TravelingDreamer
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Chapter 18: Looting for Dummies (Step One: Don’t Blow It Up)
🕑 Added 2024-05-01 19:33:12 +0000 UTCA loud boom in the middle of the night startled me awake. A couple of seconds later, there was a flash, and then the rain started pouring down in earnest. Stretch lifted his head, looked around, and let out a contented sigh before going right back to sleep.
It took me longer. The rain was loud, drumming nonstop on the tent roof, turning the night into a symphony of nature’s chaos.
By morning, I was once again awakened by the "tongue alarm"—Stretch’s charming way of making sure I didn’t sleep in.
It was still raining, and the sky showed no signs of letting up. Thick clouds blanketed everything from horizon to horizon, a solid sheet of dull gray with no breaks or hints of blue. I watched the treetops swaying under the weight of the downpour and felt the damp air press in around me. This wasn’t a passing shower.
I opened the tent’s canopy, started a fire under the tarp, and handed Stretch a sizeable piece of meat. "Don't get used to it. When the rain stops, you're going hunting," I warned him.
He wagged his tail, tongue lolling, and responded with a flurry of face and hand licks that made it clear he didn’t believe a single word.
The rain continued all day, a steady, rhythmic backdrop that never let up. It drummed on the tent, soaked the trees, and turned the world into a gray blur. The clearing where we were camped turned spongy underfoot, the once-firm forest floor now a soggy mess of soaked leaves and soft mud. I had to lay a few flat stones near the firepit to keep my boots from sinking in while cooking.
Stretch, for his part, looked thrilled at every mealtime, clearly enjoying the extended vacation from any hunting responsibilities.
To pass the time, I played the guitar and tried to read a book. It didn’t go well. A certain overly affectionate wolf kept demanding attention, shoving his head under my hand for pets and flopping over for ear scratches any time I got too still. Focusing on the page was impossible.
By evening, the rain had finally stopped. The sudden quiet felt almost unnatural after so many hours of constant sound. We ate dinner and turned in early; I was still worn out from the previous night’s interrupted sleep.
The next day dawned cloudless and bright, the sun gleaming off the soaked ground and turning every puddle into a tiny mirror. I didn’t want to risk sinking ankle-deep in mud with every step, so we stayed put for another day.
Stretch didn’t leave the tent. He lounged in the entrance like royalty, clearly relishing his role as a pampered wolf. I was starting to suspect he had no intention of ever hunting again, now that he’d found a sucker human willing to feed him on demand.
At least the extra stop gave me time to regenerate my mana almost fully.
The following day, the sky remained clear, and the ground had dried enough for us to finally head out. Stretch was full of energy, bounding ahead and then sprinting back to me, his excitement bouncing off him like static.
I kept my bow out, eyes scanning the ground for any sign of tracks, but it was more out of hope than expectation. I was getting close to admitting that the whole hunting idea wasn’t going to work.
Near midday, we finally broke out of the forest and stepped into a wide valley scattered with massive boulders and uneven rock outcroppings. The ground was patchy with grass, and the rocks doted the area like chess pieces on a board—some cracked, some covered in moss, and all of them rough and solid under the sun. The area was quiet, with long shadows stretching between the stones.
After about an hour of walking, we reached the middle of the valley, and I spotted movement—animals perched on the higher rocks. They looked like a mix between gazelles and mountain goats, lean and sure-footed, with curved horns and sharp eyes that tracked everything around them.
I turned to Stretch. "Quiet," I whispered.
To my surprise, he listened.
I crept forward from boulder to boulder, taking each step carefully, doing my best not to give myself away.
I spotted a goat in a good position, drew my bow, and took the shot. To my astonishment, the arrow went clean through its neck. It staggered for a moment, legs wobbling, then collapsed. The rest of the herd scattered in a flurry of hooves and panic.
Stretch and I approached the fallen goat. I unscrewed the arrow's tip, pulled it out of the goat, cast Clean, and slipped it back into Storage.
Then came the part I hadn’t exactly prepared for.
I pulled out a field dressing kit and opened it, staring down at the contents. Knives of various shapes, a small saw, a pair of oversized scissors, a long two-pronged fork, and a collection of other sharp tools that looked formidable. There were also tubes with screw tops, a pulley, and some rope. Looking at the array, I had to admit—I had no idea what to do with most of it.
Back on Earth, I had planned to watch some YouTube videos about hunting and dressing game. But between all the shopping, traveling, and Gate-hopping, I never got around to it.
Sure, my medical background gave me some confidence. I knew anatomy and knew how to cut cleanly, avoiding vital organs. But field-dressing a goat in the middle mowhere with a wolf watching was a whole different skill set.
I wish there were a looting spell.
Inspired by my earlier magical successes, I decided it was time to try crafting a spell just for looting. I pictured exactly what I wanted—nothing vague or half-formed. The goat’s pelt, neatly removed and cleaned. The meat, cut into clean steaks, ready to store. I even laid out a plastic sheet on the ground where I wanted everything to land.
Taking a deep breath, I focused hard on the image in my mind. Then I grasped my magic with everything I had and pushed, willing it to do my bidding.
A loud pop echoed through the valley, followed by a wet splatter that hit me before I even processed what had gone wrong. Pain flared across my face. I froze, touched my cheek, and my fingers came away sticky with blood. I pressed gently on one spot that hurt, and a jagged piece of bone sticking out of my skin pricked my finger.
Ow, ow, ow!
I yanked it out with a hiss, winced, and healed the spot. Another sting near my temple. Then my chin. I counted four bone fragments embedded in my face.
Thank God for my sunglasses. One lens had cracked, but it saved my eye.
I turned to Stretch, heart racing. He was okay—mostly. He looked like someone had dunked him in a bucket of red paint. He was also giving me a very judgmental side-eye.
I waved his judgment off. "Don't look at me like that; it was my first attempt.”
Where the goat had been, there was now just a wide circle of gore. Bits of meat, chunks of bone, and strips of fur decorated the nearby rocks and grass, resembling some macabre art installation. Stretch gave a full-body shake, and I got another round of blood and bone shrapnel to the face.
"Ugh!"
It took three cleaning spells to get him looking like a wolf again. I cast Healing Touch on him, just in case, though he didn’t seem hurt—just insulted.
Cleaning myself was harder. Five spells and I still felt gross. My clothes were ruined—everything except my boxers had small holes. They looked like I’d gotten into an argument with a porcupine.
Still feeling sticky, I made the executive decision to return to the stream we’d passed earlier. I undressed and stepped into the cold water, scrubbing every inch of myself over and over again. The cleaning spell had technically done its job, but my brain didn’t get the memo—I still felt gross.
Stretch, of course, was having the time of his life, splashing around like a happy puppy.
Finally, I felt clean and stepped out of the stream. Once I was dry and dressed, Stretch climbed out of the water. He padded a few steps closer, paused, and gave me a look.
Then he shook himself. Hard. A wave of cold wolf-water hit my front, soaking me from head to toe.
"Seriously?" I asked, blinking.
He wagged his tail and licked my hand.
Once I was dry again, I looked around and realized it was a fantastic place to stop for lunch. The stream gurgled softly nearby, the boulder beside me gave just enough shade, and the breeze finally smelled like something other than wet fur and blood.
To apologize for the goat bomb incident, I gave Stretch two big filet steaks. He devoured them with the enthusiasm of someone who firmly believed this was the natural order of things.
I lit my camping wood stove and heated water for coffee, then sat on a flat rock and stared out at the water, thinking back on the magical explosion. “I think the problem was that I tried to do too much at once," I said, watching the flame flicker under the pot. "I also pushed too hard with my magic."
Stretch let out a soft chuff, wagged his tail, and licked my hand.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, buddy," I said, scratching behind his ear.
We spent the rest of the day by the stream, relaxing in the sun and listening to the gentle bubbling of the water.
The following morning, I made breakfast—croissants for me, chicken breasts for Stretch. He waited patiently, tail swishing, as I handed over his portion.
After packing up, we headed back toward the goat area. The air was clear, the sky bright, and this time, I felt ready.
When I spotted a goat in a good position, I lined up the shot, released, and watched the arrow fly true.
One shot. Down it went. I grinned and almost punched the air in triumph. For a moment, I felt like an accomplished hunter.
This time, I prepared in advance. I strapped on a pair of protective goggles, put on a leather biker jacket, and pulled Stretch behind me, just in case things got messy again. He gave me a skeptical look, but didn’t resist.
I crouched beside the goat, took a deep breath, and focused. This time, I kept it simple—no cut steaks or anything like it. Just the pelt. I pictured it separating cleanly, like peeling off a tight-fitting jacket. I pushed a smaller amount of magic, carefully directing it toward the pelt and nothing else.
There was a faint pop. Not an explosion—more like a champagne cork slipping out of a bottle.
I opened my eyes to assess the result. The pelt had partially lifted and lay in thin, ragged strips, most of it still clinging to the goat. A few scraps had flown off, and some even made it to the plastic sheet I’d laid out. It wasn’t clean or pretty—but at least it wasn’t a gory explosion, either.
Progress. Small, but progress nonetheless.
I opened the goat’s front and carefully removed the internal organs. The smell hit me first—warm, metallic, and unmistakably fresh. Stretch didn’t wait for an invitation. The moment the liver came out, he was on it, gulping it down as if it were a delicacy.
Remembering that a proper kill needed to be drained, I scouted the area and found a sloped outcrop with a convenient triangular rock formation. I tied a rope around the goat’s neck and hoisted it up to let gravity do the work.
We waited. Blood trickled down in slow, steady drips, painting the rocks dark red. Stretch polished off the liver and heart, then curled up nearby and promptly fell asleep, clearly satisfied with his contribution to the cause.
Once the blood flow stopped, I took the goat down and set up a folding table. After casting Purify and Clean on everything—carcass, tools, surface—I rolled up my sleeves and got to work. My cuts were clumsy, the lines uneven, and the meat not exactly pretty, but I managed to carve the whole goat without too much loss. Not bad for a first attempt at butchering.
We ended up staying in the valley for another week while I refined my looting spell. By the time we left, I had seriously reduced the local goat population and had to reshuffle some things to free up an entire chest cooler for the meat.
My field dressing and butchering improved noticeably with each attempt. I even figured out the saw was for cutting through bones. The progress of the looting spell was slower. By that point, most of the pelt flew off in large strips. Occasionally, a few pieces were still attached to the goat, but this was rare. Once, the horns flew off, too. I had no idea how that happened.
I eyed the herd—the little that was left—and admitted it was time to move on. Wiping out the local goat population wasn't part of my to-do list.
That evening, I cooked a goat steak for myself. It was okay—chewy, but edible. I gave the rest to Stretch, who surprisingly seemed to prefer the cooked version. After he had finished the steak, he nudged the raw piece toward me with his muzzle and looked up at me expectantly.
Smart wolf.
Sighing, I cooked his meat for him. He stuck his tongue in my nose as a gesture of gratitude.
Later, I played my guitar for a while, letting the notes drift into the night air. When we finally went to sleep, I felt a quiet sense of accomplishment. It was nice to have something tangible to work on—and even better to see actual progress, one goat at a time.
