Cromwell, the Protector
Cromwell wrestled with the wheelbarrow across the bumpy earth of Buffkin Plains, cursing as he tripped over rocks and spilled the wheelbarrow’s contents on the plain. It would be an easy thing for him to clear a path before him, or even fashion a golem made of the earth beneath them to carry him and his wares all the way to Drok’s Hollow. But he had retired to this remote part of the Runiverse for a simple life, not an easy one. He would walk, thank you very much, and struggle with this infernal machinery if need be. Better than to wield magic again. If anyone should suffer, Cromwell had resolved, it would be him.
“Here, Fairfax!” The dog had run off again, chasing deer or birds or some other quarry through the tall grass. “Some protection you are!”
The sun remained an oppressive novelty to the recent transplant, who had cut his teeth in the shadier climes of The Thorn, the Ghoulish Boglands, and the Vampyre Mists, fighting kobolds and revenants and worse. He earned his first sunburn just before he learned of the sublime preventative pleasures a large, floppy hat could provide. He had cures for sunburn in his bag of tricks, too. While he had never been a healer by training, all battle mages knew a basic resistance spell or two. But an oath is an oath, and never means never.
The wheel squeaked interminably and sweat pooled on his brow as he pushed, engaging his whole body in the effort. He had understood farming would be hard work, but he hadn't fully appreciated what it meant when he was told the work never stopped. The harvest, rather than an end to labors, simply begun a new cycle of labors. Cromwell fought the temptation to cast an invigoration spell. Besides, he thought, it wasn’t that much longer. If he kept up this pace, he calculated, he’d make it to Drok’s Hollow by sundown, where he hoped to find a place to sleep, and prepare to trade in the morning. He looked forward to a beer.
“Fairfax! Here, boy!”
Cromwell stopped, and listened. All was quiet except for the rustling susurration of the grass, gently blowing in the wind.
“Fairfax?”
Another round of rustling, but this time Cromwell picked up on a new note. A more aggressive rustling, almost a rattling coming from the east.
Rattling.
“Fairfax!”
Cromwell dropped the handle and sprinted toward the sound, just catching sight of the snake as it slithered away from his incapacitated dog, disappearing into the grass and toward the mountains beyond. Fairfax lay on his side, whimpering softly, two bleeding holes about a snake’s mouth apart on his left foreleg. If Cromwell carried him, he thought, and left the wheelbarrow behind, he might just make it to Drok’s Hollow in time. If they had a healer, that is. If not…
He removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow, observing the fear in Fairfax’s eyes. There was no time, he knew. Cromwell sighed, and placed his hands on the dog. It was the work of a moment, then the venom seeped out, the wounds closed up, and Fairfax jumped to his feet, happily licking Cromwell’s face as if nothing had ever been amiss.
Cromwell held the dog at bay, his arms shaking. It had been three months since the Nightmare Dominion. The tricks that were played on him. The things he did. The familiar old rage began to rise up inside him. The oath was the better part of his healing process, the way he could continue to live with himself after that night. And he had forsaken it.
For a dumb dog.
Fairfax ran around to Cromwell’s other side and licked him again. Cromwell looked up, and relented. What good was it to stick to an oath to protect loved ones, if it got your loved ones killed?
“Who’s a good boy?”
Fairfax trotted alongside the wheelbarrow for the rest of the arduous walk to Drok's Hollow.
Cromwell made sure of it.
Entered by: 0xC56C…C0d1
