Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 109477 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 547(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109477 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 547(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere…
Let me know when you find it.
One of the needle-like thorns dripped next to her bare arm. The liquid wobbled before it succumbed to gravity and cut through the empty space. It splatted into the divot in the dirt. Based on the size of that divot, these plants were definitely new additions to this space. They hadn’t cut their way into the ground very far.
Bad news, I’m afraid, he said in frustration. My magic has been cut down to next to nothing. It won’t help us here.
How will this poison kill me, exactly? she thought, careful to step around the reach of a cluster of vines.
I don’t know. Probably gruesomely and painfully, but how exactly, I am not sure.
She shook her head in frustration. No, I mean…will it poison me if it touches my skin, or does it have to reach my bloodstream?
Ah. That, I don’t know. He paused in his mind-speak for a moment as he slowed. The brambles stuck way out directly in front of him, closing down the space. He didn’t have enough room to walk straight through.
He looked back at her, his eyes ticking from side to side—sizing her up to see if she would fit, no doubt. If she went sideways, it would be no problem.
Realizing this, or maybe just hearing her think it, he offered a small nod and turned to try to squeeze through. He watched the front needles as he sidestepped by.
Careful in the back, she warned, stepping closer to touch his upper arm. His muscle flared against her palm, his bicep popping larger than her handspan. He paused and let her direct him, centering him through the passage.
Rustling made her freeze and him jump. Something lunged out of a dark space at his feet. A deep violet paw slashed with five long silver claws. He jerked backward. The needles stopped him from going far, shallowly piercing his flesh. The claws raked across his ankles, opening up gashes that quickly welled with blood.
He sucked in a pained breath as his knife elongated into a spear. He jabbed at the dark hole, the tip going in deep. A squeal meant he’d hit something. Rather than yank his weapon out, he slid it across the ground, dragging with it a strange, furry thing without a discernible shape. She couldn’t find the head or even the paw that had made an appearance. It was like it had curled in on itself to become as small as possible.
Once the creature was visible, he reached a hand out to her. She supplied him with her weapon as she turned, surveying the way behind her, then her own feet. Her blade matched his, and he viciously rammed it into the creature several times. Its sounds of agony cut off before he kicked it back into the hole from whence it had come.
Harvest’s blight, Tarian swore softly, his teeth clenched. He handed back her weapon as he gingerly pulled away from the needles at his back. Their poisoned liquid was gone, now injected into his back. That hurts like a tarnihole wart.
She wasn’t sure what a tarnihole wart was, but it must’ve been bad, because Tarian had gone stiff, his muscles flaring and his jaw clenching hard. He rolled his head, cracking his neck. He gripped his weapon with white knuckles. His body started to shake as he put a lot of effort into continuing his sidestep past the rest of the plants. He didn’t limp, which meant the slashes to his ankles were nothing compared to the poison in his back. On the other side, he shrugged out of his shirt and tried to look behind him at his back.
Pixie farts and swamp juice, that is… He grimaced in pain as he put a hand on his shoulder, twisting a little more. As he did, his back came into view for her.
She tore her eyes away from his big, well-defined arm and tried to corral her vision to the strip of wounds along the right side of his broad back, down the thick slab of muscle. Her gaze kept snagging on the wide expanse of art, though: jet-black ink covered the majority of his skin in an interesting and entrancingly bold design. A sword cut down the middle, the hilt starting at his neck and the tip lost within his trousers. Thick, dark swirls cut away from there, rounding on themselves to meet back at the sword or swirl up and around his shoulders. Between those designs were small, thinner lines like lace, giving the bold, simplistic lines a pleasing complexity. It ran over his shoulder but stopped, turning into one thick line down the side of his arm. Attached to that line, on each side, circled ten rings, spaced evenly, down to his elbow.