In the Shadow of Mountains - a litRPG adventure

Be careful where you walk traveller, for danger walks beside you. There are monsters far beyond our ken that stalk the night. Leave them to those blessed by the gods, or the system, or just the mad fools that wear the skin of the enlightened races but care for nothing but battle.

Let those psychopaths deal with what haunts the night, instead stay safe behind these walls with the rest of us. Let the fire warm your bones, or risk them being picked clean come the morning.

Erlina’s tavern has good ale and no ghosts.

- Sign outside the village of Belksham, bordering the Wandering States

I woke to something tickling my face. I rolled over but the sensation didn’t leave, simply transferring from one cheek to the other. New sensations whispered over the skin of my neck and forehead, around my eyes and over the bridge of my nose.

My thoughts sluggishly coalesced over the next few moments into the terrifying thought that something was on my face. Many somethings. A memory of the ant swarm flared to life in my mind, and I jerked upright with a cry. Nothing fell from my face though as the sensations abruptly vanished. I raised my hands to pat myself down and found no evidence of anything amiss.

I blearily spotted my bedroll a few feet to my right, and realised I must have rolled off in the night to sleep in the grasses beside it. The damp on my clothes from the morning dew was enough to confirm the theory, and I groaned as I stretched.

My inadvertent cry should have woken the others, but as I looked around the camp, I saw it was empty. Everything was still in its place, but my three companions were nowhere in sight. Before I could start to think through the implications and work myself up, Vera appeared. I had no idea where she had come from, but when I looked over to a spot that I knew for sure had been empty just before, she was striding towards me.

“Good to see you up Lamb, follow and stay quiet.”

I sighed at the nickname, knowing better than to fight it. It wasn’t the worst, and was definitely better than being called ‘runt’ all the time, which was especially annoying when someone significantly shorter than me was the one calling me that.

I opened my mouth to ask what was going on, but Vera seemed to predict the question and turned back towards me, continuing to walk backwards as she did.

“Jorge caught site of a migration herd, and we’re going to watch it pass. It’s a sight you won’t soon forget but stay quiet. We’ll explain when we get there but Nathlan and Jorge have a bet on what your first question will be, so I’m not allowed to explain yet.” She smiled before turning back and picking up the pace.

Only a quarter bell of running later, we crested a faint rise, coming to rest alongside the silhouettes of Nathlan and Jorge.

Early morning sun bled across the horizon, staining the sky in shades of red, orange, and yellow. Streaks of white cloud interrupted the blending of colours sporadically, and gave the grasslands a mottled pattern, where the daylight amplified the green of the long grasses, and the shadow of the clouds leeched them of colour.

The resulting vista was like an oil painting, with the harsh contrasts only enhancing the vibrancy of the colours on display. I barely noticed these details though despite it being one of the most beautiful views I’d ever seen. What took my focus instead was the river of purple and orange feathers flowing along the plains before me, in a riotous procession of colour. Musical, lilting bird calls flowed into the sky from thousands of throats and mixed with the colours below into a synaesthetic collage.

Neither of the men turned as we took our places beside them, instead staying intently focused on the winding columns of creatures in front. I heard Jorge speak softly though, and listened in fascination as I took in the sight of a lifetime.

“Thanks for getting him, Vera. Lamb, you’re a lucky son of a bitch, I gotta say. Took months before I saw my first migration, and you’re getting a premium view on day three.” He chuckled softly and muttered “luck of the gods” under his breath.

“These plains are home to many nomadic peoples, and most of them follow the migration of the great beasts of the plains. Down there is a smaller cacophony of Jackal-Beaks. That’s the collective term for them by the way, I’m not just being poetic.”

“Why are they called that?” I asked, and he frowned over at me, pressing a finger to his lips again.

“Hush Lamb, quieter. If they hear you, you’ll soon find out. They have one of the loudest screeches I’ve ever heard, and something about their physiology allows them to amplify each other when in large enough groups. You set them off and Nathlan will be hard pressed to ward our ears before they knock us all out with their screeching.”

“I’ll take your word for it. But I think it sounds pretty nice from up here” I replied.

“I’ll explain in a moment, just let me get to it you little runt.” A quick glance at his face showed none of the frustration of his words, and Vera’s slight smirk told me I wasn’t actually pissing anyone off.

“Anyway, you see those feathers? Aye, they belong to the beak part of the name. Dozens of small songbirds nest on the backs of every jackal down there. From what I hear, they only leave to lay their eggs. Each jackal has their own roost of the birds, and there’s apparently no sharing – once a bird chooses its jackal, it’s a lifetime bond. The jackals themselves are the hunters. Omnivores apparently, but I’d not trust a potato to keep one of ‘em well fed. Not sure if your perception’s high enough to see at this point but they’re bloody massive! Thick as mountain aurochs, but faster and agile as a cat too.”

It reminded me of my battles with the tall, spindly wolves of the endless valley and I shuddered to think of what facing one of those Jackals would be like. Jorge continued his explanation, no doubt knowing my thoughts.

“That’s not all though. You might be wondering how there is enough prey to sustain the group below, and that’s where the birds come in. They find the prey and direct the Jackals, who kill it and share the spoils. I’m not sure how the birds find the prey given that they so rarely leave their moving nests but clearly they’ve figured something out.”

Nathlan shook his head there and spoke softly over him. “The birds don’t share the food, instead they eat insects and flies that swarm around the jackals and their kills. They spend the vast majority of their time grooming the jackals, and they don’t actually find the prey for the Jackals themselves. Instead, they use a startlingly wide range of songs and calls to mimic other species of migratory or travelling birds, and find out where any moving animals could be from them. They act more as knowledge relays than direct sources, but as far as I know, no scholar has yet figured out whether they communicate directly with other species of flying creatures, trade information in some way, or just ‘listen in’ as it were.”

Jorge butted back in at that. “Scholars might not be writing treatises on it, but the Jancen people who follow the Jackal-Beaks are happy to share their mythology with any who spend enough time with them, and they are clear that the Beaks are thieves and not to be trusted. They even teach their young to mimic the calls of the Beaks, so that they can differentiate between a legitimate plea for help from their own people, and a fake call from one of the Beaks meant to lure them into the waiting teeth of a Jackal.” At my confused look he explained more.

“The plains can get all kinds of eery when its dark. The winds whisper things and swirl in strange ways, and it can be easy to lose your sense of direction with no waypoints to mark your location against, just the endless sea of grass. Not to mention the dips and rises, which are surprisingly difficult to spot, as you’ve no doubt noticed.”

I shook my head again. “No, its not that. I just don’t see why the Jackals would need to wait in ambush? Wouldn’t they just kill anything outright?”

Vera snorted and replied, “No. Most people might be generally no stronger than you are now, but they’ll have usually decades of experience with their skills to draw on, and every group will have at least someone somewhat capable. It’s not worth the risk attacking from the front. To a jackal, a level 25 Farmer and a level 45 Spear Master look much the same, but one will be a meal and the other a death sentence.”

“Right, got it. So what is happening down there? How long does it go on for?” I asked, pointing at the thousands of creatures streaming past below, blanketing the plains.

“Well this is a seasonal migration of the Jackal-Beaks. A relatively small herd, so they’ll pass within a bell or so I’d guess. They’re heading west to the Panyera, where they gorge themselves on the salmon-run for a month or so, and rear their litters, before heading back into the grasslands again.”

We watched in awed silence as the great herd passed by below us, less than a mile away. My enhanced perception allowed me to catch details I would have otherwise missed, and I marvelled at the sheer size of the herd. Jackal-Beaks walked a dozen abreast in small lines, with their fellow creatures behind them. These streams wound back and forth, intermingling and breaking apart, giving the impression of a great river splitting into a hundred tributaries, before joining as one to flood across the plains once more.

I couldn’t make out much of the Jackals themselves, but I caught flashes of long muzzles, and overly-large ears pointed to the sky. Their torsos were covered in a chaotic main of bright feathers, purple and orange most prominent but other colours darted in and out of sight too, as the Beaks nesting on their backs shuffled about, squabbling over prime real-estate, no doubt.

I realised I hadn’t paid any mind to the ground shaking, so distracted was I by the sights and sounds. It had seemed natural to have a hundred thousand hooves shake the very earth beneath me, but now that I was aware of it, I quickly queried Nathlan, likely to be the most knowledgeable on the subject.

“Hey Nathlan – do they have hooves?” He looked at me quizzically before answering.

“No, padded feet, with three toes and unextending claws on each toe. They have a fourth dew claw higher up on their legs and its long been speculated by – I believe Marcus Signofore? – that this is an evolutionary…”

I tuned out the rest of his lecture as I wondered how such a soft-foot could shake the earth. Alone I wouldn’t even hear a single Jackal approach through the soft grassland. Perhaps a dozen of them could approach at a trot and they’d be upon me before I could react. To send such reverberation through my feet from a mile away, how many of them must be down there? How heavy were they? And how much strength did it take to carry them forwards over hundreds of miles during a migration?

My awe only grew as I considered the sheer power on display from a supposedly ‘small’ group of creatures. I caught Jorge looking at me for a moment out of the corner of my eye, and I thought I could see a satisfied look on his face. Was there a lesson here he wanted to teach me?

Eventually the herd passed into the distance, and I looked over to the others to see if we would be packing up soon, but they just remained silent. I opened my mouth, but Vera laid a hand on my shoulder, shook her head lightly and spoke out of the corner of her mouth.

“The show hasn’t ended yet Lamb. Eyes front, don’t move and keep your mouth shut now. See if you can learn something.”

She didn’t let go, and as we returned to staring out at the distance, I strained to see anything on the plain below us. Seeing nothing, I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the feeling of vibration in the earth below. It had been fading as the herd moved away, but before I could wonder at what we were waiting for, I heard a faint noise behind me.

I nearly whipped around to look, but Vera’s hand tightened on my shoulder, and I remembered her words. I saw the point of a thin wooden javelin appear next to my head. It continued moving forwards slowly until an arm appeared and then a shoulder. After an agonizingly slow second of watching and waiting, I could make out a person come striding into view past me.

She was tall, tanned and whip-cord thin, with dazzling feathers tied into her hair. She wore a leather skirt, sandals, and had cords of leather wrapped around her biceps. More feathers were tied to the arm bands, and a few hung off the edge of a short, thin buckler made of some sort of bone. It covered her entire forearm in a rectangular shape, albeit with a rounded edge on one side.

With the javelin in her other hand, and the few extras strapped to her back, she looked like a hunter out of myth to my uncultured eye. Other figures slipped between us, not glancing our way for a moment.

It was an electric feeling, having armed men and women pass so close to me without acknowledgement, and I would have flinched if not for Vera’s heavy hand on my shoulder and the presence of my companions like a steady weight to either side of me.

As the hunters grouped up together in front of us, facing away towards the herd that had retreated into the distance, I saw first one, and then several lift their heads. They broke into a lilting, ululating cry that echoed around the plains strangely, and before long all assembled before us were singing to the sky, a dozen throats lifted in a single call.

They bounded off then, quick and nimble as they hurried down the gentle slope towards the plain below, no doubt intent on following the herd in its migration. The first to pass by us stayed in place a moment longer, tilting her head to the side so that I caught an outline of her face. She gave a quick jerk of her chin to the sky and then she was off too, bounding down the grassy hill towards the rest of her fellows.

Their call seemed to have been some sort of signal, or simply good timing, as from the same place that the herd had emerged from came a new procession. Far less epic in scale but no less fascinating for it. A few hundred people, dressed similarly to the hunting party that had passed us by came running. An effortless movement for all involved.

I saw a few men and women with babies strapped to their chests, bound in thin wraps, and their heads secured against the repetitive movement. I saw an older woman with grey in what little of her hair remained, hunched forwards with age – and yet she too was running, seeming for all the world to be as comfortable with the movement as the younger members of the tribe.

Bringing up the rear were a few powerfully built men and women with no weapons visible but long sleds trailing behind them. I couldn’t see any bindings linking them to the wooden sleds, but by their movements, I could see that they were connected. These sleds were packed down tightly with canvas, straining against their contents as if an entire village had been deconstructed, disassembled and piled carefully onto wooden logs.

It was an impressive sight, to see the raw physicality and self-sufficiency of an entire group of people hundreds strong. I watched in amazement as they raced of in pursuit of the herd, aiming to stay out of earshot but within sight, if I had to guess.

We watched for a long time afterwards, none of us uttering a single word until the sun had finished its majestic rise and yellow light had seeped entirely across the sky. Despite all the excitement, the wonder and the new things I’d seen, one moment kept springing back to the forefront of my mind.

Every face I’d seen of that group young or old, carrying children, weapons or sleds – every single face held a smile as they ran.

We took our time packing up the camp, eating a slow breakfast and deciding to walk for a few bells rather than run. We didn’t want to catch up to the herd or the people following it, after all. This gave us all more time for the general banter of travelling, with inane chit-chat to ward off the boredom and silence. I found myself next to Jorge and decided to ask further about his training philosophy.

“So I know you said you were still searching for a style for me. But why are you teaching me with normal weapons? You know my skills aren’t designed for fighting with pre-made weapons.”

He looked over at me, handing me a piece of chewy cured meat as he replied. “I’m not searching for a style for you to take on, I’m searching for your style. There’s a difference lad; an emergent property to it. You can train to follow the path of someone else all you like, but you’ll never be as proficient as them with it. And say you do one day get to the point of parity…you’ll have to design your own way forwards anyway, so what’s the point, right? You are predisposed to fight in a certain way, and I am trying to figure out how to limit your weaknesses and make the most out of your strengths. In time, you will adapt it as it adapts to you.”

He spoke as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, but I had no frame of reference to know if it was nonsense or not. He continued on before I could decide anyhow.

“But anyway, the skills thing – it’s an interesting point of discussion and people have their own opinions on it. My take is that you should lean into it. You’ve got your skills and while they might not be optimal, they are what they are. Focus on learning all they can teach you, build them up into a coherent toolset.”

Again, that seemed sensible on the surface, but suggested I should be using improvised weapons to train with for my skill synergy.

“That being said, there’s no reason you shouldn’t add to that toolset as you grow. Just because your Guerrilla Warfare skill contains an Improvised Weapons precursor that feeds you innate knowledge on how to use those improvised weapons doesn’t mean you only have to use improvised weapons. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t learn how to use normal weapons first.”

“In fact, I’d argue that the skill requires you to learn the basics first. The spear is clearly a good fit for you, and I don’t expect you to go into battle, when you eventually get there, with a manufactured spear. You’ll be wielding something you harvested and forged yourself. But if you know how to fight with a spear, you can ignore all the general hints and tips dropped by your skill about spear-fighting and focus only on the most important bits. The bits relating not just to the type of weapon you use, but the actual specific weapon you have. When your skill teaches you how to thrust a spear-”

He gestured wildly as we walked, miming the movements as he discussed them, “it will nudge you in certain ways. If your form is terrible, the skill will be telling you how to correct that form. How to create momentum with your hips, how to spring from your back foot properly and all that good stuff. If you already know how to do all that, it will be nudging you in more specific ways. Dropping your shoulder a hair to account for the crooked haft, so that the tip will pierce where you are aiming. Using a different part of the haft to deflect a strike as the imperfections in the material make a certain section weaker than another.”

I nodded with him at that, conceding his point. “So how best do I train then?”

“Train with a spear and shield – it’s a solid combination and one well-suited to your defensive leaning – until you’ve got the basics. Weapons technique is only one part of fighting anyway, and we’ll be focusing on other aspects while we travel. I’ll let you know once you’re ready for more but spend your time now learning from us rather than your skills. Given your combat class, they will level best while you’re in danger, so use this time to shore up the weaknesses that rapid growth inherently brings with it.”

“Oh, and we need to focus on your physical situation too. Your stats have grown quickly, and you’re not used to them yet. Don’t worry, this is the fun bit. And I’m not saying that like some sort of sadistic elder who will make you run till you throw up blood. This will genuinely be fun.”

I looked at him with just a hint of suspicion at that. “Why would you say that specifically? Now I’m expecting exactly that.”

He recoiled in shock as if I’d slapped him, making wide innocent eyes as he replied. “What!? I’d never do anything like that! The safety of my charges is my top priority.”

Now I was sure he was having me on, so I squinted at him and activated Indomitable Prey. He laughed and held his hands up in mock surrender.

“Aright you got me, enough fucking around.” His laugh petered out into a faint smile, and he got a wistful look in his eye as he continued, “in all seriousness though, this will actually be fun. I still remember this phase of my growth and it was joyful as well – you’ve got a lot to look forward to. Not everyone gets the chance to enjoy their path Lamb, remember that.”

I felt a bit thrown by the sobering tone at the end of his reply but brushed it off quickly and asked what we’d actually be doing that was so fun. He winked at me then and whistled, catching Vera and Nathlan’s attention from where they were a dozen paces ahead of us. As they turned round questioningly, he shouted over “I’m gonna take the little lamb here and get him used to his physical stats – you alright taking the lead, Vera?”

The solid woman just rolled her eyes before nodding at him and turning back to Nathlan and whatever conversation the two had been having before the interruption. Jorge then turned to me and stopped. I stopped as well out of reflex, bewildered and staring back at him expectantly.

“Well? What’s the plan?”

He stared back at me for a few more seconds, dragging out the silence, and just as I was shifting from my weight from one foot to the other and about to speak again, he darted forward and slapped me lightly across the face.

I gaped back at him – not in pain, it had been an incredibly gentle strike – but more at the sheer audacity. That was fighting talk if I’d ever seen it. Fighting action?...I guess it’s just fighting at that point.

Before I could retaliate, he leaned in and whispered “tag” before sprinting off. I continued my impression of a fish for a few more moments until my inner child re-surfaced and I booked it after him.

I was dimly aware of passing a bemused Nathlan and thoroughly unsurprised Vera, but I blasted past them in an instant and was after the retreating figure of Jorge. Before he could get too far out of sight, he turned and taunted me. I couldn’t actually make out exactly what he said – it was something about a sheep and my mother, but the exact details were lost to the wind. The point was obvious however, and I pushed everything out of my mind except the singular goal of catching the smug prick.