Rick was moving with purpose, steps steady and firm, like a lion prowling its prey. Walking down the main road, snaking around like a meandering river, leading down to Sigurd’s and Benji’s home. A home Rick liked, enjoyed, maybe even loved. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so safe, so secure, so wonderfull. He couldn’t let Benji lose that, couldn’t let Sigurd die in vain.

He had steeled his mind, his heart and his body. He was ready for whatever he needed to do, like a soldier accepting his fate. But still, Rick held doubt, he knew that just fighting the monster wouldn’t work; He had to, in the least, wound it grievously, force it to run or into hiding so that the other soldiers could hunt it down before it killed anyone else.

And how did one kill a monster? A question Rick never would have guessed he would have to think about, even after already having killed two. He pondered on crafting statues, numbering in the hundreds, using the same strategy as he did on the first monster, using overwhelming manpower. But that idea was thrown away quickly, time was of the essence, time he didn’t have, time that could end in any second, any minute, any hour.

No, Rick needed something strong, something sturdy, something that could be crafted quickly yet hold maximum power. Rick pondered on rocks, but immediately dismissed the idea. He had never carved rock, so how would he get the inspiration required to create the imitation of life. But what else could Rick do? Rick didn’t have much choice, Rick didn’t have much time, he needed an idea, an idea now.

None came, many ideas floated but none were acceptable, none were capable of facing such a huge monster, such a terrifying monster, such a nightmare. Rick hurried his steps, faster and further, feeling exhaustion welling up but forcing it down, he didn’t have time for that. Strength he thought none existent rising up, strange strength, strength that didn’t feel natural, feeling weird. Rick didn’t dwell on it, he had already too much else on his mind, just feeling happy that his body cooperated with him for once.

Sun like a glowing orb in the sky, like a bright orange, staring down and slightly behind him. Time moved slow and fast. Rick saw Sigurd’s home, her house, hope welling up as he didn’t see Sigurd nor a monster, faltering when he realized he didn’t have any real plan on how to deal with the monster, just a vague one. Rick slowed his step, looking around, both for inspiration and too scan his surroundings. Both scared and thoughtful, both worried and hopeful. He hoped to see something to give him any ideas, scared of what he might not find, or what he might find.

It didn’t take long to reach the house, and he hadn’t seen anything, nor gotten any ideas-

Then he saw something glitter, and he remembered, realized as he stared at the trio of items on the still red ground. A shield, a helmet and a spear, all items perfect for monster hunting. He stared at them, time like a cracked egg, the yolk seeping out slowly but deliberately. He knew he didn’t have the time for this, but he felt something in his head, the formation of an idea, a plan, a way he might just might, succeed.

He picked the items, sticky with something Rick didn’t want to think about, feeling like old melted sugar, and took them to the front door. He glanced at the broken remains of the door, and if his memory hadn’t failed him, it looked exactly the same as when he and Benji had left it, indicating no monster or Sigurd entering, he hoped at least. Leaning the items against the front wall, he headed inside, destination in mind, picking up the big axe leaning beside the painting of the big man and two smaller people next to him.

Outside again, he walked towards the forrest, gulping down fear, saliva and uncertainty. His steps like the heaviest rocks, like the most determined mage. He picked a big tree at random, about Rick's size in width with an unknown height, the height didn’t matter for his plan. He knew time was of the essence, so he took a wide swing, and struck with all of his might, pain like a rolling river going up from his hands, up to his shoulders then down to his stomach. The tree was solid, a small chunk ripped off as Rick pulled the axe out, barely able to hold the axe upright. He took a small walk around the tree, measured the chunk, and realized that this would take some time to fell it. But he knew it was his only chance. He hoped it to be his only chance, hoped that he wasn’t doing something foolish.

Swing after swing, the tree groaned in displeasure, like an old rocking chair slowly but surely breaking under its owner’s weight. Rick was sweating profusely, his arms like lead, his body not attuned to heavy labour, not used to working this hard. He ignored his throats plea for water, ignored his stomach’s growling, ignored the winds howling, ignored his sticky body clinging desperately to his clothes, ignored his fatigue, ignored his exhaustion, ignored his pains. He had to, and he had to cut this tree quickly. With every swing, Rick glanced up and down the road, into the forest, searching for monsters, humans, soldiers or anything that could walk. His mind like a pile of knives, sharp but jumbled, emotions pushing dangerously at his already tired mind.

A loud crack stopped Rick mid swing, falling back on his rump due to the axe being too top heavy behind him. Staring up, Rick noted the tree slowly, slowly oh so slowly, falling. With each centimeter, its fall grew faster and faster until it reached maximum speed and slammed into the ground a few meters to Rick’s right. It bounced once, twice, then rolled a little-to-close-for-comfort towards Rick. Rick wanted to run, but his own fall on his rump like a rock in water, incapable of moving on his own. He breathed heavily, staring at the fallen tree, holding the axe in one sweaty hand, weirdly wet, too wet, not from sweat. He didn’t think about it, he just stared at the tree, gathering his strength for the hardest task yet, for the carving.

It took longer than Rick thought to regain enough strength to move, time that was spent skittishly looking around, waiting for a monster, mind flashing him the worst of thoughts, thoughts not capable of getting pushed down due to fatigue. As he stood up near the tree, he measured the height he wanted and then went inside, quickly rummaging through Sigurd’s house, a pang of guilt easily pushed away. Finding a saw, he quickly took it and went outside again, immediately setting himself to sawing the measured height.

It was far faster, if more tedious, work then cutting the tree down. Giving him little respite from his thoughts as they wandered into scary and dark places. Thoughts disappearing as he cut all the way through the thick wood. Taking a step back to retrieve the axe, he looked at the chunk of carved wood. It was about the same height as Rick, about his size in roundness and about his size in width. It was huge, huge for carving purposes and a task monumental even if he had the time to dedicate doing it.

Rick brushed the thought away. He didn’t have the time for such things, such thoughts, casting a quick glance into the murky forest. Looking back at the block of wood, he pondered it, thought of what it was, what Rick needed, of what the wood wanted to be. In the wood, he saw strength; He saw endurance; He saw vigour rivaling alligators. His eyes looked, stared, gawked at the wood. An image forming, rough and blurry, but it was forming, and he could sense how strong it was, he knew how strong it was, it would be perfect, it was perfect. For in the wood, he saw a warrior.

Rick took a big step forward, using the momentum to bring the axe down with one powerful swing. His hazy image blurring into focus with each strike, guiding his hand towards where it should strike, where he would need too carve to create the warrior. Each strike like blows from the gods, loud thunks, each pull pulling out bark after bark, like blood spewing out after a massive cut. Rick didn’t think much as he cut the wood, he just did, mind like a machine, focused on a singular task.

He didn’t even recognise the immense and unexplained strength he had suddenly gained. What once took several strokes, now only took one. The block of wood, quickly, far quicker than it had a right too, got smaller and smaller, taking form. Arms short but strong, legs long and slender, head lacking features but having a strong presence. Rick pulled back, and struck, pulled back, and struck. Each stroke like an elven master creating a magical artifact, like a master dwarf hammering his plate amour, like a human swinging down countless monsters.

The last swing Rick did only met dirt, splashing it up into his face, partially blinding him, forcing him to take a step back and spit and rub it out. Once he did, he looked down at the block of wood. Or rather, once a block of wood, now it was the contour of a warrior exuding strength above any human Rick had ever met. He felt proud, proud that he had created something like this in such little time, pride that it came out so strong. But he didn’t dwell on the feeling, having a task to do, lack of time forcing his hand. Rick drew his knife and imprinted the uruz rune directly on the chest of the warrior, not having the time to find a better location, not enough time to carve details.

Three swift slashes later, he put a hand on the warrior's chest. A head shorter than Rick, an arms width smaller than Rick. He exuded strength, but he was still small, it didn’t bother Rick but he still felt a creeping doubt. Would the warrior be enough? Was this enough? Had he done enough?

But he pushed the doubts aside as he reached within himself, pulling at the life within, reaching for it, dragging it, feeling it weirdly maellable, easier to use than it usually was, larger than it had ever been. It quickly went up from deep within, up and out through his fingers and into the warrior. The rune started glowing, a glow of dull grey, overpowering every other colour, its sheer strength enough to conquer out everything, empowering and strong.

Rick had to blink, thinking the grey a trick of his mind, but it wasn’t. Then he had to blink twice more, thrice more. The warrior's flesh moving like snakes in a pit. The warriors flesh of wood and bark moving like waves in the ocean, like slugs in a wet marsh, like horses on the stepp. He couldn’t keep his eyes away from the spectacle, the dull grey colour slowly fading away into a darker grey, still overpowering all other colours, its strength overwhelming. The warrior grew in both width and height, his mass increasing, muscles created, features remaining obscure and unrecognizable, yet his posture of strength and power remained.

He started to panic, feeling the life within him moving faster and faster, feeling the same as when he gave life to the knight before. He tried to stop it, stop the flow, but it was for naught, like a man trying to stop a mud-slide with only his body. It kept flowing and flowing, flowing more life than Rick thought he had, then it kept on going. His already tired, exhausted and fatigued body growing weaker.

Then, as if nothing had even happened, the flow stopped, cut of without a warning, and Rick had to take a step back. Almost falling over, eyes hazy and lazy, heavy and drooping, body like stones and iron, like spaghetti and noodles. He started shaking, not from the cold, feeling himself falling backwards, but didn’t. He blinked, trying to force the haze away. And as it did, he still didn’t believe his eyes, looking at blank wood, formed to be a face but lacking any features. Its body was equally blank, practically shining, lacking anything to define it, light brown in colour, but looking powerful, strong, feeling very strong as it held him. He looked back into the face, and it was probably only his imagination, considering the lack of a face, but Rick thought himself see a smile in the blank, wooden surface.

The warrior pulled Rick up on his feet, a tree of stability as Rick leaned heavily onto him. Rick felt every bone in his body fighting him to stay down, to just, sleep. But Rick didn’t have the time for that, he needed to teach the warrior how to fight, to teach him how to be a warrior. The thing was, if Rick wasn’t this tired, if he wasn’t this exhausted, if he wasn’t this fatigued, he would have noticed something different about this warrior. The same difference the knight held earlier, the same difference the wooden princess got later on.

Rick pointed at the three items leaning on the house, the warrior stepping heavily, strongly on the ground, each step sinking into the ground, into the road, into the wooden steps leading up to the house. Rick felt himself dragged along, carefully but firmly. He did his best to stay awake, managing albeit barely.

Rick leaned on the wall as he gestured for the warrior to let him go, picking up the shield and placing it on his arm. He showed the warrior how to do it, then took the spear, showing the warrior how to hold it, then put on the helmet, showing the warrior how to wear it. The warrior picking each item, one by one, carefully from Rick’s hands. Firmly attaching the shield to his arm, holding the spear in the other and gently placing the helm on his head. The warrior looking mighty, strong and fierce, like the strongest barbarian, like the strongest adventurer, like the mightiest warrior.

Rick wobbled on shaky legs, wobbling towards a big rock near the main road, warrior walking next to him with even and strong steps. Rick stopped and sat down on the rock, eyes glancing from side to side, into the woods then down at his body. He blinked, blinked and blinked. Blinking many times, brain trying to keep up. Then he laughed, a laugh lacking real happiness, a laugh filled with tired energy, a laugh soundless and echoeless, a laugh that showed nothing but Rick's contemnt at faith and her cruel ways of handling him. He laughed, looking down on his hands, bloody and dirty, shaking slightly.

He laughed for night had fallen, and he knew that the monster wouldn’t come. A feeling unplaceable, a mere gut feeling, but it felt like the truth. He laughed for he knew the time he had spent stressing, working hard and fast, breaking his body to the absolute limit, had all been for naught. Instead, he was now the weakest he had ever been, not ready to fight for his life against a monster. If he had taken his time, surely, he would be better prepared, ready to at least deal a lasting blow to the monster.

Rick tried to think positive, his plan simple, being that he would wait for Sigurd to come and then guide her to the village center. And if the monster came, he would fight it. But as it was, Rick knew he would have to accept his death if the monster came first. Accept that all he could do was fight it and let the warrior deal the lasting blow. Trust the warriors strength.

And with that thought, Rick fell sideways onto the warrior. Sleep taking over like slow acting poison. The only reason he was still on the rock was the warrior firm hand holding him. The warrior patting his creator on the head, keeping watch for the two of them.