The magician tips back the brim of his straw hat and wipes the sweat from his brow, scowling.

"These crops are nearly to fruition. If I leave them unattended now, I have no doubt that that overgrown fly will show up and ruin all my hard work. Surely, the automaton knows this. Why, they're more likely to complain than anyone if the vegetables turn out 'inferior.' Do they really insist on doing this tonight, without first consulting with- oh, what am I saying? The automaton will do what they please without a moment's thought or hesitation," he grumbles discontentedly.

"Very well, I shall make my preparations, but I'll need someone else to keep watch while I gather my things."

"They were out on a hunt and their eyeball hat broke because an ewecus attacked them," Webber pipes up, feeling like they should defend their grumpy metal friend at least a little bit. They didn't understand all of those words Maxwell used, but maybe they'll ask Ms. Wicker about them later.

"Okay! What do you need us to watch?" They look at the nearest sprout. It's a baby pumpkin, they think?

He scowls, then sighs, and tries to muster up a more patient tone. Tiresome as he finds WX's antics, that isn't Webber's fault.

"Here," he hands the watering can to the spider. "Give the soil a sprinkle with this once, when the 'moon' becomes visible in the sky. Not too much, just enough that you can see the soil darken. Otherwise, just speak to the plants, like you would to a spider. And if you see a large yellow fly with a purple stomach, about the size of a beefalo, give a shout. It's not actually terribly dangerous, but I'm not about to let you be hurt on my account. The librarian would never let me hear the end of it."

Webber accepts the watering can as firmly and seriously as a spider and a child under the age of ten shoved together into one body can manage. They shake it around a little to gauge the water level; it's just under three-quarters full, they think. "We can do that."

They get down on all fours (it'd be all eights if the limbs on their head were a little closer to the ground) and address the pumpkin sprout. "One day you're going to grow up big and strong... and then we'll eat you!"

The spiderchild grins playfully, in a way that might be menacing coming from someone more than four and a half feet tall or who hadn't literally jumped for joy when Walani made him a melonsicle yesterday.

Meanwhile, Maxwell makes his way to his "room," a crude section of walls and improvised furniture that he's nonetheless set aside as a sort of private space for himself. Of course, privacy doesn't really exist in the Constant- the powers that be are always watching, and eldritch entities aside, some people just don't know how to knock. He rummages through his belongings, casting aside his sweaty farming duds in favor of a makeshift suit of wooden armor, a football helmet, and a well-worn night sword. He checks everything over, finds his gear to be in serviceable condition, and gets ready to head back to the farm patch, when he stops. Something feels... off. He can't put his finger on it, but he almost feels like he's being watched.

He spins on his heel, worn rubber soles squeaking on scavenged marble flooring as the magician tries to catch sight of whatever is making his spine crawl. He thinks perhaps he caught something in the corner of his vision... a blob, a blur, a figment... or perhaps it's just a lack of sleep catching up with him. Maxwell waits for his breath to settle (when had he gotten so out of breath?) before he tucks a few extra honeyed bandages into his bag and then steps out into the greater camp area.

Off in the distance Webber continues chatting it up with the vegetation, making friendly overtures to the seeds and sprouts that will soon grow into carrots and pumpkins and onions. Maybe even giant ones. They'd be thrilled if they grew their own giant vegetable. A big pumpkin to carve a scary face into? A big potato for Mr. Wolfgang?

"What's up, dude?" It's Walani, leaning against the alchemy engine and polishing off a pumpkin cookie. On the other side of the camp Willow, Wilson, and WX-78 watch the hovering and softly glowing form of the Terrarium, their conversation indistinct over the distance (the automaton less indistinct than the humans, with their inability or disinterest in lowering their volume below a shout), and Woodie rummages through the chests looking for the right place to drop off a load of firewood.

"You look a little freaked out." The surfer holds out another cookie.

"I'm fine, Ms. Walani," he huffs, not exactly thrilled that he's an open book right now, but still doing his best to remain civil.

"I've just been rather caught off guard by the automaton's sudden and inflexible change of plans. That, and I'm contending with the minor worry of our spider being eaten by a fly. I don't want to leave Webber unattended in the garden for longer than I have to. And while I do appreciate the offer... keep your biscuit. I don't have much of an appetite at the moment." He looks across the camp, sizing up the others.

"Night fights with the firestarter always make me nervous, especially in camp," he mutters.

She's already stuffed the cookie into her mouth by the time he finishes the sentence. "Fuit yourfelff."

"Relax, dude. He used to live on a farm, I think he's got this figured out." Walani looks over at Webber's distant figure. From the looks of it, he's put a hat on the big onion. "You're right about WX, though. They need to find their chill. The world's not gonna end because they went five minutes without an eye hat."

"IT HAS BEEN FOUR HOURS AND SEVENTEEN MINUTES," WX shouts across the base without moving from their spot on the floor. Walani makes a face.

"Hey, she said the thing with the fire staff was an accident, and the flingo put everything out anyways. No big deal."

Edited 2023-06-26 13:17 (UTC)

"I suppose." He's already tired, and they haven't even started fighting the giant flying eyeball yet. He's still glancing restlessly over at his garden.

"Do you think perhaps I'm being too much of a perfectionist? Is it a problem that I pride myself on keeping the whole of this camp fed by the sweat of my brow and the benevolence of my patience?"

Walani fails to conceal a snort. Not that she was trying particularly hard. "Yeah, dude, and you're super modest about it too. Without your sweaty veggies we'd all be eating spider meatballs three times a day. Give the rest of us some credit, y'know? Like, yeah, you're out there almost as much as the tree-dude and I totally appreciate that, but we wouldn't starve without you."

If it was up to Walani in particular she might in fact subsist on spider meatballs, since her entire contribution to the farm is handing people seeds when they're headed that way and an occasional word of encouragement to the crops, but never mind that.

Meanwhile in the garden Webber has run out of plants to talk to and moved on to dumping fertiliser on the tired-looking stone fruit bushes. The moon isn't up yet, so it's not time to water the crops!

Maxwell huffs.

"Well, perhaps I'll give it a rest this coming season. I do have other things to do after all, and I wouldn't mind a break from the stress of- ugh, I knew it. Apologies, I've got a fly to swat."

He rushes over to the garden, having just spotted an unpleasantly familiar shape descent from above.

Webber is suddenly sharing garden space with a very large, very unpleasant fruit fly, which has already begun making the plants more disheveled and uncomfortable, possibly saying unpleasant things to the flora in fly-speak.

"Augh! Go away, you big meanie!" The watering can disappears into Webber's inventory in favour of a frantically waved tentacle spike, and he throws his spider-shaped backpack to the side to put on a log suit. A young asparagus fern droops dispiritedly and a miniature version of the big fly - still crabapple-sized in its own right - darts out from behind its master to sting Webber's wrist. He hisses and brings the spike down on it, spewing a pink-tinted hybrid of blood, hemolymph and berry juice all over the vegetables as it connects.

"That's the spirit. See you later, dude," Walani says with a wave, unperturbed by the commotion.

In the time it takes for Maxwell to rush over, Webber's splattered the first of the little fruit flies into pulpy chunks, but now there's three more swarming him. He's running around wildly to keep out of reach of the big one and taking swings at the swarm. And while he does, the big fly bobbles gleefully in the air and a suspiciously tillweed-shaped sprout pops out of the soil. "Stop messing up our garden!"

Maxwell skids to a stop between Webber and the largest of the flies, teeth bared. He draws his night sword with a snicker-snack.

"Kill the flies! Spill their blood!" he chants as he lays into them, fuel edge vvorp-vvorping through another of the flies, popping it like it's a berry in late summer.

"Are you alright, child?" he calls over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off of the most lordly of the flies.

Edited 2023-06-26 16:24 (UTC)

"We're okay!" Webber calls back. The sting was painful and startling, but they know what serious injuries feel like and this isn't it. The bleeding's already stopped. Another fly zips chaotically around them and they miss it with the spike a few times before it connects, then take the opportunity to hit the stunned and leaky fly a second time and bring it to the ground for good.

The Lord of the Fruit Flies looks at Maxwell, sizing him up with its compound eyes. Like he's a jester in its court of rotten fruit and thorn-choked vegetables. And then it turns away, whispering poison into the ears of corn he painstakingly planted. Its eyes crinkle with malevolent delight. Then it goes at him with the stinger.

He sidesteps the sting, well-practiced in the art of "don't get hit." He retaliates with a slash across its midsection, then another, before taking a step back and going on the defensive.

"Come and get me, you weed with wings," he hisses.

The monstrous fruit fly snarls in pain and affronted surprise as Maxwell's sword splits its rind and spills its almost-blood. It takes the bait, wings buzzing as it bears down on him.

Now that its attention is off them, Webber takes the chance to jump in behind it and stab it in the back with their tentacle spike. Just once, so it doesn't have too much reason to change its mind about who it's chasing. But if it does, they're a tough spider! They can handle a struggling fly.

Speaking of which, the last of the little fruit flies is targeting Maxwell as well, flying low to sting his leg.

Maxwell falters in his evasive dance as the smaller flies dart in, not having been expecting them to change direction. He winces and hisses as he's stung, but he shakes it off. He's not going to let something so small make an opening for the much bigger foe. He counts under his breath, waiting for the pain to subside, waiting for the larger fly to lunge. It's all a game, the movement of pieces on a board, and he knows exactly how this troublesome piece moves. It's just a matter of outplaying his opponent.

One... two... three...

The smaller fly comes into range, and he swats it down. That takes a beat. Four.

Five... six...

He catches a flutter of papery, fruit-scented wings.

Check.

He steps back, then lunges forward, blade swinging.

"Child! Motivate the plants while I finish this!"

The little fly is easily swatted, and the big one isn't prepared for Maxwell's familiarity with its moves. It can't close the distance fast enough to actually hit him as it stabs out with its stinger, and now it's too close and can only twist far enough that the sword cuts into its guts instead of through its thorax. The effect is not entirely unlike swinging a lumber axe into a watermelon; burgundy-pink juice sprays out of the wound and threatens to stain whatever fabric it contacts on the way out. It snarls and repositions itself for another sting.

"Uh... okay, Mr. Maxwell! Just yell if you need our help!" Webber's aware of which of them has 175 HP and which one has 75 HP here, but he's a grown-up so he must know what he's doing.

To the disheartened asparagus, they say, "You're a very good plant!" It seems cheered.

They approach a pumpkin sprout, then a potato plant peeking out of the dirt. There's so many plants to reassure, though! Maybe not all of them were listening to the big mean fly, but this is still probably going to take forever. Hey, there's the One-Man Band Mr. Higgsbury left by the garden! Don't the plants like it when he plays it for them?

Webber wiggles out of their log suit and into the ramshackle assortment of instruments. Discordant, vaguely melodic accordion honking and cymbal crashing begins to play from behind the Lord of the Fruit Flies. The plants appreciate it; everything close to Webber visibly brightens.

Ah, he'd forgotten they had one of those lying around. It's not the most pleasant sound, but that hardly matters to him when he knows how quickly such a cacophonous contraption will undo the dastardly diptera's work.

One... two... three...

The crashing of cymbals makes it hard to count steadily, so he plays things a little more cautiously.

Four... five...

He steps back prematurely, bracing himself to dodge as needed.

It sounds like an orchestra falling down the stairs and honestly it hurts Webber's ears and it's tiring him out really fast, but no plant can stay sad when surrounded by so many ridiculous noises. Either that, or it's because the Frankeninstrument producing them is greased with nightmare fuel and enchanted so that certain weak-willed or simple-minded beings will perceive the source of the sound as a friend. Could be both. Honk, boom, crash!

The fly, meanwhile, goes for a defensive retreat; instead of moving in to sting Maxwell, it flies further away from him, out of reach of the sword. It hovers on the edge of the garden, looking like it's dancing to Webber's atonal music. A fire nettle bud creeps out of the soil.

"Hey!" the spiderchild shouts, taking their hands off the accordion (the honking does not entirely subside) so they can first point accusingly at the weed and then take out a shovel to dig it up. "Stop that!"

Maxwell snarls, pointed teeth flickering into view, as he loses patience and charges at the Lord of the Fruit Flies. Maxwell has other matters to be attending to, and this insipid insect is just trying his patience. His glamour slips just a little as his mood shifts, sharp claws just a little more visible under his gloves as his grip on his sword tightens. He swings recklessly at the creature, swish, swish, swish!

All three hits land, slicing the fly open like a melon, but that also means it's right there to sting him. It's a weak fighter for its size; a direct hit still hurts, but through his armor it's not going to leave much more than a bruise. It's no spider queen.

It does, however, have a similar penchant for summoning little minions. Here come four more fruit flies to throw him off his rhythm! At least Webber has the garden handled, digging up fresh weeds and speaking soothingly to the plants.

This blasted fly! Well, he can overcomplicate things, too!

Yes, perhaps it's not the most efficient use of Nightmare Fuel, but if it insists on playing a game of numbers, so be it!

He steps back and opens his Codex Umbra, waving a hand over its pages. Slowly, silhouettes rise from the ground, taking the form of swordsmen. Maxwell smirks, closing the book and dodging back with his own sword, right before the largest fly can dart in for another sting.

"Do your worst, pest!"

The Lord of the Fruit Flies is, as previously established, no spider queen; it can zip around in a way that the swordsman-shadows have difficulty tracking, but once they manage to corner it - especially when it stops to discourage the plants with a little dance instead of dodging the blows - it doesn't take long to render it unto so many chunks of fruit salad and its retinue into garnishes.

Webber steps over a big hunk of Leafy Meat and picks up a fistful of seeds and a rounded pink fruit that fell from the fruit fly's husk. They sniff it, and stick their tongue out as if planning to lick it before visibly changing their mind and backing off. "Smells kinda like a big raspberry, but it doesn't look like one."

One of the fruit flies seems to have been spared by the shadows; it's green with a red belly and it's more concerned with squeaking lovingly at the plants than attacking either of the survivors.

There's barely any light left in the sky, although it's not quite nightfall yet. The Constant's moon is beginning to peek over the hills in the distance.

"Just leave that pit in the garden... I think that last little one is drawn to it, and it seems to be far more favorable to the vegetables than the others were." He reaches into his bag, pulling out a small bowl of smelly, pink paste, which he proceeds to slather onto his wounds. They begin to heal immediately, as if by magic.

"How are you holding up? We should head to the center of camp as soon as we're ready."

"The big bug didn't hurt us," Webber says, and glances at their arm. There's a nick in their exoskeleton where the first of the little fruit flies got them, but it's just a bit sore. They've got a bit of a headache from their musical efforts and they're starting to get hungry. "Can we have a snack?"

It's getting darker. Wasn't there something he was supposed to do? Right, watering the plants! He takes the watering can out and gives them a sprinkle. As he does, a prismatic beam of light erupts from the camp, shooting off into the sky above.

You feel an evil presence watching you...

He feels the hairs on the back of his neck raise.

"That insufferable automaton, they couldn't even be bothered to wait- come on, child! We'll fix you a snack once we've stopped this from spiraling out of control.

He bolts for the center of camp.

Webber skitters after him, stuffing their leggy head into a football helmet as they go.

The Eye of Terror turns its gaze toward Walani

The surfer looks up languidly at the enormous eyeball. "Stop lookin' at me like that, eyeball-dude."

It responds with a guttural bellow. Wilson, Willow, and WX-78 come running from their positions by the Terrarium, already equipped for battle.

PSL for freedomsuitsme

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You feel an evil presence watching you...

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The Eye of Terror turns its gaze toward Walani