And so, reluctantly, with a defeated sigh that sounded far too dramatic for someone under two feet tall, Bluenose trudged ahead, leading the way into the woods—muttering every five steps.
"This is a bad idea . . . a very bad idea."
"I get that humans and adventurers love poking danger with sticks, but Applewood Forest is not some backyard jungle! Most who go there don't come back! Ever!"
"That place is smothered in thick miasma, you can't even breathe in there! Even with purification charms, your lungs will turn into soup!"
"We're going to die. You know that, right? I'm going to die. You might become king of snake bones or something, but I'll be goo in someone's nest!"
Meanwhile, Dante walked calmly beside him, eyes scanning the trees, his mind filled with images of rare plants oozing venom, shimmering fruits pulsating with toxins, and vines that hissed when disturbed.
Perfect.
While Bluenose was busy listing every documented fatality in the last decade, Dante was already mentally organizing his poison inventory.
He relied on poisons for combat, after all. He didn't have brute strength or flashy offensive spells. His toolkit was crafted with status ailments, sneaky tricks, and death by slow suffering.
Might as well weaponize nature itself.
"Hey, are you even listening!?" Bluenose cried, waving his arms as they stepped onto a mossy trail that led deeper into the denser forest.
"Yup," Dante said without blinking, "I heard something about gooey lungs. Sounds fun."
Bluenose stopped walking. "That's not even close to what I said."
Dante patted him on the head. "Relax. I'm not planning to fight Nagi. I just want to check the place out. Maybe do a little foraging."
"Foraging?!" Bluenose cried, nearly shrieking. "The last guy who said that walked in wearing golden armor and came out as a skeleton with a backpack!"
"Sounds like he overestimated the armor," Dante replied, brushing past a vine that hissed faintly.
Bluenose groaned. "I should've stayed in bed than ventured out in Animalara that time . . . I shouldn't have meet this weird guy . . ."
Despite the little fey's protests, the party of two continued onward, deeper into the edge of the Fey continent.
Every step Bluenose took was heavy with doom. Every step Dante took was curiosity. It was like watching a terrified chihuahua guide a sleepwalking assassin through a minefield—completely mismatched in energy, but somehow functioning.
And in Dante's head?
Poison roots for my next batch. Maybe venom sacs from those purple-fanged frogs. What if the miasma is actually harvestable? Miasma Bomb? Oooh . . . that sounds good.
Bluenose, meanwhile, was silently writing his will in his head.
====
Traveling to Applewood Forest wasn't exactly a walk in the park.
It wasn't even close to a day's ride. The route twisted through treacherous terrain, and after a half-day's hike, the group stopped in The Low—a strange, half-forgotten settlement that looked more like an underground cavern than a proper village.
It was Bluenose's hometown.
"Is it still far?" Dante asked, ducking to avoid another hanging root as they stepped into the gnome's home.
"About a week's travel from here," Bluenose replied, voice casual but his eyes hesitant. "Applewood Forest sits on the very edge of the Fey continent. Practically forgotten by now because of Nagi. But the distance isn't the real problem. The Dullowmarch is."
Dante raised an eyebrow. "Dullowmarch?"
"A swamp," Bluenose muttered, as if even saying the name left a bad taste in his mouth. "A wide, soupy, mosquito-infested nightmare that stretches for miles. We'll have to cross it if we want to get to Applewood."
Dante grimaced with thrill.
Insects, after all, were one of his preferred mediums for delivering poison to his enemies. Fast. Subtle. Disposable.
And now that his current batch of mosquitoes had nearly all died out—their measly seven-day lifespans ticking away—he needed a fresh supply.
What better place to hunt for new carriers than a swamp that practically hummed with bloodsuckers?
The question was: what kind of mosquitoes lived in the Dullowmarch?
Were they the average, dime-a-dozen variety that buzzed and bit and died with one slap? Or were they the grotesquely oversized, fanged abominations of the swamp—mutated by magic and bloated with venom potent enough to kill a wild boar?
He actually hoped for the latter.
The nastier, the better.
Bluenose instinctively rubbed his arms, the hairs on his neck standing up as he glanced at Dante.
Yeah, the guy looked like he walked out of a hero's portrait—sharp features, lean build, a presence that could silence a room—but there was something off. He didn't smile much, and when he did, it wasn't the warm, friendly kind.
It was the kind of smile that said: I know something you don't. And you probably won't like it.
His eyes were cool and calculating, like a tactician who'd already seen five moves ahead—and every one ended with you getting wrecked.
There was no bluster, no flashy arrogance. Just quiet confidence and that unnerving edge, like he was always sizing up the world and figuring out how to break it apart piece by piece.