Chapter Text
The ever-lasting twilight over the forest, filled with the chirping of crickets and the howls of starved wolves, ever-marching onwards to the dawn that won't come. Snarling beasts, sleeping prey, and sacrifices all ready to continue on a journey that has yet to begin. It is strangely satisfying to observe the varied climates of this place, from high mountains to a river that turns into a wetland. Connected with the rest of the world by a bridge, this forest has a mind of its own, not caring about the physics of a globe.
Almost a pantomime in this theatre, going to a dusty little cavern, the clank-clanking of metal hitting stone. A rhythm built up over time to be near-in time with the lull heartbeat of a sleeping being. But none were to sleep in this beautiful, dawn-speckled dust that the person behind the noise calls—
“GOLD!” An excited cry out as the prospector awoke his sleeping dog with the shout. Though it felt forced at this point, they still did it to try and instill a sense of excitement. It reached forward and took a large chunk of that beautiful rock they had been looking for. Now, they mused, they will be able to trade it in for some better pelts from the trader. Warmer pelts for the oncoming winter, or for the next dog-bed that their poor pup ends up ruining. Probably the latter, as the prospector wouldn't want anything less for their best girl.
A whine broke their grin for a moment, the lower teeth jutting from his jaw as he turned around to look at their saddened mutt, who simply sat there for a little before yawning. “C’mon girl! Aren’t you howlin’u’er storm for’m?” They chided, surprised at her lack of excitement for a brief moment before receiving a bark in reply. Then chuckling, they placed down the pickaxe to the floor and stuffed the bits of gold into a nearby cart that he uses to pile it high. “Ah cay-yun ne’er stay mad at chu.”
The dog barked again, and stood to shake herself from the soot and dust that had placed itself over the area. From frantic mining, it tends to get messy. But that does give the prospector an idea on how to rid of the dirt for their pup. “Ah know! Les’ go fer a walkn’now.” He said, and on the phrase “walk”, did the dog perk up from her bored state. Her tail becoming a blur and fanning the rest of the dust behind her.
Laughing, they got their pickaxe back up its shoulder, hoisting it safely before trudging out of the dusty mines, having her stay directly by their right side, which remains unguarded for the time being. After all, while the denizens of the forest understand that the prospector means no harm, that doesn’t say anything else for the traps laid out for the animals. The Trapper does excellent work in disguising trails to get the pelts that they need to sell, and the prospector does not wish to be one of those many luxurious blankets that they get from him.
But carefully stepping along the trail, using their pick to test the suspicious floors before coming up to a clearing nearby a pond. It also had a large dock that juts out of the bar, to which the prospector carefully shimmied onto it. Another whimper, and turning around again, they can see that their dog remains fitfully on the grass, tail between her legs as she eyed the rotten wood worryingly.
Scoffing a little, they give a little whistle and pat their thigh, “C’mon! That’sa good girl!” They first tried encouragement, trying to coax their friend into joining them on the dock, but she refused to budge, keeping an ear slightly raised and tilting her head a bit. Another frustrated whistle, “What’s gotten into ya? Yer scared o’gettin wet? And yet y’fight wolves with tougher skin!” They pat their leg a little louder, and whistles long and hard, as a final push to let her know that they weren't kidding around.
Unfortunately, the loud whistle was just enough to disturb whatever lies beneath the docks. Bubbles rise up as the water sifts a bit, and the creaking of joints gets the prospector to look down at one of the larger gaps between the floorboards. Bright amber eyes, with thin, slitted pupils stare up at them, glowing with a brightness that rivals the purple moon in the skies.
“Ah...she heard y’.” The prospector sighed for a moment, before stepping forward and away from the edge of the dock, in case it had soiled the Angler’s mood. “S’rry fer awakenin' ya. Ah’m not meanin any foul to yuh.”
There was a deep rumble that shook rippled at the pond's surface, before the eyes disappeared from the gaps. And instead, suddenly rising out of the water and onto the dock is this hulking entity, who is wearing a dark coat and pants covered in algae and various bits of plant matter. Between his lips are two large hooks, and the ending of a fish tail that was quickly finished. It turns out that was his lunch. Or dinner.
They looked up to the fish, and looked around for a moment, before realizing something. “Ah seem’t’ve stumbled upon yer...fishin’ spot. Mind if ah join ya?” They ask politely. After all, the prospector knows the Angler isn’t all that much for talk, though despite that, they weren’t as intimidating as their stature made them out to be. Sure, a strong fighter, and definitely faster than the prospector itself, but overall a very meticulous entity of few words. And even fewer is what they replied with.
“No.” They said, and trudged to the end of their dock and sat on the edge. The prospector joined them after hesitating, as he reached into the pond to pull out a fishing kit, and his fishing rod. Beginning to fix the strings and the hook, his mouth dropped the remainder of the fish bones that they had been chewing on for a while.
The prospector noticed this, and only now does the clicking of claws indicate that their little dog is sitting right beside him now, eyeing the fish bone. “Leave it,” They say, pointing at the dog with their remaining index finger. The poor mutt whines again, tail wagging still as the large angler went to gently remove it, and toss it into the pond.
The prospector watched the rest of the setup in silence, as the angler went to check the hook twice, thrice, and a fourth time before deeming it secured on the string. Then, he loosened the reel, and tossed the end of the hook into the water, now waiting.
Though comfortable in silence, the miner was never one to let go of an opportunity to ask questions. “Say now, miss...ter...hol’up, what’s yer lil noun?” They ask to confirm, before they ramble on.
This brings about a curious answer, though more of a follow up question. “...today, the Angler is he? Tomorrow, the Angler is sleeping on it.” A small hiss followed the word “sleeping”, but their voice is low and baritone in comparison to the miner’s, who is hoarse and higher pitched with a heavy accent. Sounded vaguely like those people from the north, tho Prospector doubts that this world much has a north.
“Right-so mister Angler, what’dya say n’this place? Do ya find things to enjoy? I sure do, huntin’ fer gold is my goal’n pastime. But lately...don’ it get repetitive?” An open ended pondering as they remove their hat and place it on the side as they squat onto the dock. Their feet hovering over the edge that threatens to take them into brisk waters, probably teeming with whatever sharp bones the Angler had chewed on, or lost fishhooks.
“I enjoy fishing. Good fish here.” He responded, simple as can be as he kept an eye out on the surface a little. Without something to float the hook, he has to use his senses to find a disturbance.
The prospector blinked a bit. And almost characteristic of them, they grew frustrated at the lack of reaction to the question itself, and also to the other’s entire answer is only about fish. “Right, but-let’s say that the fishin...don’t hit th’same anymore. What then?”
A little pause as his teeth clicked against the hook, making him tempted to chew on something. “Mmm...maybe nap. Eat stew of fish. Fish stew..” They shrug, and their hook snagged against sediment, so they raise the string a little bit to get it unstuck.
Then blurting out, the prospector startled the angler to letting go of the string. “ALRIGHT! ‘NUFF WITH TH’FISH!” A heavy pant from their chest as they yelled that, causing their dog to bark as well in reaction, poised and ready to fight whatever hurt their owner. But nothing has hurt them, and as they stood up, they poke the angler in the shoulder roughly. “How come yer so content’t’jus sit there n’try to get yer same fishes over’n’over, an’ ah’m sufferin boredom by minin my arms off?”
Upon that contact made the angler finally turn to look at the prospector fully, his gaze boring into them with an intensity similar to Leshy’s when the miner first saw them. The prospector took note of this, fully recognizing their fault in this loud and sudden anger, before the angler answers slowly, poking a nailed finger into their chest.
“You mine for gold. I hunt for fish. You want change? Go do something else.” A frustrated huff exited them as they feel the strings tense up. Now they got to reel in their catch, which was the tougher part about it. But pondering it, the angler felt like they could add a little more weight to what was said.
“I fish for good and bad fish. Bad fish to use to get good fish. Invest in fish…” A pause as they cleared their throat, tugging at their reel a little. “But you just get gold. Maybe get more metals than gold. Much more good gold.”
A little bit of a huff escaped the prospector, their fingers twitching and wishing they had something to bash it with. "Sure, fine, but even so, aren'tya wishin fer more than...this?"
"No. Before Angler came here, others try to make Angler as food. Came with big, loud sticks. Yelling that I was monster…no one yells here."
The prospector frowned even more, but less out of their own upset and more of sympathy. "Ah...ah'm sorry f'r shoutin' like that. Prolly a real cactus, ah'm."
A fish just squirmed beneath the surface as he reeled up a small catch. Though not significant in size compared to hid appetite, he pries it off of the hook and shovels it into his mouth. The prospector sort of winced at seeing that, but they won't blame the big guy. They felt a bit like a prick for stomping on his one enjoyment of freedom. Though, a thought crossed their mind to make up for it.
"Say now, yer pretty handy with th'fishin n' all. Ah could offer you somethin't make it easier to catch'em." The prospector grins, crouching a little instead of standing up, as the angler turns to look at them.
"An...that is?" He hissed, the crunching of food finished before he spoke though. Manners, of course.
"Bait! Well, a lure, really. M'ma n' pa used t'make lures fer m'old folks, ah helped 'em out a bit. It should bring'ya easier catches, knock on wood!" That phrase, they realized, they had adopted from Leshy way earlier on, but it is a good saying for this. There's a pun to be made there.
And it seems as if the prospector struck a cord with the behemoth as it nodded, and they saw the faintest hint of a glinting, shark-toothed grin in the shadows. "Better fish?"
"Prolly, though ah'd need the Woodcarver's help. But ah can get it done in er….bout three days? Jus'gonna need yer...spare hook." They gesture to the one on the Angler's face, as an example.
Though it is not an example, and a request to the fish-man, as they nod, and open their jaw enough to pull out their piercing, and hand it to the very-much fumbling prospector. It laughs a little as they shriek, a bit of the blood from the previous fish still attached to it. "Good offer. Bring you good fish."
The prospector nods, a hurried motion, "N-no problem pal! Uh, ah got t'get ter work but ah'll see you 'round!" They speak quickly, and though not afraid of the angler itself, the image of the removal irked them in a way that startled them to the "walk fast and far" mode.
The angler, not minding a bit more quiet as the prospector makes way, calling for their dog besides them, he returns back to the calm task of setting the hook out to reel in the fish. But instead, oddly enough, they reel in the prospector's hat. It must have gotten dropped in the rush…
Ah well. He'll give it back later, probably by a spare kingfisher he could find. Right now he's starving for some good fish.