Deep within the gnawing gloom of the Under-Deeps, Elias Vance moved. No longer did his steps waver, no longer did the unfamiliar stone beneath his feet threaten to pitch him into darkness. A grim rhythm had claimed him, a savage grace born of constant threat and bloody survival. His worn hide boots, once Gorok’s, now felt like a second skin. They were thick, cured leather, salvaged from a great Elk-stag. Gorok, the hulking Orc, had possessed feet like gnarled roots, far too vast for his deceptively compact frame. Elias, though a tall human, found the fit still slightly loose, yet they cradled his steps with unexpected resilience. Stepping on a loose scree, the boots absorbed the shock, a stark contrast to the raw agony of his first days. Weight settled across his shoulders, the crude but potent heft of his new weapon. Elias gripped the river-stone maul, its shaft a length of dense ironwood, sinews of a great Cave-Bear binding the heavy stone head. It measured nearly a man’s length. Gorok would have struggled with its weight, needing two hands to swing it effectively. Elias, however, fueled by the burgeoning Feral strength within him, could wield it in one, a brutal extension of his arm. Further protection clung to him, crude pauldrons fashioned from the hardened rib-plates of a Thunder-lizard. Sun-baked and reinforced with cured gut-cord, they offered a vital shield to his shoulders. He cinched the fastenings loosely, letting them move with the flow of his battle-ready body. Stripped to the waist, with only these plates, he might appear a monstrous, primal warrior, ready for a bloody arena. A woven reed-and-hide pack, slung tight across his back, freed his hands. Now, the glistening aether-shards, slick with creature-blood, no longer pressed against his meager rations. The constant shift of internal weight, a distraction in battle, had vanished. He tore a strip of cured Jerky from his pack, chewing slowly. It was tough, dense with nutrients, and tasted of smoked Cave-Goat. Not abundant, but a treasure nonetheless. He sliced another portion with his flint knife, tucking it away, careful to keep it free of spittle. His second day in the Under-Deeps marked a grim ascension from utter savagery. Thirst? A quick gulp from his treated water skin, filled from a subterranean spring. Direction? A weathered brass compass, salvaged from an ancient ruin, pointed unerringly. Time? A small chrono-gem, humming softly in his palm, pulsed with the passage of cycles. He even carried a small flask of alchemical unguent, its potent fumes promising rapid healing in extremis. An unsettling irony settled over him. To gain the barest semblance of civilized preparedness, he had first been forced to take a life. The knowledge of Aethel, his strategic mind, was a weapon, but only when coupled with the primal violence his new existence demanded. Elias Vance. Focus: Cautious Strength: Primal (Rising) Adaptation: Instinctive (Apex) Gear: Forged (Honed) Combat Flow: Instinctive. The maul whistled through the air. A Skitterfang, all chitin and needle-teeth, exploded into a shower of purple motes and glistening ichor. The creature, no larger than a badger, had been stalking him from the shadows. Had he but possessed such a weapon from the start, his initial battles would have been far less desperate. He might have secured a protective buckler later, a luxury then, a necessity now. At first, he hadn't known the extent of his own monstrous strength, the raw power that flowed through this Feral form. Each swing, each burst of speed, felt alien, yet perfectly natural. His body, now a vessel of savage instinct, consistently exceeded his cerebral expectations. “Sleep pulls at me like a hungry maw,” he rasped, his voice raw. He stooped, gathering two shimmering aether-shards from the ground, remnants of the dissolved Skitterfang. They joined the others in his pack. This was the growing pattern of the second day: Skitterfangs now hunted in pairs. Tomorrow, his mind predicted, they would be three, perhaps more, escalating until the Under-Deeps’ natural mana flow shifted, sealing off these lower passages. Such was the cycle described in the ancient texts of Aethel. Things, for now, moved smoothly. His formidable maul amplified his combat prowess, and his salvaged tools and unguents provided a thin margin of safety. Yet, the persistent drag of exhaustion grew heavier with each passing moment. From the last waning light of the surface world to this endless gloom, he had been in constant motion, fighting. He’d snatched perhaps ten minutes of fragmented sleep in total, once nearly falling asleep mid-stride. He craved slumber, a true, deep oblivion. No need for soft hides or warm fires, just a patch of cold stone where he could collapse. “Damnation!” In his half-waking stupor, his foot snagged on an uneven slab. He stumbled, catching himself before a full fall. A tremor of cold dread traced his spine; a misstep in these ancient tunnels could mean a trap, a deadly pit. His luck, for once, had held. “No more. Not like this.” He made a stark decision. He’d sleep, here and now. He leaned back against a jagged wall, the maul clutched in one hand, the buckler strapped to his forearm. The cold stone seeped into his bones. He had no companion to stand watch, no 'night-friend.' Yet, this felt safer. If an ambush was inevitable, Skitterfangs were preferable. Their chitinous blades might wound, but rarely proved fatal, unlike the crushing blow of a larger foe’s weapon, delivered while one lay vulnerable. *Scritch... scritch…* Mother of the Wilds, no. The sound of chitin on stone, agonizingly familiar, ripped him from the edge of sleep. He’d stood vigil for four agonizing hours, no sign of them. Now, alone and vulnerable, they crept in. Gorok’s gruff admonition echoed: *Never drop your guard, little human.* Elias surged to his feet, a guttural roar tearing from his throat, the maul a blur. It connected with the lead Skitterfang’s head, a wet, sickening *CRACK!*. *Puff!* The creature dissolved. “G-grraugh!” Its companion, a blur of legs and fear, bolted. Go, run, you little pest. Elias didn’t possess the energy to pursue. He checked the chrono-gem. Less than ten minutes had passed. There was no choice. Back into the suffocating passages, hunting the endless Skitterfangs. When exhaustion threatened to claim him entirely, he’d find another cold wall, another momentary reprieve. Twice, a sudden jolt had him snapping awake, his heart a frantic drum, but only once had true terror gripped him. He felt a presence. His eyes, burning with fatigue, snapped open to find a gaunt wanderer, a human, standing silently over him. Their eyes met across the dim cavern. The wanderer offered a thin, indifferent smile, then melted back into the shadows. A shiver, cold and primal, crawled up Elias’s spine at the memory. Such was the treacherous nature of men in the Under-Deeps. The second incident, however, was worse. It was an ongoing horror. *A Skitterfang attacked Elias while he slept.* He woke to a searing agony, not merely a primal warning. A Skitterfang stood over him, its multiple eyes gleaming. He killed it with one furious swing, its companion screeching and fleeing into the darkness. “G-gah!” His left arm was a dead weight, searing pain radiating from his shoulder. A crudely sharpened bone shard, a Skitter-dagger, protruded from between his collarbones. Had he been a hand’s breadth shorter, or the creature slightly more accurate, it would have pierced his throat. The cold, impartial calculations of his strategic mind kicked in: A close call. Too close. *Creak.* He clenched his teeth, a low growl escaping his lips, and yanked the bone shard free. Blood, thick and hot, welled up. He fumbled for the alchemical unguent, uncorking it with trembling fingers. A few drops sizzled into the wound. He capped the flask, tucking it away. The blood began to bubble, his flesh knitting with unnatural speed, a sickening *Chiiiiiiiik* sound echoing in the stillness. Did some deranged alchemist create this? The burning regeneration felt worse than the initial stab. “Agh, heh, heh…” After perhaps five minutes, the intense pain receded to a dull ache. The brutal awakening had momentarily banished his exhaustion, but as the rush faded, his eyelids felt like lead. His vision blurred, demanding constant, painful concentration to focus. He couldn’t defer this decision any longer. His Feral body, though acutely sensitive to killing intent, had its limits. He had just been stabbed in his sleep. He needed to rest, truly rest. He needed a companion. He checked the chrono-gem. Nearly fourteen hours had passed since he’d parted ways with Gorok. Other wanderers, the lone scavengers and desperate hunters, would also be seeking companionship now, a fragile alliance against the terrors of the Under-Deeps. “Hey, Feral! Seeking a night-friend?” This time, the calls came to him, not from him. Wanderers, their faces grimed with dirt and desperation, eyed him with a blend of fear and calculation. “You seem... weary, great hunter. Join us?” “A Feral warrior can always be trusted with a blade. We are three. Three blades are stronger than two.” He felt like a prized beast, eyed by wary buyers. The disdainful sniffs and averted gazes he’d encountered on his first day were gone. Perhaps his scent had been less appealing then, drenched as he was in fear and the blood of his first true kill. “Ah? A pity.” Many earnest offers, many refusals. He continued through the passages. Elias needed something more than mere numbers. Where were his own kind? Strong, tribal warriors? Finding another Feral warrior here would be his best bet for a night-friend. But in these two days, he’d caught no scent, no trace of another. “Looking for your own tribe? Hard to find here, Feral-kind.” A grizzled human hunter had offered the information with a grim shake of his head. “Difficult? Why?” “Any Feral warrior who has survived their coming-of-age would ascend to the higher levels within a moon’s turn or two. Less than a hundred remain on this floor, I reckon.” The vast majority of creatures Elias encountered here were human scavengers, desperate or foolish. It made sense; a body as robust and powerful as his own would not linger in these low-tier hunting grounds. “Why not join us instead?” “My apologies, I cannot.” “Very well. May the Ancestors guide your path, Feral.” “And yours.” The man had an honest look, but Elias couldn’t afford trust. Not since he’d learned the true, brutal value placed on a Feral’s strength, his raw power. Every encounter now felt like a test, a wary appraisal. *Click.* He thumbed the chrono-gem, then activated the compass. He’d been moving south for hours, yet the Skitterfang Zone seemed endless, a testament to the sheer scale of the Under-Deeps. *Should I abandon the search for my own kind?* The thought didn’t linger. His strategic mind swiftly pivoted. He would find a night-friend, yes, but not a human. He would seek the rare demi-human races. The Sylvani, who honored their agreements with a primal reverence, or the Stone-Dwarves, whose stubborn pride mirrored a Feral’s own. Any non-human race would suffice. Unlike humans, these races often held longer lifespans, broader perspectives. They were less likely to be swayed by immediate gain, less prone to treacherous backstabbing. Given enough time, they could ascend to the highest reaches of Aethelgard. An alliance with such a being held more promise. This decision settled, Elias spent another hour navigating the tortuous passages. Then— *You encountered an injured Sylvani stranger.* She sat with her back against a glistening, moss-covered wall, her delicate form a stark contrast to the rough stone. The moment their eyes met, the air grew thick with a strained, suffocating silence. Silence. Her cat-like amber eyes, glowing faintly in the gloom, widened. They held a flicker of deep embarrassment, but beneath it, a keen, predatory vigilance. He felt an urge to simply pass by, to leave her to her fate. *Seuk.* As their silent standoff stretched, the Sylvani slowly pushed herself upright, her face etched with nervous tension. But her posture was unnatural. His gaze sharpened, drawing to the wound on her stomach. It wasn’t deep, but it was a long, clean cut, not the jagged, claw-torn mark of a Skitterfang. His mind connected the dots, a brutal conclusion forming. “Was it a human?” She offered no reply. Only fear. Elias understood. A hulking Feral, blood-spattered and wielding a massive maul, encountering a solitary, injured Sylvani. She was tiny, perhaps a mere one-point-six meters tall. He imagined the terror. She was a woman, too. Yet, this situation… it wasn’t entirely bad. “Please, spare me.” What? Elias blinked, his mind struggling to process her words. “Please, Great Hunter, just this once. I have a youngling, a sister, in Verdant Hold. I must return to her.” The Sylvani sank to her knees, bowing her head. Moisture glistened in her amber eyes. “I beg you.” What in the blight of Aethel had happened to her proud spirit? The Sylvani in the game, in the legends of Aethel, were fierce, ethereal warriors, proud and distant. Most were depicted as cool, collected beauties. Hmph. Had he known she would be this type of creature, he would have approached things far differently. He needed to clear up this misunderstanding, before things spiraled out of control.

Chapter 9: Of Skitterfangs and Sylvani