[Suzerain of Sheol]

The native quickly looked the other direction, then towards Gedard with an air of feral triumph. Before he had the chance to signal his clansmen, Gedard lashed out with the knife, but the native wasn't looking at him: wasn't there. Standing still he only just noticed the sting in his shoulder just shy of his neck. He reached back, but feeling was already leaving his arm. Where was the hunter he'd seen? His head was spinning.

he dropped to his knees, the feeling gone from his chest as well, fumbling with his other hand, he reached for his belt trying to find the antidote he'd had prepared knowing that the natives used this type of poison. Gedard tried desperately not to panic, but his fingers were numb, and flailed dumbly at his belt. Bursts of color filled his vision like phosphenes, and his ears were buzzing as if a swarm of hornets was right next to his head.

With all the concentration he could muster, Gedard made one last attempt and with a surge of will, managed to dislodge the vial from his belt. It fell to the ground and cracked, the liquid leaking all over, but he managed to collapse onto the bottle, cutting his face but allowing him to lap up the liquid.

It was a high quality antidote and the effect was almost instant. His vision cleared, and he regained control of his muscles. Springing to his feet, he looked frenziedly around himself only to see all nine of the natives surrounding his position.

Gedard, not used to panicking, quickly assessed the situation and noticed that the natives were all still alive. He'd missed. Some of them were smiling, like this was some sort of game. With an exasperated sigh, henoticed that the natives slowly held his hands up as if to surrender, before murmuring the invoke word for the flying ability on his dagger.

The effect was not what he expected. All at once, a whirlwind sprung up around him, buffeting the tribesmen and lifting him up. He tried to keep himself level. It was the best he could do. Still, he was flying, sort of. He felt a "thud" as something small hit his backpack.

It couldn't have been an arrow, not in these winds. Even a throwing axe would get blown off-course. He chanced to look behind him and saw he natives, wide-eyed, throwing rocks at him. The winds were affecting the rocks' flight path but one still hit him squarely, which shouldn't have been possible. But then he noticed the tribesman to the rear, with feathers and fetishes laced through his hair. A shaman.

I knew that last one would be a problem.


He could already feel the winds weakening, and made an effort to move himself to a safe place to land, preferably far away. He could hear the distant ululation of the shaman's chanting coming from downwind. Hopefully, he wasn't too late to get to safety. There! Was that a cave he could see? He dearly hoped so.