The Jackass Mountains | Late Summer

  Moss gave beneath Crow’s boots like old bread. Damp, forgiving. He stepped lightly, more out of instinct than caution: out here, nothing rushed. Nothing needed to. Above, the wind played through pine limbs in a slow, rustling exhale. A single branch, heavy with age and lichen, creaked as it swayed. Not a sound of warning, just old wood telling stories.

  Crow stands on the threshold of manhood, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, yet carries himself with a quiet, grounded presence that suggests years beyond his age. The sun has bronzed his skin, scattering freckles like dust across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. His eyes, a warm, thoughtful hazel, are flecked with the vibrant green of moss in sunlight. They miss nothing, always observing, always listening. A certain softness graces his expression, not a hint of weakness, but the calm resilience of someone who has learned to survive without letting the world harden his heart.

  Dark brown hair, tousled and falling in loose waves just past his ears, often catches bits of bark or leaf he forgets to shake free. Sometimes, when focused on a task, he'll tuck a strand behind one ear. A thin, woven braid of dried grass and delicate beadwork is tied close to his scalp along one side. It was a quiet nod to tradition, perhaps from his mother, or a path he's chosen for himself.

  He dresses in the muted palette of the earth: soft greens, worn browns, and grays the colour of river stone. His sleeveless tunic, split at the sides for unrestricted movement, is reinforced with practical leather at the shoulders and hem. A wrapped sash cinches his waist, a place for his essential pouches, a gathering satchel, and his small, well-used carving tools. His pants are comfortably fitted at the knee but loose enough for the trail, tucked into boots that bear the honest wear and mud of the forest floor.

  The wild clings to him like a second skin. A stray pine needle caught in a hem, faint smudges of ash and pollen on his fingertips. His arms tell silent stories with faint scars from navigating bramble thickets and the occasional kiss of a wildfire. A hint of a tattoo, something swirling and plantlike, peeks from beneath the edge of his left shoulder.

  Always with him, slung across his back or held in a steady hand, is his walking stick. It's a length of dark, polished wood shaped from a fallen limb, its gnarled end is a testament to time and careful carving. Vines, symbols, and runes don't just decorate their length; they are woven into the wood with intention. It was a focus for magic, a repository of memory, and a guide for his path.

  Crow reached for the low-hanging curls of silverbark, his gloved fingers brushing the twisted sheen with reverence. The tree didn’t mind. He always asked, always thanked me. The grove had learned his rhythm.

  Ash, his wolfdog, trotted a few paces ahead, paws silent on the forest duff. The dog’s ears flicked back at the sound of Crow’s hum; a low, wordless tune passed down by someone long dead and long loved. A lullaby in the shape of a circle, one he sang without thinking.

  They didn’t speak, not with words. Ash would pause now and then, tail swaying slowly, muzzle lifted to sniff some unseen current in the air. Crow would watch him, adjust his course, and trust. There was no clearer compass than a creature who belonged to the land.

  The forest here was thick with green shadow, slanted light, and that particular hush of a place few had touched. Crow knew every bend of this trail, every rock with a streak of ore beneath its skin. His pack was light now, but he’d felt the tug of pyrelace roots earlier: a good sign. They burned blue in the forge and softened steel like soap.

  Ash paused suddenly, ears high, body taut. Crow stopped, one foot hovering just above a bed of golden needles. He didn’t ask what it was. Instead, he listened. The breeze had gone still. Far ahead, something rustled. Not the wind. Something heavier. A rhythm, almost, but too faint for certainty.

  Crow’s breath fogged slightly in the late summer air. Strange. It wasn’t cold enough for that.

  Ash let out a soft chuff. Not alarm. Not quite. But the boy stepped closer anyway, one hand brushing the haft of the sickle on his belt. The forest remained quiet, save for a few leaves tumbling lazily through the air. One landed on Crow’s shoulder: red-veined and early. Ah, a maple leaf, he thought to himself. Autumn was coming early this year. Or something else was shifting.

  He crouched to run his hand through the soil. Warm. Alive. And yet… The loam beneath his fingertips felt different. Looser. Like breath held in the earth. He glanced at Ash, who had begun to circle a half-buried stone.

  There—just beneath it. A faint sigil etched into the mossy rock. Overgrown. Old. Nearly erased by time. Not a dungeon. At least not that he could tell. Dungeons were forces of nature, and Crow could respect that, but there are those out in the world who would abuse nature. Still old runes were a sign. Crow stood, brushing soil from his palms, and gave the rock a nod, as if to say: Noted.

  Ash let out a small whine, soft and low. Crow ruffled his thick fur behind one ear. “Not today,” he said gently. “We’ve got bark to find.”

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  They moved on, quieter now, but not afraid. Just listening.

  Ash moved through the underbrush like smoke—his coat a dapple of grey, silver, and storm-shadow. Nothing startled him, not anymore. He slipped between roots and under low branches without a sound, eyes sharp but calm.

  The carved collar at Ash’s neck, the only thing he ever wore, clicked gently as he moved. Just wood, but shaped with care. It was made from bone-smooth edges, a faint curl of leafwork, and a stone set where the throat met fur. Crow had carved it last spring after Ash had pulled him from the creek during the melt.

  He hadn’t said much, just handed it over with a quiet, “Try this on.”

  Ash had sniffed it once, sat down, and allowed it to be tied on. He still wore it now, and Crow still caught himself checking it for wear more often than he meant to.

  Crow’s shoulder caught on a low fir branch, and he swatted it aside, muttering, “You’d think the trees would be kinder, knowing we’re kin.”

  Ash gave him a long glance over one shoulder; part disbelief, part amused reproach. Crow sighed. “Don’t look at me like that. You ate an entire roasted squirrel last night.”

  The wolfdog snorted, tail swaying once, slow.

  “This jobs for me, fuzzball,” Crow added, adjusting the strap on his pack. “Herbs don’t dig themselves.”

  Ash huffed again but didn’t break stride. Just one slow blink that said as you wish, little brother.

  Crow watched him for a second, that soft, rippling strength wrapped in calm. Protector, shadow, constant. There was no leash between them. Just trust. And a hundred shared moments of breath held, of bone mended, of warmth in frost.

  They’d seen bad winters. Worse men. Ash still bore a scar along his flank, a jagged white streak that vanished into his fur. Crow had stitched it himself, hands shaking, knife within reach the whole time. But here, here there was no danger. Just moss, root, sky.

  Crow reached out and let his fingers trail along a fern’s underside, feeling the way it recoiled slightly before relaxing. Alive. Like everything here. He looked back at Ash, who had paused again, tail lowered, nose to the ground. “Find something?”

  Ash didn’t move. Just a single ear flicked back. Crow stepped beside him, crouched. The earth smelled strange here: sharper. Like iron and charcoal. Burnt stone. He pressed his hand to the ground again.

  Still warm. Too warm. They came upon the grove without realizing it.

  The path dipped into a hollow, where mist clung low and silver between the trees. Crow’s breath slowed. Ash, ever ahead, paused and lowered his head, nostrils twitching. The air here smelled different; wet stone, cold sap, the faintest crackle of something old. Crow stepped lightly, reverently. Every footfall felt louder than it should. Even the birds had gone silent.

  Under the bowed roots of an old cedar, tucked where moss had grown thick and velvety, he saw them. Faeling Caps.

  At first, just a flicker, like catching motion from the corner of your eye. But when he turned, there they were: six of them, pale blue and trembling faintly in the still air. Their edges glowed with the barest shimmer, like moonlight on a ripple. He blinked, and the shimmer was gone. Then back again.

  Crow let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Well, aren’t you a sight?”

  Ash padded beside him, silent. His presence grounded the moment. Not breaking it, but steadying it. Crow sank to a knee, drawing the small curved blade from his satchel. Its edge had long since dulled for cutting, wrapped now in soft cloth and used only for coaxing things free that didn’t want to break.

  “These only grow,” he whispered, “where something magical sleeps.”

  Ash made a soft sound. Not a growl, not a whine, just breath shaped by thought. Crow glanced at him. “I know. But it’s not that kind of sleep.”

  Ash rolled his eyes at the low-level druid.

  “Hey, I didn’t make the nursery rhyme. Don’t judge me.” Crow smiled at the dog and gave him some ear scratches. “Time to get to work. Keep an eye out.”

  System notification: You have found Faeling Caps. Experience gained to druid level. +55

  Crow used his analysis skill, gaining him some extra knowledge and experience points. Here on Mors, experience was key. The information scrolled across the bottom of his HUD, or heads-up display.

  [Analysis – Faeling Caps]

  Faeling Cap (Uncommon Fungal Flora)

  Also known as: Whisperlight Mushrooms, Dreamroot Bloom

  Found: Cool, shaded groves touched by old magic.

  Effect: When properly dried and infused, Faeling Caps enhance awareness and dreamsight. Often used in the crafting of druidic charms, memory potions, or meditation gear.

  Note: Fragile. Exposure to direct sunlight for too long renders the caps inert. Said to only grow near places where forgotten magic sleeps.

  The young man worked slowly and patiently. Each mushroom came free with the same care one might give to lifting a newborn bird from its nest. He nestled them in the lined pouch on his belt, adding sprigs of moss to keep them cool. Every movement was part of a rhythm. A ritual.

  Ash’s ears flicked. He turned toward the heart of the grove. Still no danger, just attention. A quiet question. Crow followed his gaze. There, nestled deeper in the roots, the moss swelled slightly, shaped like a mound. Nothing moved. But the air above it shimmered faintly, like heat off the stone.

  He swallowed. “Not today,” he murmured again. Ash looked back at him with that side-eye Crow had come to know too well.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Crow muttered. “I am not cursed. Stop saying I have bad luck.”

  Ash snorted. It echoed oddly in the quiet grove like a sound sliding against glass. Crow stood slowly. The Faeling Caps were safe. The forest was still. But something old wasn’t sleeping here, not anymore. Have you noticed them? That was when the mound opened with a... Pop! If Ash could laugh like a human, he would.

  “Awe, fuck!” That was all Crow could say.