BUSHWORLD ADVENTCHA

[Helmet 1454]

Preparations, Isolated.

 

A match was lit clenched by Daemonsteel fingertips, illuminating Galathol's helmet. His gaze trailed up the cold stone ravine he had climbed down to, staring starwards from the near-Underdark. Rummaging through his personal belongings he set a slayersteel pickaxe down, propping up a lantern among the rocks.

 

With a breath he lit his lantern properly, organizing his equipment for what was to come within that large backpack of his. He combed through a half-used match box, wrapped torches, some tanglefoot, a mostly-filled waterskin, 2 days worth of hardtack rations, a pair of vacant jars, his salt supply, a coil of rope and finally a medical kit containing tippens & blissfoil salves.

With the light reflecting off his clockwork limbs & weaponry, that being some throwing knives, a small hatchet and an Argentum bladewhip, Galathol dumped a portion of the salt onto the stone ground. A plain circle was traced out with the salt, serving as a base for the incomprehensible rune gibberish which Galathol forced to come to be shortly afterwards.

 

Upon completion he double and triple checked the integrity of the Shunting circle before stepping in, taking a deep breath as he steadied his posture. Orange light seeped from his stomach, crawled up his chest and flowed down his arm towards the runic salt formations he had made.

A single drop of Liquid Essence parted from his clockwork fingertip, igniting within the center of the circle upon meagerly splashing against the ground. And like it were laced with lamp oil, the entire circle was engulfed with the strange amber flame.

 

The fire grew taller and taller, Galathol reaching to bring his lantern and pickaxe along for the ride with a huff. Over the course of a minute the man of metal was utterly covered in the inferno, it spiraling around him.

It glowed with greater intensity, it's revolutions accelerating as it consumed Galathol whole before abruptly SLAMMING downwards, extinguishing itself and seemingly immolating the man in his entirety. Nothing remained as a result of the ritual, barring the specks of salt scattered across the cavern surface.

 

---

BUSHWORLD. And mud.

 

The man woke up laying on his back, a groan reverberating through his mostly-iron being. A great canopy stretched above himself, artificial eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets at the absurdity. Had he grown tiny, or was this world simply that big?

 

Bewildered, He stood with great difficulty, the ground nearly sucking him back in amidst the process and checked himself over with a mutter. The sounds of distant woodland creatures chittering and singing frolicked around his helm's ear-holes as he spoke with himself unintelligibly, cleansing himself of... mud.

 

His gaze turned left, then right- peering into the far distance. Naught but enormous trunks, the decaying remains of massive leaves & thankfully regular-sized foliage was spotted. ...Yet, as his eyes watched far away, he could not help but notice that everything seemed to ever so slowly elevate. ...Or was he growing smaller, still?

 

Galathol's eyes at last looked down to his surroundings, being met with the sight of his heavy clockwork legs gradually being swallowed by the thick mud he had just crawled up from. He sought to lift a leg with a grunt, yet that only resulted the other falling deeper into the mud. He froze, holding absolutely still.

The rate in which he sunk slowed as his movements too fell dormant, Galathol peering around his own torso. Retrieving his hatchet, he reached to his backpack's side to acquire the coil of rope. Hastily, as he was buried further and further by the jungle, he tied the rope around the shaft of the axe, hefting the rope up and swinging it in a circle as to gain momentum.

 

With desperation he flung the axe towards the nearest tree trunk's roots, it resonating with a heavy 'thunk'. A breath of relief reverberated out from his helm as he tugged on the rope twice, the axe having successfully buried itself deep enough into the wood to remain firm. 

 

Slowly but surely, he pulled himself to safety, standing atop the trunk's massive root. Once he found every piece of equipment situated where it should be, and he wiped the excess mud from his legs, Galathol's gaze once more drew itself skywards with awe at the sheer size of the trees towering over him. Each one was as big as the one the Druids had spanning over their entire city, and here they were as densely packed as a tropic rain forest could be. "How bloodeh old..." He muttered, humming as he inspected the tree in front of himself.

 

The hatchet was gripped a second time, and he started to hack away at the side of the tree- cutting deeper, and deeper to gather a sample. It took an hour or several to chisel out a thin strip of lumber reaching all the way from the exterior bark to the core of the tree, but it was done. There must have been a few hundred rings upon the gathered wood, certainly far older than he. His helm once more looked up at the tower of living biomass, enraptured by such an old thing. How many events, grand and tiny, had this lone plant slept through?

 

Snapping out of it with the shake of his helm, he slipped the hatchet and sample away. He proceeded to walk around the tree for a few more minutes, the shock and glory of the land he had found himself in becoming more mundane and boring by the second- along with the creeping sensation that he had been here too long.

 

Not willing to risk this further, he took out some more salt & poured it out- repeating the very circle and ritual to return home. Perhaps, searching through this boundless wilderness would prove more fruitful, with an expendable assistant to 'help'.
 

Spoiler

[World 3 - Anulon, the Untamed Wilds]

Edited January 17 by Helmet

[Sonybut7 530]

Spoiler

Teach me Planeswalking my king.