Dodge Tanner’s Highly Unrecommended Travelogue - #61 Air Boars and Thorny Regrets

Dodge was having a good day. Which meant something terrible was surely about to happen.

The clearing was quiet, the breeze gentle, and he had just spotted the perfect specimen of Silverthorn—lush, sprawling vines wrapped around the edges of the glade like nature’s barbed wire. He pulled out his enchanted harvesting blade, whispered the obligatory 'please' (Flora swore it helped, and Dodge wasn't about to argue with thorn-related superstitions), and prepared to make his first cut.

Then the sky trembled.

Not a natural roar—not thunder, not wind. No, this was the distinctly angry bellow of something big, airborne, and profoundly unconcerned with things like “right of way”, "personal space", or “common decency.”

Dodge had learned long ago that survival wasn’t about brute strength or cleverness—it was about timing. Specifically, knowing exactly when to stop questioning the absurdity of a situation and start running.

Right now, he was a little behind schedule.

Dodge barely had time to swear before the Air Boar erupted over the treeline, its sky-striped bulk a blur of ghostly wings and bad decisions.

"What the..."

The thought never finished.

The boar dived.

Dodge dived.

Face-first into the Silverthorn.

Instantly, his world became pain. Boar 1 : Dodge 0.

Thorns stabbed into his arms, legs, and very regrettably, his face, the stings intensifying as the Silverthorn's minor poison irritated his wounds. The vines wrapped around him in their typical cruel embrace, as if personally offended by his existence. He sucked in a sharp breath, barely holding back the litany of curses fighting to escape his throat, because yelling at thorny plants rarely worked.

Meanwhile, the Air Boar was not done.

Instead of soaring off in shame, it snorted in rage, twisted mid-air, and dove again—straight into the nearest tree. The impact sent leaves and branches flying, the entire trunk shuddering before cracking under the assault. The boar, oblivious to concepts like self-preservation, backed up and rammed it again, this time flattening the poor tree entirely.

Dodge remained very still.

Very stabbed.

"Yup. I live here now.", he thought as he eyed the somehow consistently even angrier Air Boar.

The boar wheeled around, steam practically pouring from its nostrils, scanning the area for something, anything, to pummel next. Dodge prayed, not to the gods, but to sheer probability, that the boar would get bored & pick a target that wasn’t him.

Another tree suffered a direct hit. Then another. The clearing was rapidly becoming less of a clearing and more of a debris field.

Finally, with one last huff, the boar spun, gave the entire world an insulted glare, and launched off into the sky, presumably to ruin someone else’s afternoon

"All right," he exhaled through gritted teeth, "lesson learned. Never trust good days."

The Silverthorn didn’t respond. It was too busy ensuring he would regret every movement for the next week.

Dodge stayed put for another painfully long moment before slowly beginning to pull barbed thorns from his arms and remove himself from Silverthorn’s ruthless embrace. Slowly, carefully, and with enough muttered complaints to fill an entire book, Dodge extracted himself from the vines, wincing as each thorn decided to cling to him just a little longer than necessary. By the time he was free, his jacket was in tatters & his arms and legs looked like they'd barely survived a wrestling match with an angry Prickle of Porcupines.

With a groan, he carefully harvested a handful of the vines—for Flora, he reminded himself—and limped away, pointedly ignoring the distant crash of trees falling under the wrath of one very disgruntled flying menace.

Because, despite the madness, the bruises, and the fact that his jacket was now more holes than fabric, he had the Silverthorn. And when it came to Flora’s requests, survival was secondary. Success was mandatory.

Even if it hurt like hell.

"Note to self... Full Armor when gardening!", he muttered. 

Some days, survival felt less like an achievement and more like a punchline.