Backlebutt ran.

He’d settled into an odd stalemate with his pursuers. His many pursuers. There were seven of them now. They couldn’t seem to do much to him as long as he kept to a certain pace. It was an exhausting pace, but Backlebutt found he was just able to sustain it. He had to.

Any time one of them tried to jump ahead and get a good swipe at him, it was left vulnerable to a fly-by attack from Backlebutt. He was pretty sure he’d broken a creature’s leg with his borrowed hammer in one such attack, but was unable to capitalize on the injury. He’d had to keep moving. The creature had fallen behind the main pack, its mobility compromised.

A small victory.

After that, the growing mass of skeleroos seemed mostly content to herd him toward whatever lay ahead, or simply run him to death. The one with the special ability would occasionally throw a rib at the back of his head. He was fairly sure he had a few lumps forming.

He came upon a fork in the tunnel, choosing right without thinking as he had at each previous fork. Easier to find the way back, if circumstances called for it.

Not far after that, he saw two more of the creatures barring his path. He was alarmed to see one of them holding a curved throwing weapon in each of its claws.

Not another one. One was bad enough.

There was nothing for it but to forge ahead. The two creatures seemed content to wait for him, clearly intelligent enough to grasp that he was being herded their direction. As he came into range, the special one threw one of the bent rib things his way. He could tell that it was headed for his chest. Not wanting to expend any more energy than he had to, he simply let it hit him. It stung a bit, but that was it.

It threw its second one, this time at Backlebutt’s face. He weaved to the side, feeling the wind of its passing on his cheek. The creature reached for one of its ribs, calmly waiting for Backlebutt to draw even closer as it readied another of the weapons.

Smug bastard.

Fueled by spite, an idea formed in Backlebutt’s head. It would be risky, possibly costing him his weapon and maybe an injury, but he felt it would be worth that risk if he could take one of them out.

He was nearly in melee range of the creature. Another couple of seconds and he’d be there.

The skeleroo loosed its next rib. Not wanting to disturb his balance during his approach, Backlebutt opted not to dodge, merely throwing up an arm to protect his face. The small projectile impacted hard enough to bruise, but did no real damage. Now was his chance. With a burst of speed, he rushed the creature, bringing up his arm for an overhand strike.

The creature saw him coming leagues away, dodging backward easily onto its tail while bringing up its powerful legs to rebuff Backlebutt. He saw the one next to it crouch with his peripheral vision, ready to strike once he was off balance from the collision.

Neither of them were prepared to see the hammer leave Backlebutt’s hand in a Perfect Shot straight toward the special skeleroo’s head from less than a stride away.

The hammer plowed through the space above the creature’s neck, taking the skull with it. The skeletal body lost all rigidity as it deanimated, allowing Backlebutt to trample through it with little resistance. Bones scattered before him, bouncing off his body. A satisfied grin formed on his face as he chased down the hammer to where it had landed further down the tunnel. He snatched it back up as he continued his flight.

That felt good. Should have tried that ages ago, he thought to himself regretfully. It was far too late now for the tactic to work on all of them, with eight hounding him. They had shown a great deal of cunning. If he turned around to try it again, he was fairly certain that the only result would be a lost weapon and a lot of pain on his part.

Backlebutt continued on for what felt like an eternity, breathing heavily. He was grateful for the stat points he’d put into improving his constitution, as they were most certainly propping him up now.

The terrain turned rougher, and it was all he could do not to turn an ankle. Once, after being forced to leap several feet down from a ledge, his exhausted legs couldn’t quite handle the landing. They collapsed underneath him, but he was able to turn the fall into a roll, rising promptly to his feet to stagger forward before settling back to the same grueling pace as before.

Fortunately, the skeleroos were impeded somewhat as well—not as much when the trail dropped, but whenever the tunnel narrowed or the ceiling dropped very low, Backlebutt was able to gain some extra distance from them for a short while.

He didn’t encounter many more new enemies, though two more had joined up with the pack on his tail before he started to hear a sound. It was a distant roaring, growing louder the further he went until he realized what it must be: a river.

His thoughts whirred at this revelation. Backlebutt was an excellent swimmer. His father had been a fisherman, and he’d practically lived in the water as a boy. Even better, he was fairly certain he’d never seen a floating bone in his entire life.

Feeling truly optimistic for the first time in what seemed like hours, Backlebutt pressed forward. He sensed the river was just ahead. The air felt wetter, and the sound of rushing water was reaching a crescendo. He felt sure he would see it after he emerged from the current narrow section of tunnel he was passing through. If he put on a little extra speed, he could gain some time to assess the situation while the group of skeleroos, ten strong, struggled through the tight squeeze.

Backlebutt burst out into a broader, low-ceilinged section of tunnel leading downward. He scanned until he saw it: the sharp line of what was sure to be the edge of the riverbank, though he couldn’t yet see any water.

And there, on the far side of that line, something new. It’s legs were still obscured down behind the ledge, but he was able to make out a bulbous body, with a long stalk for a neck that led up to an oddly pointed head. And then, as it turned—glowing red eyes, peering at him from the darkness.

-

The cassowary’s gaze strikes fear into your very soul.

-

Backlebutt stumbled as he felt the stare almost physically, sending a jolt of fear and adrenaline surging through him. Despite the distance still between them, he brought his hammer up warily, not sure what to expect of this new, strange creature. He couldn’t stop, though. The skeleroos on his tail would likely tear him to shreds in seconds if he did.

As he continued forward, the bird let out a shriek that pierced through the sound of crashing water.

-

You hear the cassowary’s cry, and you know fear.

-

Backlebutt nearly stopped short at that. If he’d had any choice at all, he would have been backing away from the nightmarish creature. A quick glance rearward steeled his resolve, as it revealed the first skeleroo appearing from the narrow passage he’d left moments before.

It’s across the river, and it’s not approaching. The jump across the gap is too high. It’s trapped on that side.

He grit his teeth and continued running boldly to the edge before skidding to a stop, chest heaving, his entire body trembling with fatigue. Fatigue, and fear.

After a wary glance revealed no obvious aggression from the cassowary across the gap—other than an intense, unblinking stare that was sure to haunt his dreams—he peered down.

Blackness. Not even his Keen Sight skill revealed how far down the narrow ravine the water ran. It must be there, though. He looked behind himself again. Mere moments now before the relentless skeletal monsters were on him.

He couldn’t run forever. A few more minutes, maybe. Perhaps more. Not enough.

Death ahead. Death behind. Below...possible death. But maybe salvation.

It was a chance. He had to take it.

Heart nearly beating out of his chest, Backlebutt ignored his screaming instincts and stepped off the precipice into the darkness below.

The first thing he hit was the far wall, his slight forward momentum enough to carry him to it. In truth, he barely avoided knocking his chin on the far ledge. His body scraped against the wall briefly, and then, as the passage seemed to widen—

Freefall.

It was a long drop. He had enough time to think, If I hit anything other than water—

And then with no warning, he felt an impact through the soles of his boots, felt freezing water rushing up all around him. Shortly after, there was a second impact, softer, as he briefly touched the bottom of the river. The swift current picked him up, dragging him along the stony riverbed. He tumbled like a child’s ragdoll over rocks and boulders.

Backlebutt held his arms up around his head in an effort to protect it as he was manhandled by the turbulent waters. His lungs were already burning, begging for air in the wake of his desperate flight through the tunnels. He needed to reach the surface.

After several tense seconds, he managed to orient himself so that his feet were leading the way downstream, giving him significantly more control and allowing him to absorb any impacts with his legs. He still had a major problem, however. His clothes, the hammer he still gripped in his right hand, and especially his chain link shirt were all dragging him down, not allowing him to float upward.

He caught a break when both feet impacted solidly on a boulder in front of him. As the current began pushing him up and over it, he curled himself into a ball before exploding upward, pushing off the solid surface.

He broke through with a gasp, filling his lungs with much-needed air before his head sunk down once more into the frigid water. Not ready to sink back to the bottom, he fought to bring his head back above the surface. Struggling against the weight trying to pull him down, Backlebutt did his best to tread water. His chokehold on the hammer made it more difficult, but he was unwilling to let the weapon go.

He was just able to get a few more desperate breaths before the current threw him against a wall as the river rounded a bend. That was enough to send him back under the surface, once more at the water’s mercy.

Backlebutt tried to reorient himself like he had before, but before he even got the chance he was suddenly falling once more. He nearly cried out in surprise, but he’d swallowed enough water as a lad to have a tight rein on any impulse to open his mouth underwater.

He did his best to get his feet under him as he plummeted once more, but ultimately it didn’t matter; he splashed into a deep pool carved out by the waterfall, the pounding flow pushing him down until he hit solid rock several stride down. His ears felt stuffed with wool from the pressure, even as they thundered with the noise of crashing water.

As quickly as he could, Backlebutt began to crawl downstream until he was sure that he was out from underneath the waterfall before pushing off the bottom in a bid to reach the surface. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t tell how far he had to go, so when his momentum slowed and he was still completely surrounded by water, he felt more than a little alarm. He needed air! He started frogstroking, reaching up and then bringing his hands down to his sides as hard as he could, legs opening wide before slamming together. It took three full strokes, fighting as hard as he could against all the weight trying to drag him to the bottom, before he finally broke through. He gasped, filling his lungs with wonderful, life-giving air. He bobbed back under once before he was able to stabilize with his face just out of the water.

Treading for all he was worth, he finally opened his eyes and was able to get a sense of his surroundings. It was extremely dim where he was, but a hundred or so stride downstream he could see brighter light where the river let out into a lit area. Backlebutt turned himself that direction, panting as he struggled to stay afloat. Waterlogged boots, clothes, armor, and hammer all fought against him. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of elation as he realized that he was finally out of immediate danger.

I made it! I escaped! His celebration was somewhat short-lived as he accidentally inhaled a little water, coughing and spitting.

His hardships certainly weren’t over. The current was very slow here, which was both good and bad. He wasn’t being manhandled like before, but now he’d have to make it over to the lit area under his own power. He was already struggling just to keeping his head above water.

Instead of heading straight toward the light, Backlebutt began swimming to his right until he made contact with the wall. Unfortunately, there was no gradual slope leading to a bank that he could stand on. His feet still dangled in open water, but he was able to find some holds in the wall by which he could support himself.

Finally able to rest, Backlebutt simply dangled there for a minute while he caught his breath. Soon, however, a cold shiver told him that he needed to begin making his way to somewhere warmer and less wet.

Switching his grip on the hammer so that the claw side faced out, Backlebutt began pulling himself along the wall hand over hammer, dragging himself toward the light.