Dodge Tanner’s Highly Unrecommended Travelogue - #42 Oh, for nice calm Rocks!

Dodge crouched low, sniffing at the ashy earth, boots kicking up faint wisps of soot. The Ember Root had to be here somewhere. Flora had been very clear— 'Find it. Bring it back. Don't get yourself killed.'

The Ashford Plains stretched endlessly before him, dotted with heat-warped boulders and the occasional whisper of rising smoke. Somewhere beneath one of these deceivingly ordinary stones, the fire-laced roots Flora needed were waiting.

He crouched, squinting at the nearest patch of blackened earth. Singed, but not burning. Smoke, but no flame. That meant Ember Root. "Or," Dodge thought grimly, "something much less cooperative."

Careful. Gloves on. Dig just enough—don’t disturb the rock too much. He dug carefully, muttering under his breath about Flora’s unreasonable demands, until his glove brushed against the rough coil of a patch of roots beneath the soil. Immediately, heat pulsed through the fabric. Too late to turn back now. He cut free a handful,, being sure to leave enough patch to regrow as Flora had ordered. He adjusted the Ember Root bunch in his heavy leather gloved hand, and stood with a sighed in relief. "Job Done. Now to get out of here without..."

The rock sighed back.

It wasn’t a sigh of frustration, nor one of relief. It was the deep, molten exhale of something waking up.

In true Survivor-Dodge fashion, he didn’t wait for pleasantries, already ten steps towards safety before his brain determined what he was running from.

The not-a-rock stretched, cracked, and glowed, its Magma Basilisk form unfolding like a slow-motion disaster. Its eyes flared, twin suns locked onto him with unsettling patience. Then came the fire.

Dodge ducked and tumbled into a roll, hard, the first blast searing past his head and turning his escape route into an active inferno. He pivoted, fast, vaulting over a half-buried hopefully-just-a-boulder, rolling beneath a dead tree branch that was immediately incinerated by bolts of Basilisk flame, and sprinting toward anything resembling even the remotest possible moment of safety.

“Nothing to eat here! Just a stringy, under-seasoned traveler!” he shouted over his shoulder, waving wildly like a man trying to dissuade a dinner invitation. 

Unfortunately, Basilisks will eat just about anything that moves, and many things that don't. The Basilisk didn’t care.

Another firebolt erupted, catching the edge of Dodge’s sleeve. He yelped, shaking his arm furiously until the fabric stopped smoldering. "Right. Flames Bad. Terror Good. Dodge Better."

He feigned left, then dove right, hitting the ground in a rough slide and belly crawl that sent up a storm of ash. The Basilisk rumbled, unimpressed. It wasn’t moving. It didn’t need to. It was letting the fire do the running for it, bolt after bolt flashing towards him to splatter near his ever zigging and zagging feet.

"Oh great, you’ve got the whole ‘scorch first, ask never’ thing down. Really top-tier menace work. I bet your parents are very proud!", Dodge gasped, diving backwards and rolling to his feet before changing direction and sprinting for a larger outcrop.

As he increased the distance between him and his fiery doom, a final series of wild firebolts blasted past, one coming close enough that he felt his hair singe slightly at the ends and he just knew from the scent of burnt fabric that it was past time for a new hat. He dove behind a slab of what he prayed was just rock, panting, gripping the smoking Ember Root like the world’s worst consolation prize.

A gravelly rumbling and then silence. Blessed, flameless, silence.

Slowly, cautiously, Dodge held his favorite, but now burnt hat over the top of the rock with his rapier and, when it was not incinerated immediately, he peeked around the edge of the rock. The Basilisk had already settled back down, stone-like once more, its fire-drenched eyes dimming.

Not worth the effort. Not Today. Yet another bit of Fauna that didn't consider Dodge worth the effort to eat. And he didn't mind one bit! Nope... His Ego wasn't at all bruised at how little effort his bite sized body seemed to be worth. Definitely not.

Dodge groaned, brushing soot off his jacket and wincing at the residual heat clinging to his skin. Cursing under his breath, Dodge tucked the roots into the special lined pouch that would keep them fresh without catching his pack on fire, and limped, grumbling, toward safer ground.

"Flora really better appreciate this."