Nerd In The North: 3-13
3-13: Dreadful
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
“ARCHERS!”
————————-
It had only been four days.
Four days of marching.
Four days of keeping watch over the men while they slept.
Four days of casting a restoration spell over himself and the men so they could all march all day and barely feel tired. It wasn’t simply a restoration spell, too, it came with the bonus of making them move a bit faster and feel a little tougher so they could handle the speed of a fast march without much stress.
All in all, a solid ninety-six hours, if not more, of pure focus on the path towards Lord Bolton’s castle. He had felt that odd pull on his soul, his brain flooded with more knowledge on magic and suddenly feeling like he could handle a sword with even more skill. Annoying, cause I don’t still have mine.
The forest was dense, shadowed and, up until now, had been as silent as ever, except for the crunch of fur-lined boots on leaves and snow. Greg had been at the head of the army, alongside Ash, his steps steady as he maintained a pace the men behind him could follow without much trouble.
Over five hundred men followed behind him, and in truth, that was only half of those that had chosen to join him. The other five hundred and change had joined up with Guts as he had chosen to separate his “army” rather than bunch up all together as they marched towards the Dreadfort.
The idea of ‘splitting the party’ had warred with his gamer instincts something fierce, but another set of instincts had told him that literally being bunched up with almost twelve hundred guys through a thick forest would only slow them down and make them easier targets for another attack.
He decided to go with the more strategic instincts instead of his DnD meme brain, because it only really made sense. He had a responsibility, after all. Villagers turned soldiers, clutching spears and axes, their breaths fogging in the cold northern air. Their faces were grim, a mix of fear and determination, and Greg knew they had every right to feel both.
The teenage boy rolled his shoulders, feeling the ache in his muscles and the crick in his neck from days of marching and of no sleep and supplementing magic to keep himself awake. His sword—his sword—still hung in the dreadfort, displayed like some kind of trophy. The thought made his blood boil, the anger simmering just beneath his skin.
He flexed his fingers, heat sparking at his fingertips as Ash padded alongside him, the not-bear’s red eyes glowing faintly in the shadows.
“ARCHERS!”
“Wh-!” Blue eyes barely had a moment to widen as something sliced through the air from a good distance away in a black streak. Greg’s hand shot up, faster than thought, snatching the arrow out of the air an inch from his eye. The wooden shaft trembled in his grip, the iron tip glinting dully in the dim light.
His head whipped to the side as the first scream cut through the cold morning, sharp and panicked. Shit! He barely had time to process it before another arrow buried itself in a man’s shoulder, the dull thunk of it hitting flesh ringing in his ears.
“Fuck this,” he snarled, shoving the arrow aside and thrusting his hand forward. “Aard!”
The force erupted from his palm, a rippling concussive wave that tore through the undergrowth in front of him as Greg poured more magic into the Sign that was made for it. Branches snapped like brittle bones, leaves scattering in a chaotic spray as men were thrown clear of cover and smaller trees and foliage gave way to magical power. Bolton scouts tumbled back, slamming into trees with sickening cracks that drowned out their screams. All at once, the air filled with the sound of bodies hitting dirt and groaning men struggling to rise.
Greg’s pulse thundered in his ears as he took half a step forward, scanning the chaos. A few of the Bolton men scrambled to their feet, weapons forgotten as they turned tail and bolted into the trees. One tripped, his sword skittering away across the dirt as the man sprawled on his hands and knees, gasping and sputtering like a caught rabbit.
Ash was faster.
The not-bear moved like a blue and pounced with a roar. The disarmed soldier barely had time to scream before powerful claws tore into his back, the sound wet as flesh gave way to natural weapons that could probably stand up to steel. He fell to the ground finally with a gurgling cry, Ash snarling over his unmoving form, blood steaming where it soaked into the ground.
“Hold the line!” Greg shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. His head snapped left, then right, then left again as he tried to take in everything all at once. “Close ranks!”
The villagers-turned-soldiers moved in a rush as best they could, some stumbling but still holding their positions as best they could. Makeshift shields raised, spears out, their breaths came hard and fast, visible in the chill. A few of their faces were pale, their eyes darting to the shadows where the enemy had been moments ago.
Greg didn’t stop to reassure them. No time for that.
Instead he spun, attention pulled by a shadowy movement in the tree line and raised his hand, fingers curled into positions burned into his mind. “Igni!” The flames roared out in a cone, brief but blinding and a Bolton man screamed as the flames tore at his arm, his weapon falling from his graps as he stumbled away into the trees.
The smell of burned flesh and scorched leather was unmistakeable and disgusting, but Greg didn’t even flinch.
The skirmish was over in minutes. The Bolton men fled, disappearing into the trees, leaving behind their dead. Greg stood in the clearing in front of his men, hands trembling with residual energy.
“Everyone alive, regroup!” he called, his voice sharp and clipped. His gaze swept over the ragtag band of villagers, most of whom were staring at him like he’d just done something impossible. “Gather for healing! After this, we move out!”
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
The second ambush hit two and a half days later, right before they were going to pause for a lunch break. The gray morning light filtered weakly through the trees above as Greg’s stomach churned—not with hunger but with a different sort of edge, the kind of unease that made every sound feel too close.
Then it happened.
“Motherf-DOWN!” he barked as his eyes caught movement from a distance away, his voice slicing through the stillness. his hand shot out, and the Quen sign flared to life in front of him, a shimmering blue barrier that snapped into existence just as the first arrows struck. Each and every arrow hit with a rapid series of quick and violent thuds, only to fall harmlessly to the ground.
“Shields up!” One of the captains shouted out, the villagers scrambling to form a defensive stance around each other. their shields rose in a shaky line, spears jutting outward in the Roman formation Greg had taught them from vaguely remembered episodes on the History Channel. Their movements were quick but panicked, their breath visible in the cold air as their eyes darted for any sign of the enemy.
His eyes darted across the treeline, as he tracked the arrows coming from multiple angles, scattered enough to confuse and overwhelm. Fuck! Bolton scouts.
Cowards hiding behind the trees like rats, trying to wear them down.
His hands clenched into dangerously tight fists, the familiar spark of mana flaring in his palms as his instincts screamed to act. “影のヴェール。!” he hissed, the word slipping out before he even realized it.
It felt foreign—and it definitely didn’t belong to him—but it came as naturally as breathing.
The shadows around him stirred, coiling like smoke, until they wrapped him in flickering darkness. Gasps rippled through the men nearest to him as he vanished from sight, his form dissolving into the gloom.
He moved.
His body cut through the trees like a knife, every step silent, every movement deliberate. The shadow magic blurred his edges, made him something less than human. something more.
Greg closed the distance between himself and the first scout in seconds. The man was crouched behind a tree, fumbling to notch another arrow, his breath ragged. 逃げ道を…いや、待て—あそこだ！His lips curled into a humorless smile as a thick black shadowy tendril poured from his outstretched hand, snaking through the air like a living thing.
“GET OVER HERE!” he snarled, yanking the tendril back as it wrapped around the scout’s torso. the man screamed—a sharp, panicked sound—before he was yanked off his feet and hurled through the air. Greg didn’t even watch where he landed, but the faint crack of bone against wood told him enough.
His focus shifted. another scout.
This one was further away, his back half-hidden by a low rise in the terrain. Greg’s silhouette flickered as he stalked forward, his steps unnaturally quiet, the magic still clinging to him like a second skin.
The scout whirled around with fear in his wide eyes as he caught sight of Greg’s shifting darkness-covered form. The man fumbled for his sword, his hands shaking as he drew it with a metallic rasp.
Greg didn’t wait.
He thrust his hand forward, the Aard sign exploding from his palm in a wave of raw, concussive force.
The blast hit the scout straight in the skull, sending him flying back with a sickening crunch. He hit the ground just as hard, leaving a faint smear of blood across the snow-covered ground in his wake, his body convulsing for a moment before it went limp.
The third scout made a break for it, sprinting through the frostbitten underbrush with all the grace of a drunk deer. Greg didn’t give him a chance to get far. He lunged, boots crunching on snow, and swept his leg out.
The scout hit the ground hard, flailing like a turtle flipped on it’s back. One hand reached for his belt, probably hoping for a dagger, but Greg was faster.
His fist crashed into the man’s face with a sickening crunch, leaving his knuckles stained as the man dropped to the ground with a skull leaking gray and red.
“Fucktard,” Greg muttered as he spat on the ground, flexing his fingers. “Do us both a fucking favor and play dead next time.”
His attention snapped back to the fight as the forest was alive with sound—shouts, the twang of bowstrings, and the snap of branches as Bolton scouts scrambled to regroup. another arrow hissed through the air, grazing Greg’s shoulder. He winced, the sting sharp enough to make him hiss, but not enough to slow him down.
Spinning toward the source, he flung out his palm again. “Igni!”
Fire roared to life from his palm and the flames raced through the dry leaves and tangled branches, devouring the cover the scouts had been hiding behind. One of them screamed like a dying cat, his clothes catching on fire, as Greg turned away.
As the blaze spread, the villagers surged forward, their morale rising as they flipped to offense thanks to the shift in momentum. The Bolton scouts were scattering now, the forest emptying as they fled in all directions. The ground was littered with bodies—some still, some groaning—and the air was thick with the bitter stench of burning wood and flesh. Greg stepped back into the clearing, his Quen shield flickering faintly around him before dissolving with a soft shimmer.
“Is that it?” Greg asked, speaking more out loud than to anyone in specific.
One of the captains shuffled forward, a grizzeled man with a spear in one hand and his shield in the other. Daeric… that’s this guy, right? The farmer’s face was a bit pale beneath the grime and sweat, but his eyes were steady. “For now, m’lord. We drove the rest off.”
We… we did, didn’t we? Greg simply nodded at the news, the motion more stiff and automatic than he’d like, before glancing around. The villagers-turned-soldiers were watching him again, their expressions a mix of awe, fear, and something he couldn’t quite name.
Maybe hope.
“Regroup,” he barked, shaking off the moment. “we’re not done yet.”
The dreadfort wasn’t far now—maybe another day and a half’s march, if they kept pace. Greg’s mind churned as he replayed the fight in his head, dissecting every move, every mistake. his jaw tightened as a familiar unease curled in his gut. The shadow magic had come to him instinctively, as natural as breathing, but there was something about it that felt… wrong.
And then there’s the fucking Japanese, he thought as his frown deepened. How the hell do I know Japanese?
The foreign language had slipped into his thoughts as easily as the shadows had wrapped around him, and it had left just as quickly. Greg pushed the thought away, burying it under the more immediate need to keep his men alive.
He didn’t have time for existential crises. Not now.
Whatever it took to get to Bolton, he’d use it. “Keep moving,” he ordered, his tone clipped. “Boltons aren’t going to stop unless we make them.”
There was no room for doubt.
No room for fear. Not anymore.
He had no other choice.
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
The third attack hit like a bad punchline to a joke Greg was getting sick of hearing.
He hadn’t seen it coming.
Suspected, sure, but not seen.
Should’ve, though.
It started with the abandoned village as the sun started to near the horizon.
Empty. Lifeless.
The quiet was too perfect, the settlement too… still.
The kind of quiet that felt wrong.
The huts sat crooked and dark, sagging under the weight of snow. Shutters hung loose, swaying in the wind, and the well at the center was iced over, the bucket frozen mid-dip. His men moved cautiously, eyes flicking to every shadow, spears raised.
“Looks abandoned,” someone said, their voice just loud enough to make Greg’s teeth grit.
Yeah, abandoned. Right. His gaze swept the clearing, heart kicking up in his chest. Because nothing bad ever hides behind perfect silence. His fists clenched.
The whole thing stank of a setup, and he should’ve called it right there, but he didn’t.
And then the ground blew up.
The first explosion ripped through the clearing, a shockwave of fire and dirt and too much heat slamming into Greg like a truck. He hit the ground hard, his breath punched out of him as pain lanced through his ribs. Smoke clawed at his throat, thick and acrid, making his eyes water.
When the ringing in his ears cleared, he heard screams.
Twenty men.
Just… gone.
They hadn’t even had time to move. The oil barrels had been hidden under the dirt, rigged to go off with a single flaming arrow, and now the ground where his front line had stood was a burning, twisted wreck.
“Archers!” Greg’s shout tore through the chaos as arrows rained down from the treeline, dark streaks cutting through the smoke. One grazed his arm, sharp enough to sting but not deep enough to matter.
Not yet.
His hands snapped out on instinct, Greg pouring as much magic into the Sign as he could manage. “Quen!”
The blue shield flared to life in front of him, shimmering in the firelight as it absorbed the first volley. Arrows splintered and fell uselessly to the ground, but his heart still pounded, every beat screaming move, move, move.
“Fall back!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the panicked shouts. “Get to cover!”
The men scrambled, shields raised as they retreated toward the treeline, their steps messy, frantic. Greg stayed at the rear, his boots skidding on the frozen dirt as he turned toward the blaze.
The fire roared, eating through wood and flesh alike, the smoke in thick black plumes. A figure moved through it—an archer, bow drawn, face twisted in something halfway between anger and fear.
Greg’s fingers twitched.
“Igni.”
The word rolled off his tongue, sharp and deliberate, and the flames answered. They shot forward in a searing arc, consuming the archer in an instant. The scream was brief, cut off as quickly as it started, and Greg turned away before he could see what was left.
His men were scattered, some clutching wounds, others dragging bodies. The smell of burning oil and flesh hung heavy in the air, sharp enough to cut through the adrenaline. Greg’s jaw tightened as he moved, the golden light of his healing magic already sparking to life in his hands.
“Hold still,” he snapped at a soldier crumpled on the ground, the man’s leg twisted at a sickening angle. The light seeped into the wound, knitting flesh and bone together with a faint hum.
The man’s breathing steadied, and he muttered something—my thanks, m’lord—but Greg didn’t stick around to hear it as he kept healing others.
Because the dead were still dead.
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
They reached another settlement by nightfall, the second in a row that looked like it had been abandoned all of a sudden. Huts with sagging roofs and doors hanging crooked on their hinges, the well at the center clogged with ice and leaves. They didn’t leave.
He’d seen too much earlier in the day: villagers impaled on stakes, faces frozen in silent screams as if Dracula had paid the town a visit. This guy needs to die.
“Sentries! All corners. No gaps,” he barked, his voice cutting through the frigid air. The men scattered, half of them scrambling for the darkened edges of the village while the others clustered around the fires, their faces drawn and pale. No shit. They had all the reason to be, considering everything that had happened just today alone.
Ash prowled the perimeter, the glow of his eyes carving streaks of red into the shadows. Greg caught glimpses of him between the ruined huts, the not-bear moving like a ghost in the snow, and some small, irrational part of him relaxed. Better him out there than anyone else.
Greg crouched beside one of the injured, hands faintly glowing as he worked to seal a jagged cut and a matching burn that ran the length of the soldier’s thigh. Blood pooled thick and dark in the snow, steaming faintly in the cold. The man hissed through clenched teeth but didn’t pull away, his eyes flicking nervously from Greg’s face to his hands like he wasn’t sure which was more unsettling.
“You’ll live,” Greg muttered, rising to his feet as the golden glow faded. His fingers twitched, the residual hum of magic buzzing faintly in his veins, and for a second, he thought about the others. The ones this kind of patchwork healing hadn’t been enough for. Move on, he told himself, jaw tight. He’s not one of them. Keep moving.
“M’lord!” Greg snapped his head up to lock on to the figure of a soldier atop a roof, the man’s arm pointing down another path into the woods. “Approaching!”
The blond turned at the sound of heavy footsteps, the instinct to tense flickering and dying when he saw who it was long before they got close. Guts stepped into the edge of the firelight, his massive frame dragging a long shadow across the snow as an army of hundreds followed at his back. He looked as rough as Greg felt—blood streaked down one arm, dirt smudged across his jaw—but his eyes were sharp, and his half-manic smirk was, as always, unshakable.
“Figured I’d find you here,” Guts said, his voice a low rumble that carried despite the quiet. He gestured with a tilt of his head to the men trailing behind him—Greg’s reinforcements.
Almost six hundred of them.
Greg stood, brushing snow off his knees. “Didn’t think you’d take this path.”
“Roads lead where they lead,” Guts replied, shrugging. His gaze swept over the formerly wounded men Greg had been tending to, his expression unreadable. “Besides, it looks like you could use the help.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Greg muttered, exhaling hard. the tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction. Finally.
Guts chuckled, dry and rough, the sound catching in the cold air. “looks like you’ve been having fun without me.”
Greg snorted, sharp and humorless. “if you call losing men fun.”
“they knew what they signed up for,” Guts said, matter-of-fact. Then he clapped a hand on Greg’s shoulder, the force of it nearly knocking him forward. “But you’re still standing. That’s what matters.”
Greg didn’t answer, just shrugged off the touch and turned back to the fires. Yeah.
The night settled over the village with another overwhelming silence, the kind that gnawed at Greg’s instincts. Never trust the dark. He sat near one of the fires, leaning back against a crumbling stone wall, his knees pulled up and his scarf loose around his neck. The flames cast flickering shadows across the empty huts, their light too soft to push back the dark
Ash sat at his side, Shiro sat atop him, the bird somehow fast enough to get out of the way before any fighting could properly start.
Greg glanced up at the sky, a vast, starless stretch of black. The fire crackled at his side, and for a moment, he let himself think about Frostfall. This village was empty in a dead way, a way that he knew Lord Bolton would repeat there if the man got a chance.
“You’re wound tighter than a spring,” Guts muttered from across the fire, his massive blade resting against his shoulder.
Greg exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp. “We’re too exposed, aren’t we?”
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
Sleepless in Wherever (100 GP)
Roll: Runefencer [Final Fantasy XI] (Free) {Modus} – “Quick with a blade as well as an incantation, the Rune Fencer is a versatile duelist that employs the power of arcane runes to sway the tide of battle both offensively and defensively. This fighter excels in magical defense and elemental resistance, allowing this stalwart defender to protect his or her allies.”
Grimoire Points: 700