher plant splits open and Julien washes onto a lilypad in a modest wave of highly acidic fluid.
[Level up (3)! Level up (4)!]
Ignoring the messages, he dives straight into the pool as the lilypad slowly dissolves.
Get it off! Get it off! Get it off!
Gasping for air, a thoroughly soaked Julien climbs onto another lilypad about five meters from the pitcher plant whose top sixty per cent is sinking to the bottom of the pond. His most immediate worry taken care of, he tries to stay low.
What if Glaecyra had been observing her pet dissolve him as some sick form of entertainment? But he’s in luck. The shore near the strange willow is empty, and the Venus flytraps seem to be wary of the one who triumphed over the stronger monster in their habitat.
Lacking the energy for a lengthy swim through lilies, reeds, and other water plants, Julien spies a route to the shore via the lilypads. Satisfied that there are enough of them, he starts crawling with his dagger in one hand and his sword in the other.
The slightest contact of his throbbing skin with the ribbed lilypads has him groaning. Despite the cooling effect of small puddles of water in some of them, his skin still feels inflamed. His breath is ragged. His arms tremble. But he casts the occasional look upwards, glaring at the Venus flytraps.
“Try it,” he whispers. “I dare you.”
They ignore him.
Having misjudged the distance to the shore, Julien is forced to wade the last couple of meters through muddy shoals. His foot gets stuck on a submerged trunk, and he goes down on all fours again.
Mud-splattered, his shoeless feet welcome the solid ground. He has left the flytrap-infested willow behind him. He feels safe enough to crawl further ashore and, once there, to just stretch out amidst the tall grass.
He has survived. Somehow, he has managed to beat the odds. Again.
A deep grumbling disturbs the brief feeling of triumph. It comes from multiple angles in front of him, setting his hair on end.
“Stand up. Slow.” The voice is understandable but has the same grating quality as the growling, which seems scarily familiar.
Shirt, pants, and hair dripping, and hands gripping his weapons instinctively, Julien slowly gets into an upright position. A few paces forward, a frighteningly familiar, large, pink face emerges from the grass. It is not the only one. Their tone is slightly darker than the ones he remembers, though. Dexterous tongues whip out.
Are you kidding me? These overgrown geckos again? Julien takes position, his sword in front of him. If only he had some time to get his food, heal up, and get some of his magic energy back. The pearls! If he can just pop one of those…
“Don’t move!”
Just beyond the semi-circle of oversized salamanders, three figures stand up. Their skins ripple slightly as the color changes from mottled green and brown to a muddy burgundy. Two hold spears with barbed tips in an overhead throwing grip.
What?! Now these reptiles are walking on their hind legs as well?
“Drop long claw!” The one in front gestures with a tall, ornate bone staff topped with a wicked glaive.
What? Drop my only weapon to be eaten peacefully? Fat chance!
“Drop it! Or we kill you.”