Wood Not, Could Not:The Adventures of Team Warbound

[TethysBastion]

Welcome, dear reader. As this is the first tale of our adventures, allow me a bit of time to bring you up to speed on the main characters of our story.

 

Here, by the fire, the clandestine figure of Wilson awaits us, reveling in his titles of resident scientist and spider-killer extraordinaire. His reflexes like lightning, his entomological skills the envy of every arachnophile on the planet, he stalks his prey softly through the dim light of the forest, his every step spelling doom for some small, eight-legged morsel, his lack of caution spelling doom for a ridiculous number of meatballs and, on numerous unfortunate occasions, his companions.

 

Beside him, mouth full of food and eyes full of concern for the shadows that lurch ever closer, we have the illustrious Wolfgang. A brutish defender at his worst, a force of nature at his best, Wolfgang's physique waxes and wanes with the changing of their fortunes. Fueled by the force of nutritious Dragonfruit Pie, Wolfgang protects the camp with a single, well-timed punch, then sinks into the recesses of the tent before, as he puts it, "the scary time comes." 

 

To Wolfgang's left sit Wendy and, to some extent, Abigail, though she lacks corporeal form. Making up for her lack of strength with great ingenuity, farming knowledge, and a truly terrifying dead sister, Wendy is the much-coddled "baby" of the group, and has been positioned carefully away from all incoming harm--and, perhaps coincidentally, from the row of chests, which Abigail keeps insisting on floating in front of, when she is not haunting the areas around the crockpots or, less wisely, the beehives.

 

Farther away, surrounded by drying racks and those same bubbling crockpots, we find the frail figure of Wickerbottom, grumbling to herself as she takes stock of supplies, counting and tallying under her breath before writing everything down in a small book that she sets amidst a pile of similar books, eyeing anyone who gets too close with a frosty glare to rival that of a blue hound. Wickerbottom fearlessly shoos away the relentless Abigail, only to have the ghost come back to hover near the fires as soon as her back is turned, ready to lunge for the icebox and the fruits of their labor within.

 

Dozing next to the warmth of the crockpots, only his boots visible to mark his whereabouts, we find Whatever His Name Is, the less vaunted brother of the well-known Wilson. No less talented for his lack of name (yet surprisingly similar features), Whatever has tracking skills that rival those of any in camp, stalking his favored prey of koalefant for several hours across the dusty, dry savannah before chasing it back to camp where it is butchered, or, if they are unlucky, it butchers his compatriots. His need to roam  as insatiable as his appetite, we see that he has fallen asleep with a gobbler leg in his mouth, and the ends of several more can be seen poking from the lip of his backpack.

 

The final actor in this play, WX-78, is nowhere to be found, his whereabouts only ascertainable by listening to the clanking, gear-grinding noises coming from just outside the walls near the tree farm. The resident gardener and vagabond, WX-78 likes nothing better than to wander the berry fields, pitchfork at the ready, straw hat guarding his reflective domed head from the harsh light of day, cussing at gobblers and occasionally poking the turf into submission. When not engaged in the culling of pests, he takes on the culling of trees instead, tearing down and rebuilding the precious woodlands every few days to ensure their continued survival.

 

This night is like any other; cold, dark, and full of terrors, it forces our raucous adventurers back around the fire for a night of tale-telling and preparation. It is day 16, and the impending winter looms large in all of their minds, leading to a number of discussions and debates as to their readiness, supply level, and occasionally on the various rudely named skills of their mothers. 

 

The sun peeks over the horizon during the last of these, warming the camp with its precious light and bringing life to all it touches. The happy chirp of birds and the buzz of bees only serves to accentuate the heady smell of flowers in the air that mingles with the delicious aroma of gobbler slow-roasting in the camp's crockpot. Our adventurers, heartened by the idyllic scene, prepare to leave camp, each heading outward in a diaspora of talent that rivals any this world has previously seen, content in their ability to survive--nay, to thrive!--in this coming winter.

 

"Oops. Oh no. OH NO. MISCLICK! MISCLICK NOOOO!"

 

"What? What misclick? What did you do?"

 

"...nothing."

 

"WHAT DID YOU DO, RAY?!"

 

"Ohhhhhhh, misclick misclick misclick..."

 

Our adventurers come hurtling back to camp, stumbling in their haste to assess the situation, the scent of smoke in the air fueling their fears, and as they approach the lands nearest their base, it becomes clear that the fires are being fueled as well...by their noble forest, which is quickly becoming a mass of twisted branches and ash.

 

*WHOOMPH*

 

The fires, flickering merrily, devouring everything in their path, catch the grass farms, setting them merrily ablaze.

 

*WHOOMPH WHOOMPH WHOOMPH*

 

The flames, billowed aloft by the breeze and helped along by unfortunate civil engineering, have moved on to the walls now. The extensive, imposing walls. The extensive, imposing, flammable walls. Walls, in fact, made of the same lumber that fed this conflagration in the first place, and which our adventurers were assured would be strong enough to protect them from all harm: winter, wolves, and other wonders.

 

And that is the story of how our WX-78 player misclicked and set our entire camp on fire.

[T4T3RGR3NAD3R]

I absolutely loved this. Very well worded. I especially liked the introduction paragraphs introducing the characters. Well done indeed.

[Crestonia]

Awesome story ^ ^