The fires from the camp shined through the night as if they were stars. He squinted and tried to sense if there was any other movement, but he couldn't make out anything. He was too far, and it was just too dark.

He looked back and tried to make out the body of water he had ventured from, but it was nowhere to be seen. There was no going back there, anyway. The trihop, o cacophonous trihop, chorister of resplendent honk, had led the way to this camp, then promptly deserted him.

No time to get attached to that creature, he thought.

He lowered himself down the hill, fearing one wrong step would send him tumbling down like a human avalanche, mud, grass, and covert trihops rolling behind in his wake. To distract himself from that horrifying possibility, he imagined warming himself up near the fire. He'd wring the water out of his clothes and let the heat dry him from his skin to his bones. He'd finally be able to unwind and hopefully his memories would return to him, once his body was no longer in a state of constant unease.

He drew closer the fires, and could almost feel their heat. The camp began revealing more details to him. Empty carts were lined up side by side. Tools were piled up along the ground. Tents were pitched around each fire, the cloths drooping from support to support.

He walked closer towards the camp and heard the fires crackling. He examined the tents to see if anyone was going in or out, but there was no activity to be seen. Not even a trihop, which he secretly wished to hear from again.

He reached the perimeter of the camp, marked by a tall pole stuck into the ground, that flew a flag that wavered lightly with the breeze.

He did not wish to barge into the camp, but neither did he wish to stay outside of it all night, on account of the cold that still crept into his bones and the possibility of something more sinister lurking in the darkness.

He wondered how he would introduce himself, since he did not know the real story of how he got here. Perhaps he'd simply portray himself as a traveler who had gotten lost from his caravan. But then what if they tested him? Which caravan? From where were you going, and to where? The only explanation he could give would be something that matched his original understanding: I suffered some terrible accident, of which I do not know, and have lost my memories up to this point.

And what if they did not speak his language? What if they were simply grown up versions of trihops, honking in deeper and louder tones?

There were too many possibilities that could dissuade him from trying to make contact. But there was no other option. Staying out here in the dark would be death by exposure or by some other creature he could not yet imagine. No, he'd have to enter, but approach as harmlessly as possible. Surely there was a traveler's hospitality that even these people, if they were people, would abide by.

Some rustling in the distance behind him stirred him from his speculation. It sounded like several heavy steps cascading one after the other, like a snappy drum roll. He looked back but it had stopped. It was just the wind, he assured himself.

He walked towards the entry of the camp marked by the flag and placed his hand on the wooden flag pole to steady himself. His legs were quaking with nerves and the new sweat on his brow was instantly chilled by the wind.

"Hello?" he called out towards the tents.

No answer. The fires continued to pop in the silence.

"Hello?" he asked, this time louder.

No answer but the honk of the trihop from deep inside the camp. He measured out his wait with the ever crackling fires.

He cleared his throat and gripped the flagpole tightly.

"HELLLLOOOO?" he shouted, not appreciating how loud he was until he let the last syllable ring out from his throat.

Metal jangling, feet pounding, cloths being thrown and whipped against the air. A dozen bodies flew out from the tents and ran towards him, their brown robes flying back from the wind. Before he could even take a good look at them, a spear was held an inch away from his throat.

"Who are you, stranger?" said the one holding the spear. The sleeves of the robe spilled over the knuckles of two small hands that were tensed around its handle.

He could not make out the face of the robed one holding the spear. All that poked out from underneath the dark hood was a pointy nose deep wrinkles that were almost engraved into its skin.

The robed one pushed the spear closer to his throat until the tip was just touching the skin around his windpipe, and then another spear joined its side.

"I'm - I'm just a lost traveler," he answered carefully, afraid any movement would lead to his neck being punctured by the two spears that rested on either side of his Adam's apple.

"I am completely lost and have nothing," he continued.

But one of the spears pushed further into his neck. He could feel its pressure stretching his skin, as if it were one hair's breadth away from stabbing right through.

"Don't lie to us, 'traveler,'" the robed one commanded with a sharp and hoarse voice. "What are you doing out here and what do you want? Tell us now before we kill you."

The man ran his eyes down along the spear to the robed one's hands. There was no way to somehow wrestle it away. The moment he'd move a muscle, his blood would spill onto the grass below him.

He was about to answer but the sound of the trihop honking several times interrupted him.

"I swear to you, my story is true," he finally said to the robed one. "I have nothing and I mean you and your band no harm. All I humbly ask you is -"

The sound of pounding footsteps interrupted his plea and he braced himself from the low vibrations that traveled through the ground and up his body, and against the spear tip still held menacingly towards him.

He tried to open his mouth again but the vibrations began again, this time even more deeply, before it was broken by the sound of wood being toppled and several guttural belch-like calls, like a stomach closing into a fist and being blasted open with air.

The robed one looked back to his band and motioned to the perimeter of the camp.

"It's a noctogorge raid!" he shouted. "Draw your weapons and take your positions!"

The robed one pulled his spear away and dashed to another barricade in the camp. But before the man could even understand what was happening, he felt a blunt arm bash into his back and knock him down into the dirt.

[You have been battered by a noctogorge for 14 damage. 36/50 HP remaining].

The words appeared within his mind despite his eyes being shut against the ground. He pushed his upper body up from the ground, and frantically patted the dirt before him, trying to bring out the words again.

36/50 HP remaining - so what would happen when he got to 0? He could not deliberate the possibilities as his body was rattled again by another heavy noctogorge rushing by. This time he was able to get a look at it. It was a stout creature, about the same height as the robed ones, so roughly one and a half feet shorter than him. It swung its arms in slow arcs as it ran and its bulbous purple skin jiggled, bouncing against the black shells it wore around its lower back and ribcage. Its ears were circular and stuck on the middle of its round head which sat on another mass of deeply wrinkled skin.

He got up and heard metal clanging and the voices of the robed ones calling out to one another. Before he could get any closer, a noctogorge ran with great difficulty right towards him. His heart began to race as he tried to escape but his foot was stuck in the mud and he could not strafe out of position. The noctogorge's footsteps banged through the ground, rolling up his trapped foot and all the way through his teeth that rattled against one another. The noctogorge's arm was raised up high, its hand like a ball with a brown club shoved inside of it. The noctogorge emitted its foul belch of a war-grunt as it was only yards away from the man, but right before the noctogorge could strike, the man shot down into a squat on the ground, and then felt all the weight of the sweaty noctogorge slumped on top of him as heard the wet sound of flesh and the noctogorge letting out a shrill squeal of terror.

Did I just die, he wondered for a second.

He heard footsteps rush around him and caught the gray footwear of one of the robed ones sprinting away.

The noctogorge's body lay lifeless on top of him, and his arms were tensed, preventing himself from being crushed into the ground like a hammer pressing a nail into wood. With all his strength, he heaved the noctogorge off him to the side and it slammed onto the ground. He then dug out his foot from the ground to check out the noctogorge.

It had been impaled by a spear that had been broken in two. Half was struck through the noctogorge and its ending was jagged from where the wood snapped. It stuck out into the air, as if it were marking a fresh kill. The other half of the spear was on the ground, its tip running with blood and pus. He gagged at the smell which ran from the fatal wound of the noctogorge and the spattering of fluids out of its back. The cries and clanging of nearby melees told him that there was going to be more terrible sights like these.

He patted his body and did not sense any injury, so he picked up the broken spear, worrying that another noctogorge might attempt to rush him again.

"What the hell is this?" he said aloud, referring to both the frightening and absurd situation he became involved in, as well as to the spear before him.

Then, the words materialized before his eyes, although this time it wasn't as shocking as it had been previously.

[Item: Broken spear half with iron tip.

Durability: 2/10.

Damage: 7 if used as melee ; 3 if thrown from close range ; 1 if thrown from long range.

Special attack: If poison is still applied to spear, damage is multiplied by two.

Description: A spear with wooden base from The Diggers tribe. Primarily used for hunting game and tribal status.]

The words appeared in his mind like a flash, and it was if he were able to read all of it at once. It was as though it were more like a picture or photograph he digested in an instant, than a number of discrete words he had to read individually. There was a sense of psychological familiarity, as though the information slotted into his mind like a card into a deck.

The man shook his head to rid himself of the mental images and feelings. Is this really a hallucination, he wondered. What kind of dream is this?

The spear was light in his hand and he made a quick stabbing motion with it to confirm its physical reality. However, he was careful to avoid the tip, especially because of the note about the poison, which he persuaded himself he could still see faintly glowing in a thin green ciat applied to the tip. Now, with some trepidation, but eagerness to see if the words would appear again, he picked up the club.

It was crudely carved out of a single thick piece of wood, with knots and bumps lending it a simplistic appearance. But no words appeared in his mind despite his physical examination. And then, by epiphany, he uttered the magical command:

"What is this?" he asked aloud, directing his attention to the club he held.

[Item: Noctogorge club.

Durability: 5/10.

Damage: 6 if swung ; 3 if used as battering ram.

Special attack: Capable of providing a concussive blow if swung with lengthy wind-up. 4 times damage multiplier.

Description: A crude club carved by a low-level noctogorge. Primarily for intimidation and setting noctogorge tribal disputes. Useful only in close combat.]

The club was heavy in his hand and he would have to use two hands to swing it dangerously. However, he unloosened a sling from the fallen noctogorge, and fastened it around himself, placing the club in the holster, so he could have one hand free while he walked, with the other holding the spear half.

The squeals of the noctogorges continued to pierce the formerly silent camp, and he observed several of the robed ones in back and forth one-to-one battles with the noctogorges.

However, bones cracking sounded out from his left, and he saw a robed one on the ground with its hand out trying to shield itself. The noctogorge raised its club over its head to strike the robed one, but the robed one rolled to the side, leaving the noctogorge club bashing the ground and sending dirt and debris flying into the air.

The noctogorge grunted, and raised its club menacingly again, but before it could bring it down upon the robed one, the robed one drew out a short blade from his boot, and plunged it into the noctogorge's foot. The noctogorge arched its back in agony and squealed, dropping its club. But the robed one seemed to be out of options, as the dagger would not come loose from the noctogorge's foot, no matter how desperately he attempted to pull it out.

The noctogorge seemed to be getting over the pain, and although its foot was rooted to the ground from the dagger, it slowly began to raise its club again to finally end the robed one's life for good.

There was no time left to keep watching, he thought. The noctogorge would surely clobber the robed one into a collection of broken bones and tissue.

He took out the club that was hanging heavily by his ribs, and placed the spear half in the sling holster. His hands tensed around the club handle and his knuckles stretched from sheer strength needed to carry it. If the spear had not been broken, he could have attempted the long range attack that was mentioned when he received the item information, but it was too unlikely to connect since it was snapped in half. Punching and kicking the noctogorge would have done no good. It probably would have only felt like a tickle to it because of its thick bones and coarse skin. No other tool was around that he could see which could be used. The only option was the club.

He sprinted towards the noctogorge, the club bouncing off shoulder with every step, since he had to already half raise it into position because of its weight. His fear began to erupt from his heart and course through his veins, and he unwittingly let out a battle scream which broke into a high falsetto several times, as if it were bolstering his entire body and the only thing preventing him from turning back and escaping out of terror.

The noctogorge turned its head with a puzzled expression on its face as it tried to determine where the nearing cry was coming from.

The man untwisted his coiled body and flung the club with a vicious blow into the noctogorge's curious head. The impact of the club crushing the bones of the noctogorge ran along his hands, down his arms, and into his stomach, and his abdominal muscles braced him against the momentous swing. The noctogorge's eyes were instantly shut, and the life vacated its body, as its head dropped to its chest, it dropped to its knees, and it descended head first into the ground, just inches away from the injured robed one who was still on the ground.

The words materialized in the man's mind again, though this time he was not shocked by them. He was shocked enough after what he had just done.

[You have landed a concussive blow to the noctogorge for 24 damage.]

[The noctogorge has been concussed.]

[The noctogorge has been slain.]

The man then got his first clear look at the face of one of the robed ones. It had narrow, yellow eyes with a green iris, and weathered skin. Its forehead was short and wrinkled, and its body was sinewy, and lined with thin but dense cords of muscle.

The robed one gave the man a suspicious look and reached for its dagger, now that it had been loosened after the noctogorge's fall.

The club now had a deep cleft running along its middle and multiple bits of wood had been chipped loose. He decided to leave it behind.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he then said to the robed one. "I just want to help, so you can help me understand where I am."

The robed one stared at the man, trying to root out any deception behind his words. The panicked honking of the trihop broke their moment, and the man reached his hand out to the robed one, who took it and raised himself back to his feet.

The robed one started running into the heart of the camp and the man followed him, trying to keep up the swift pace that left him winded.

"There are two more nearby," the robed one said.

The man merely nodded his head, his lungs so punished by the sprint that he couldn't speak. He had already spent much of his energy in the sneak attack on the noctogorge, and carrying that club had taken a toll on him.

"Can you slow down?" the man said, breathlessly.

The robed one put his hand into a pocket, then pulled out a large berry and shoved it in the man's face.

"Eat this," the robed one commanded.

The man's mouth was parched and his stomach was empty. He craved something that energize him but did not know if he could eat the strange fruit.

"Eat it!" the robed one yelled.

But fatiguing in the middle of a fight against a noctogorge would be even worse than getting an upset stomach from the morsel of food offered to him, he thought. He imagined the heavy foot attached to the trunk-like legs of the noctogorge crushing his stomach until it burst after he had fallen to the ground from exhaustion, and the horror was enough to pop the berry into his mouth and chew.

As he chewed and tasted the juices of the berry along his tongue, he immediately noticed energy coursing again through his body and his mouth watering like a fountain from the lip-puckering sourness of the berry.

The information appeared in his mind again as he wondered what he had just consumed:

[You have eaten the Blitzen Berry.]

[Endurace has increased 20 points for 5 minutes.]

[Strength has increased 20 points for 5 minutes.]

[Nausea to begin after 5 minutes.]

The words quickly faded from his mind and he found himself able to match the robed one stride for stride as his legs cycled into a powerful sprint. His heart pounded against his chest but it was as if his entire body had been electrified and was defying it to push him further and further.

The squeals of the remaining noctogorges still pierced his ears, but they were beginning to be drowned out by a brand new buzzing throughout his head that only made him more feverish, more single-mindedly focused on the spear-half in his hand and the urge to see it sink deep into something and see the flesh tear.