88. Good-Hearted People With No Ulterior Motives (Patreon)

They walked through the forest. Wisp led the way, moving as confidently as ever. Whenever they came across a bloated monster, Ike and Loup killed it, while Wisp ate it and spat out the ring. The pillars in Ike’s core continued to grow, and his core expanded.

Ike stretched and looked up at the sky as Wisp crunched and slurped a monster behind him. Abruptly, he jolted. “Wisp! The whitefeather grass.”

“Yeah? What of it?” she asked, her cheeks bulging.

“You said you’d show me where it was growing if I told you about the rings.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Wisp walked up beside him, wiping mustard-colored ichor off her mouth. “Sure. Let’s do that now.”

“Really? Awesome!” Ike said, excited.

“What, did you think I wasn’t going to hand it over?” Wisp asked, suspicious.

“No, I knew you were the kind of good-hearted, upright person who’d keep her promises,” Ike returned. The two of them made eye contact for a few beats, then both broke out laughing.

Wisp took a sharp left. She bounded from tree to tree, pausing every now and again for Ike to catch up. Loup followed, running alongside Wisp and using her pauses as opportunities to chew a bone she’d brought with her. Ike considered running ahead to match Wisp, but when he saw how much fun Loup was having, he continued along at his usual pace.

More and more sunlight filtered through the leaves. Up ahead, a broad, open meadow stretched between the old forest. Grasses and wildflowers swayed in the sun, while ferns and ivies clung to the shade on the edges of the meadow. The shaded dark green faded to sun-saturated pale green.

Wisp drew up to the edge of the meadow and stopped. Leaning against the trunk, she pointed out into the sun. “The whitefeather grass grows out there.”

Ike started into the clearing, then paused. He looked around at the sea of grasses and flowers. “Which one…?”

Wisp pointed out into the center of the clearing. A few slender fingers of pure white grass blew with the wind. The edges of the grass fluttered, almost like a feather.

“Oh. Makes sense.” He drew up to the edge of the clearing, his hand on his chin. There isn’t enough to keep using it forever. “Is it easy to grow?”

Wisp shook her head. “It’s a spiritual herb,” she said, as if that explained it all.

Ike looked at her cluelessly.

She sighed. “Spiritual herbs are notoriously difficult to grow. Without the right sunlight, energy flows, temperatures, humidity, soil, and what have you, they die rapidly. Better to pick it and preserve it than try to grow it, and end up with a rotted herb instead.”

“It’s that bad?” Ike asked, startled.

Wisp nodded. “Even experienced spiritual herb gardeners can fail to properly nurture spiritual herbs. It’s the kind of thing an entire sect or clan would put their resources into, on top of choosing a location that’s naturally suited to growing herbs.”

“Oh,” Ike said. There go my dreams of growing herbs on the go.

But now I know what whitefeather grass looks like, so if I ever see it again, I’ll know what I’m looking at. He looked at Wisp. “If it’s that finnicky to grow, is it difficult to pick, too?”

“Whitefeather grass? No,” Wisp said. After a moment, she paused and shrugged. “But there are herbs that can be extremely finnicky to pick, so be careful.”

Ike nodded. “Good to know.” He stepped into the clearing.

The whitefeather grass waved in the sun. A gentle breeze stirred Ike’s hair. He knelt, reaching out for the delicate white grasses.

Something burst out of the forest, directly toward him.

Ike jumped back, startled. As he jumped, his hand closed down on a single thread of whitefeather grass, and the piece of grass came with him.

Landing with its legs splayed over the grass, a vicious otter hissed at him. It was only about his height, but its eyes glowed with red light, and a fierce aura emanated from it. It stood upright. It spread its hands in a aggressive stance. It placed its legs firmly. Those red eyes locked on to Ike.

“Is that a human fighting stance?” Ike asked aloud, startled. He looked to Wisp for guidance.

She stared at the otter, her lip curled in annoyance. “Kill that thing. It’s annoyed me for far too long.”

Ike turned back to the otter. It hissed at him, standing protectively over the whitefeather grass.

Ah. I see. This thing has appointed itself guardian of the grass. Wisp likes to harvest the grass, so that’s clearly a problem for her. I’m sure she could beat it, but given that she hasn’t fought this whole time, I think she’s just too lazy to bother.

Either that, or… He glanced at Wisp, then shrugged. One way or another, it’s none of my business. This otter, on the other hand, is in between me and that grass.

Ike drew his sword. “I don’t suppose you’d step aside if I asked nicely?”

The otter hissed, louder this time. It opened its mouth to show its teeth, a clear warning.

“I only want a few pieces of grass. I’m not going to take it all,” Ike tried, speaking gently.

More hissing. The otter watched him warily, its nose wrinkled in disgust.

It might stand like a human, but I don’t think it understands our language. Ike whistled, softly. Loup stood up from her bone and trotted over to his side.

“You leave me no choice,” he said gravely. Lightning flickered around his heels, and he darted in.

Claws bared, the otter charged to meet him.