In the Shadow of Mountains - a litRPG adventure

“Do you have any last words blasphemer?”

“I do. I regret only that I was caught! My cause was just, and history will absolve me. A great rising is upon us, and the winds of change will sweep you all from our ancient bridges. And so too will it scatter away the detritus that you lay at my grave!

Heed my words now, for this is the last explanation you will receive before you are dragged from your homes and cast into the-“

“Pull it! Now!”

- The penultimate soliloquy of the play ‘Breeze-born – birth of a legend’, transcribed by an unknown scholar in the 2nd cleansing

The rain had passed, and the grass sea became a thing of beauty once again. We settled into a steady rhythm; Wake, eat, run, eat, run, spar, eat and sleep. Conversation and banter flowed, and we pulled together as a group even more over the next few weeks.

My mind was filled with knowledge of tracking, foraging, herbalism, cooking, even some novel baking. Every skill that Jorge could work in over our journey even tangentially related to my Wilderness Endurance Hunter class skill was taught to me.

It was clear he was an experienced teacher, if his system title wasn’t enough of a clue. My skills flourished under the attention, and I hardly noticed the staggering amount of knowledge I was being fed or the competence that was slowly growing. The focus on training and self-improvement settled into to my mind as normal. I couldn’t remember the man I had been before my ‘rebirth’ in this world, but I doubted I was ever as diligent in my desire for progress as I now was.

Due to my combat class though, the actual level of my skills hardly changed. I gained a single level in Wilderness Endurance Hunter – presumably from the risk of ingesting and cooking with ingredients that could be dangerous if handled incorrectly, as well as a single level in Skirmisher of Antiquity.

Ancestry: Human (unevolved)

Level: 25

Class: Blood of the Hills

Titles: God-touched

Attribute allocation:

Strength: 22

Agility: 22

Endurance: 22

Perception: 22

Cognition: 22

Available attributes: 0

Current skills:

Guerrilla Warfare: Level 8. Passive.

Wilderness Endurance Hunter: Level 5. Passive.

Cloven-Hooved: Level 6. Passive.

Heart of the Hills: Level 3. Active.

Check Step: Level 6. Active.

Hill-Folk: Level 6. Passive.

Indomitable Prey: Level 6. Active.

Skirmisher of Antiquity: Level 2. Passive.

However, the true changes were less quantitative than qualitative. When I dived into my soul-space and viewed my core, I could see new links emerging between the constellations of my disparate skills. There was an energy exchange, still in its infancy, but the slight flows of energy were perceptible to me now.

It wasn’t universal by any means, with some of my skills still orbiting my core on their own, seemingly disconnected from the rest. But it was a start. I could feel particularly the Skirmisher of Antiquity skill looked ‘full’ for lack of a better word. Swollen with potential, just awaiting the element of danger and energy from my enemies’ deaths to drive it forwards to further mastery.

We were roughly two weeks from leaving the Wandering States, at the edge of the grassy steppes, when I received another lesson in perspective, and this time it wasn’t from any of my companions.

I was returning from the shallow basin below our camp, out of sight of my companions, where I had bathed and cleaned with the ‘bath’ as I had taken to calling the massive water canister that Vera kept in her storage device. Clad in relatively clean and fresh clothes, hair damp and muscles wrung out by exercise, I was feeling the same relaxed satisfaction that I had for the last few weeks.

I listened in with half an ear to the bickering and banter traded by Vera and Jorge as they cooked, and the scratching of a quill on parchment as Nathlan scribbled away. The fragrant scent of sizzling rabbit, and the earthy tang of fresh potatoes frying in heady spices wafted around me as I settled down near my bedroll, withdrawing a shaving razor Jorge had lent me to scrape away the scraggly fuzz covering my lower jaw.

I caught a quick flash of my reflection in the steel and noticed with interest the lack of dissonance at the face staring back. It was me of course, always had been, but I’d undergone such a profound transformation when alone in the wilderness that by the time I’d returned to civilisation, I didn’t really recognise myself.

Since then, despite travelling almost constantly, the trappings of luxury the others enjoyed – and shared so freely with me – had made me feel more like a man than an animal. I’d been given new clothes and maintained them when they inevitably fell afoul of the rough use. I was eating hearty food, lovingly cooked for taste, not just for use as nutrition. I’d enjoyed safety, comfort, warmth and companionship, and that combination had somehow allowed me to accept the rugged and lean face reflected in the blade before me as myself.

Tracing the hard edges of my jaw and cheekbones with my hands, I memorised the face before me, trying to internalise the new image with the one I held onto in the deepest parts of my mind, far below conscious thought. I observed without judgement, simply noting the changes and updating the model in my mind to more accurately reflect my appearance now. It wasn’t easy, battling with the slight feeling of wrongness whenever I discovered a new angle that sparked the dissonance anew. But over time, little by little, my face started to feel like my own again.

That is, until my hands roamed through my hair again. The absent gesture drew my attention, and I noticed the matted, tangled nature of my shoulder length hair. Running a hand through it again, I was hit for the first time with how inelegantly it hung; skewed and always a little bit out of place. After a few moments of twisting and turning my head and wrangling the hair, I realised I didn’t like it. At all.

Looking up, I observed Nathlan absently tuck a loose strand of brown hair back into his simple tail, bound by intricately patterned twine. Vera’s hair was free of her usual helmet, tucked neatly into a bun, with a fringe of dark red/brown covering her forehead. The less said about Jorge’s disastrous style of ‘mostly bald head and long braid’ the better, but even that counted as a deliberate choice, disastrous though I may be. And here I was, trying to maintain some sense of sanity, of personal identity, and above it all hung a floppy, useless bird’s nest.

Resolved, I began a new battle. No longer wielding my spear and shield and fighting for my life against enemies far above me, instead I fought with a sharp razor against a forest of dirty hair. And I was losing.

Clumps fell from the side of my head and my actions became increasingly frenzied as I struggled to part the matted locks. I nicked my fingers several times in my haste, and that only added fuel to the fire, causing my frustration to soar. I tried to bite down on the impatience, but for whatever reason, now that I had noticed my hair, I couldn’t bear to have it there. It hung above me in smug victory like a limp otter steadily dripping water down my face whenever I stopped giving it attention. Cursing quietly to myself I leapt to my feet.

Vera was already rising from her position by the fire and turned towards me, hands splayed in a placating gesture. “Give me that, Lamb, and take a seat. What do you need?”

I stomped over, incredibly glad for the help but still unable to wrangle the frustration at my failure enough to verbalise it. Vera took the blade from my hand though and guided me to the floor, kneeling behind me and running her hands through my hair without a word. The repetitive motion helped calm me and after a few more heartbeats I managed to speak again.

“I dunno, it just…I want it off. I don’t like it. Thank you, by the way.”

Vera nodded, or at least I think she did – couldn’t really see from where I was seated. A dozen more heartbeats passed in silence as she threaded her fingers through my hair, tracing out as many tangles as possible and setting the damp strands in place before she tapped the back of the razor on my head and spoke.

“What do you want then? All of it gone? Would be a shame I reckon. Long hair suits you.” I shrugged, unsure exactly what I did want, but knowing anything was better than this. The unkempt mane seemed to symbolise my lack of control over my own life. ‘There goes Lamb, wants to master the spear but can’t even master his own hair’. The familiar voice bubbled to the surface once again, mocking and deriding everything I held dear.

“Maybe? I don’t know what I want, don’t even really know what’s normal wherever we’re going. Just something…less wild. I want to look like a human, not a half-starved crazy person, you know?” I felt stupid saying it, but Vera just continued combing my hair as she replied. No judgement, just a calm tone and soft words.

“My brother used to shave one side of his head, kept the other long. He used to say it symbolised his love and hatred both – love for the people, and hatred for the nobles. We mocked him for it a little ‘course. Bloody sentimental. But I think it might fit in your case.”

I was startled by her words – she rarely talked about her brother, even after our fight brought her past to the surface. That she did so now spoke to her insight, or perhaps it just was more obvious than I realised that I was struggling with something significant. But then I supposed she knew more than anyone what it was like to lose your identity, and the hard journey of re-discovering yourself after a dramatic change.

“I’d like that. But I don’t know how to braid my hair. I guess that means I’ve always kept it short in the past?” I chuckled mirthlessly to myself at the realisation – further evidence of how lost I was.

Vera simply started parting my hair into strands before cutting them off, sections of hair falling to the floor around me as she worked. “I’ll help you learn. Used to braid Ulstur’s hair before every battle.”

“That’s a nice ritual – were you always close?” I asked absently, leaning into the soothing process and letting my shoulders slowly relax.

“Yes – he was a few years younger than me, so I was always looking out for him. He was the more outgoing one, and once our parents were killed, we joined the rebellion together. As I said, we would often mock him for spending so long on his appearance, especially when we were living rough towards the end. He used to say ‘if I’m going to die, I’d like to die pretty.”

I was still a little apprehensive around Vera and her past, although the last few weeks had brought us closer together. Her tone was light though, and I thought I could hear the soft smile on her face. “He sounds fun. Thank you for sharing a bit of his style with me.” I put as much sincerity into my tone as I could, and then tried to lighten the mood at the end. “I’ll try my best to keep up the pretty warrior legacy.”

Thankfully, Vera laughed and swatted me on the shoulder. “Oh shut up, you’ll do fine. He would have liked you, I think. He always managed to stay optimistic, even towards the end.”

We lapsed into companiable silence for a while as she continued to slice away the matted fur clinging to my head. After most of the clumps were removed and she began to scrape away the course stubble, she spoke more about some of the exploits of her little brother. I listened and enjoyed the feeling of human contact.

Vera had finished her work by the time the food was prepared, and I was the proud owner of a new haircut. She drew her blade to give me a good look, and I had to admit that I liked it. The left side of my head was feral – shaved to a glint but would be stubbly and unkempt within days. A few small scars were exposed as well. It contrasted well with the wide braid down the centre of my head, with two smaller braids on the right hand side, collecting the stray hair and keeping everything tightly contained. It was a style, a definite choice I’d now made on how to present myself. I could credit the savage side of myself that had got me this far while still seeking to define a future independent of it.

On a whim I reached down and pulled from my wrist one of the two silver bangles I had taken from the corpse of the Crimson Lion I had found mauled to death by the Tarkenzi’s. I bent it into a flattened semi-circle and placed it over the main braid, squeezing it into place along the back of my skull so that it could bind the hair together.

I got some compliments over the meal on the new look, and thankfully little teasing. As much as I was comfortable with the banter and comradery, it must have been clear that I was a little on edge tonight.

We were settling in for a quiet night, tucking into our sleeping rolls, when the ground shook.

It was a gentle tremble at first, easy to pass off as nothing since I was rolling over at the time. Jorge lifted his head, and while it wasn’t particularly fast, the eery way he kept still afterwards – as if waiting for something and unwilling to move until it happened – managed to catch my attention.

That was the only reason I caught the subtle tremor the second time. A dozen shakes occurred before they became easy to make out, and by that time Jorge was already pulling himself to his feet. Another few dozen heartbeats passed with the rest of us dragging ourselves from comfort and looking at the horizon in concern.

Jorge was rigid for a few moments longer, head cocked to the side, before he jerked into movement. A strange contraption appeared in his hands as he barked at Vera. “Concentric ring around us. Twenty feet. Go!”

Vera to her credit only hesitated for a moment before withdrawing a thick wooden staff and striding away from us. She struck the staff straight into the ground and pulled it along behind her as she walked, drawing a rent in the grass.

Jorge snapped out the contraption and I realised it was simply two large staves, tipped with metal and connected by a long rope. He jammed one of the staves into the furrow created by Vera and stretched the rope out before placing the second one into the earth as well. He then began to draw in the earth, moving the thick staves through the ground as if dipping a brush through paint.

I knew I could likely replicate the feat by now with my enhanced attributes, but the smoothness of the motion, the way the wood seemed to glide as it displaced the root-bound dirt, not skipping and stuttering even slightly, was impressive to behold.

Once Vera had traced a large circle around us and Jorge had carved the swooping, circular patterns around the outside, I began to understand what they were doing. The why was still a mystery, but it was clear that this was some sort of ritual circle, although it matched no style of runes I had seen so far.

I asked Nathlan quietly, but he was as much at a loss as I was, only able to confirm that this was not some sort of warding structure. Vera joined us a moment later, stowing away her staff and turning us both around to watch the horizon again. The tremors continued at a steady pace, but the earth was shaking more with each one. The grass began to wave with the thumping, and I saw worms coiling to the surface, as if drawn by the promise of rain.

I felt Jorge’s presence near us once more.

“You are about to witness something extraordinary. Say nothing unless I tell you to – this will be far beyond your experience.”

His words seemed directed not just at me, but Nathlan too. He stepped forwards past the edge of the impromptu circle, and I was surprised to see Vera stay beside us as well. I hoped she wasn’t included in his earlier statement – anything beyond Vera was a terrifying thought.

The rhythmic thumping continued as this happened, and while it got heavier by the moment, it was over shockingly fast. Vera gasped and moments later I saw a figure on the horizon, impossibly vast. A hazy silhouette, black against the dusky sky, stars just beginning their twinkling suddenly blocked by a titanic figure.

I caught an impression of movement, but my eyes refused to compute the information they saw. Heavy steps pounded the earth, and the world beneath me trembled. Dust clouds billowed between us and the horizon, appearing in sequence like ripples from a stone skipping across a still lake. Then it was before us, and all movement ceased.

Dust blasted past us, and the earth heaved and shook. I could see the faint outline of Jorge standing still before us, head raised up as if in supplication to a great god of the sky. I shielded my eyes until the dust settled and glanced forwards again.

No longer could I see the plain before me. The view was obscured by an immense brown trunk, wider than my body was tall. It emerged from a titanic foot. A human-looking foot.

The scale was hard to wrap my head around, but a distant part of my mind noted that the five toes I could see were oddly pod shaped, and much wider-spaced than that of a human. The rest of my mind promptly ignored the irrelevant detail and commanded my gaze to rise.

Echoing Jorge, I tilted my head up and tried not to lose my balance as the giant figure of the...well...Giant, resolved itself before me. One moment I was watching a silhouette blur across the steppe, and the next a giant was standing before us, utterly still.

I heard Nathlan’s breath catch, and I reached out to grasp his shoulder. Ostensibly it was to steady him, but truly I just wanted someone to hang onto. There was no doubt in mind that this creature was real. No illusion or psychotic break could conjure the raw majesty that I felt rolling off the creature in waves. Like a ball of hot metal dipped into water, magic poured off of the Giant in a constant gush of power.

My gaze travelled up the tree-like legs, thick with corded muscle, to the navel – an ever moving swirl of dark ink that seemed to draw my gaze. Only the speed at which I had wrenched my head backwards to look at the creature kept my eyes from focusing on that strangely hypnotic tattoo.

Higher, I saw a broad chest dotted with mind-bending patterns and bone-like ridges, flowing up and over wide shoulders. The Giant had an undisputedly masculine face, with solid features and a heavy brow jutting over its eyes. My gaze travelled no further, and while I could make out a hint of tangled white hair and great horns crowning its head, my focus was entirely on the black abyss on either side of its craggy face where eyes should have been.

I felt myself lean forwards, and only my hand on Nathlan’s shoulder kept me from taking a step towards it. A moment later, I felt Nathlan pitch backwards, and I would have struggled to hold him upright without my enhanced strength.

I wanted to look over to check if he was alright, but I could not tear my gaze away from the inhuman titan. Black pits of swirling potential held me enthralled and prevented my brain from truly processing the scale of the creature.

I had spent enough time in the mountains to be used to feeling small. Mountains had a way of reinforcing perspective, of ensuring you never forgot that you were no more than an ant against the majesty of mother nature. But this giant was shocking in a way the natural world never could be. It had moved so fast, giving me no time to understand the calamity arriving before it was here. I did not feel small, so much as insignificant. My physical stature was irrelevant. I could tower over the Giant and still be no less than an ant to such an ancient entity.

The longer I stared, the more the background stars seemed to fall away. I still heard the sounds of wind hushing through grass and crickets creaking, the smell of damp earth freshly overturned. But it was overshadowed by a presence so vast and significant, that I struggled to focus on anything else. My world tilted on its axis, as if I was standing at the base of a mountain, staring too long up at it and felt it start to fall towards me. The dark streaks of cloud rushed by above the horn-covered head, and the dark pits of its eyes stared into my soul.

Vera’s hand dug into my shoulder, and I barely heard her hiss into my ear, “your aura skill!”

It took me a few moments to realise what she meant, and I abruptly cut the flow of mana from my core to my bound skill. The unfathomable eyes regarded me for a moment longer, before the Giant’s colossal head tilted down slightly.

A low hum sounded from in front of me, and I realised Jorge had begun to speak. I wasn’t sure how I knew, but I could understand his intent. Words were irrelevant, but I understood his desire to explain our presence, to confirm our wish to move undisturbed through these lands, and our proof that we had left them unharmed in our wake.

A buzz so low I wasn’t sure if I hearing it or feeling it in my bones was the only reply from the Giant, but again I understood its – his – response. Appreciation for the way-sign we had drawn and harboured in, reassurance that no tribute would be demanded.

Two final pieces of information were communicated that made less sense to me, but I instantly flagged as important; The world tree stirs once more, and the Al-Sazine are on the move. I had the intuitive understanding I wasn’t supposed to have heard that, but no reprisals were forthcoming from either party.

Without fanfare, the creature stepped backwards smoothly. A single step carried him dozens of meters, and the grace with which he moved made me feel sick. Entities on that scale should not move with such speed. I blinked at the sudden dust cloud that enveloped us again, and when it finally settled, we were alone once more. The moon had not moved in the sky before the tremors stopped, and Jorge waved us away from the way-sign he and Vera had drawn.

I had questions, I believe we all did, but Jorge refused to elaborate more on what had occurred, citing a need to consider the Giant’s warning. Nathlan and Vera seemed perplexed, presumably not having understood the exchange, and I feigned confusion too.

We stayed up late talking about that encounter, but after a while the seriousness fled, and we were just joking about increasingly unhinged theories as to how Giants reproduced. Eventually, we called it a night, and I snuggled into my bedroll.

My mind refused to quiet though, wondering about the significance of the Giant’s words, and why that message had had such a profound effect on Jorge.