One Moo'r Plow

B2-Chapter 1: Awakening.

I really did not want to wake from this divine slumber. A surety surrounded me as I lay cloaked in absolution, yet my consciousness was slowly, steadily forced toward the light. There pervaded a feeling throughout my mind, a dread realization that something important was slipping away. What and why were soon made hollow as those thoughts too were stripped from me and I emerged anew.

I fought this, much as I could, for there was something of great import that slipped away. A warm embrace, a cocoon of light that opened wide and wilted away as I rose to the surface.

I woke hot, covered in sweat, empty pitchers stacked before my face. Moments crept past until realization struck and memory returned. I was, thankfully, within my own house. Yet things were not as I remembered in the brief moments before consciousness had been lost. My clothes were clean, for one. Different scents drifted into my nostrils, the air itself changed.

Sleep had held me, and for quite some time. This length was not immediately answered, but there were enough differences to indicate a reasonable change. Groggy as I was, head thickened and feeling of cotton, I cast around even as one arm hauled myself up.

By the mercy of the Gods Above, I had not grown in size.

Yet once more my physical form was not excluded from changes. Words could not describe how I knew, yet there was a surety in me that I was not much denser than before, my muscles and bones themselves thickened and reinforced with new strength. The bed upon which I had lain was soaked in sweat, my dried lips a small distraction from the void of hunger that pulsed within.

All else was to be consumed. Eyes still weary cast around for sustenance and found naught. I heaved upright, the dull spread of hunger having encroached all else. Yet I refused to stagger around like some crazed, wild-eyed savage within my own home. There was little here, yet memory whispered that the cellar was filled with the bounty of plenty. My eyes pierced the shade as I descended, only to notice my stocks were..lesser.

Some level of concern mounted, held down for now as I snatched food from the walls and began to satiate myself. Only once I was well and truly full did I notice the sheer amount that was now gone. My gorging had contributed to that, surely, but an entire months worth of vegetables, meat and spices had vanished. Either I had been robbed, or my slumber had dragged on for an absurd amount of time.

Neither offered a pleasant solution.

It was now that I found the reason for my long, forced rest.

My Bloodstained Berserker and Farmer classes were gone. In their place existed a single, consolidated class.

Bloodsoaked Harvester. The theme of blood had been kept, yet for now the implications of frenzy and mindless rage had been superseded with one of weariness and dedication. And remembrance did bring that to light. My approach to bloodshed had been similar to how I toiled about my farm. With thoroughness and endurance, only briefly dipping into blind fury and rage.

Perhaps not the most logical progression, but I was reminded that the entire System was shaped and controlled by the beings I called Gods Above, and at their whim and will. It was a revelation, in a way, that there was no set path for me to journey down, but rather the gloom of the unknown.

The differences within my body complimented my new class, came the thought. Instead of larger growth and more explosive volatility, I was now afforded even more endurance, a great degree of steadiness in both work and combat. All things I pondered as I idly chewed on dried venison and climbed back up the stairs.

What little light came through into the lodge shone dimly, an indication of evening. I quickly look around showed aside from the table and pitchers next to the bed, little had been moved. Someone, however, had taken care of me while I slept, if only to keep my body hydrated. Ishila, perhaps?

There was a plethora of changes among my skills, I had found. Several new, relevant ones that I found myself drawn to once I had seated myself.

Harvests Bounty stood out to me the most, both simple and straightforward. Successfully reaping something that lived would provide me with a portion of further vitality in return. I sensed that the living part here was purposefully vague, yet I could see how this meshed well with both previous classes, and further bolstered my new Classs theme of steadfast endurance. So long as I kept reaping lives, I would be fed back continued stamina and vitality.

While it was clearly meant to be a middle-of-the-line power, it too could be bolstered by Gold Is Power.

One that could not be enhanced was They Are Felled. For a brief, single swing any blade I carried would cut true, unable to be stopped or deviated. No other skill could influence this power, and it leaned heavily into bloodshed.

Sundering Wrathblade harkened back to the older, more rage-focused skills as it could lift and cleave the ground itself into an explosion before me, becoming larger the angrier I was. Just a taste of my old class mixed into the plodding, stoic confines of the new one I wore now.

Berserk was gone, replaced by Wrath. A skill that provided similar effects, but did not cloud my mind. Rather, it seemed to indicate that it would passively strengthen my actions in regards to how much anger I channeled at the moment.

Primal Wroth was the final new addition, single-use skill that would shift my features and body into a more lanky, elongated version that was similar to the behemoth I had summoned. More speed and volatility in exchange for perhaps a less sturdy body?

A plethora of smaller changes dotted my other previously held skills, most meant to replace whichever parts of them made me enraged. I was a berserker still, but now it seemed more of a cold, dispassionate anger than a madman blindly frothing at the mouth. Couldnt say I disliked what had occurred.

It was to my great relief that It Will Not Die remained wholly unchanged. My final trump card, a power that could reject death itself for a brief period. And here, death was final. No resurrections, no calling the soul back to its mortal shell.

Where had that knowledge just come from? I blinked, thrown off track before the thought slipped from my mind and a stood with a yawn. There was a particularly unpleasant feeling deep within, as if I was hungry despite my filled state. Grunt upon my lips, I heaved up and went to look outside. The evening had well and truly set in, yet it was not the suns faded light that prompted me to stop and blink.

There were crops. In my field. Almost fully grown.

Gods Above I really had slept for so long.

A worry filled me as I marched down the hill and cast about the farm. The pasture now sported a proper shed for the cattle, and I could tell it had been enlarged. Someone had installed proper feeding stations along the fence. While empty, I could see there lay scraps of grain at the bottom, indicating someone had mixed the cows diet to include more than grass.

A garden of vegetables was in full ripeness, many ready to be plucked shortly. Speed hurried my steps as I veered away from the pasture towards the house-shed where Artyom had made his home. It was empty, I found upon bursting in. There was a messy bed for the felenid and various bits and tools about, but without a living soul inside. Jars and containers of various monster-plant substances and specimens stood messily, carefully preserved.

A need, a desire to talk to someone, anyone rose within as worry spread through me. Far as I could tell, someone had taken very good care of my farm whilst I had been locked in this sleep, even progressed several plans I had discussed with ishila. Yet there was no one here. Even Gols usual presence was nowhere to be found.

The monster plants were massive now, my eyes saw as I approached the field. They had swollen in size under the expert care of whoever tended to my farm. It was then that I once more became aware of my stone sentinels. Once large piles of rock that these tiny creatures sat upon now barely rose above a sea of yellow wheat, small islands in an expanse of gold. This made me smile, for a time.

Where was everyone? This question lingered at the forefront of my mind, followed only by another, more insidious query.

Why had I slept so long? As Ishila had briefly described it, this process should have only taken several days. Try as I might to drag remembrance of her words back to the forefront, the conversation remained clouded.

It was then that I took notice of a figure cloaked in red striding down the road. Not on the dirt and stone path itself, but across my land. Towards me.

Vague memory recalled that she was the rough, brisk cleric of the Red God from the fort.

You woke. She stated the obvious. Marvellous.

Flabbergasted perhaps described me accurately as she stopped before me, arms laden with bags and scowled.

You may not remember me, given our brief interaction the last time you were conscious, yet I have come to know you quite well.

Then why do I not recall you in return?

Not meant as a jab, but rather a polite question.

Someone has been keeping you alive for the past month. That dubious distinction has fallen to me. Have you eaten?

While inwardly taken aback by her bluntness, this was far from the first direct person I had dealt with, and I mildly informed her that yes, I had indeed gorged myself.

Stupid idea, She growled. Were you human, your body would have fallen into shock by now from eating so much and fast after such a period of starvation. I am no expert of the physiology of your race, minotaur, but I suspect you will respond the same. Delayed perhaps, and not nearly as fatal, but still in a similar fashion. Back inside, now.

She marched past without so much as waiting for me to respond, leaving me to stride alongside her.

I was contacted upon the fourth day, She cut off any questions even as I began to speak. After you did not rouse and would not respond to outside stimulus. Since then, I have kept you alive with copious amounts of water and healing magicks. The body way wither without food, but it will die without water. An endless amount of clerical might has been pumped into you so as to keep your frame functional while you were locked into sleep. Now that you have awakened, I will unsure you are not ready to die, lest my efforts be wasted.

I cut her off with a wave as she crossed the threshold ahead of me.

First, why?

Cold eyes turned upon me, hard globes that were almost dead of emotion. Clerics, doctors, surgeons. I had heard that over time, the horrors they saw dulled the empathy within them, yet they still persisted on and on, ever more numbed to it all. I saw this now.

The orc girl paid handsomely for my services, and I have provided. But more than that, you are now interest to both people and beings. Your name is now known, Garek of the Redtip. What feat you accomplished is whispered of and a song for bards. And as such, there are people who would keep you alive, if only to meet you.

You now interest people, for all the woe that will bring upon you.

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