Chapter Eleven

Now what? That was the main question buzzing in his code, right alongside that other, weirder buzz. Now what was supposed to happen? He was walking into a monster fight. A player monster fight. That was already not normal. The guards didn't do that. But he was doing it. So, what came next? He didn't have a script for this part – no instructions popped up, and no dialogue options appeared.

The boars were focused on him now. Both of them. Which, on the one hand, was maybe good? Good for the players anyway. They weren't getting charged any more, at least not for the moment. But on the other hand, now he was getting charged. By two very large, very tusky creatures who looked extremely unhappy. So, maybe not so good for him 

He kept walking forward, slowly, steadily, not sure what else to do. Running away seemed pointless. He was already in the clearing. And standing still behind a rock suddenly felt wrong. Like he was past that now. Like he was supposed to be doing something else – something more than just standing still.

The boars started to move towards him, those heavy front legs pounding on the muddy ground. They were making those rumbling, snorting noises again, louder now, closer. He could smell them too, that thick, musky boar smell, getting stronger with every step they took. It was intense. He wondered if players could smell that too. He wondered if they minded it – it didn't smell very pleasant.

Then, one of the players shouted again. Not at him, he didn't think. More at the boars maybe? Or just a general shout. But this shout was different from the battle yells he'd heard before. This one sounded surprised – confused too maybe? It was hard to tell a player's emotions just from sounds, but this one sounded different.

He glanced over at the players again, just quickly, just to see what they were doing. The standing one had stopped swinging his sword. He was just watching Barnaby now, watching him walk towards the boars. His posture was stiff, frozen almost. He wasn't moving, he wasn't shouting anymore. He was just looking, looking right at him, with what seemed like surprise and maybe a little bit of confusion too.

The fallen player was still on the ground, still not moving. But the standing player, the one who was watching him – he was looking surprised. It was interesting, to see a player look surprised like that. Players usually seemed so in charge, so like they knew what they were doing. Seeing one look surprised, actually look confused, was unexpected. It made them seem a little different – a little less like those powerful always-in-control figures he was used to seeing. A little more well, a little more like maybe they didn't know everything either.

The boars were getting closer now, almost on top of him. He could see those tusks, those big curved sharp-looking tusks, getting closer and closer. He still didn't have a weapon. Just his hands. Just like before. He wondered if fists would work on boars again. He wondered if that was just a one-time thing. He wondered if he was about to get stomped flat in front of these surprised players.

He stopped walking then, right in front of the boars. He just stood there, facing them, letting them come right up to him. He looked at them – at those angry little eyes, at those tusks, at all that muscle and boar-ness. And he waited. He waited to see what would happen. He waited to see what he would do next. He waited to see if he even knew what to do next – because honestly, he didn't. He was just there. In the middle. Between the players and the boars. Doing something completely illogical – completely unexpected – completely new.

What happened next was actually kind of surprising. At least, it was surprising to him. The boar closest to him – the one that was definitely about to charge – hesitated. It stopped moving forward. Its heavy hooves still pawed at the mud, but it did not charge. It just stood there, snorting. Those little eyes fixed on him, head slightly lowered like it was well, like it was thinking something over.

The other boar stopped too, just a step behind its friend. It was making those same rumbling noises, but quieter now, almost like it was whispering boar secrets to the first one. Or maybe just complaining about him getting in the way. Hard to tell with boars.

Barnaby just stood there, perfectly still. Letting the boars look at him, letting them do whatever boars did when they weren't actively charging at players. He watched them back. Studying their tusks, their thick fur, and the way their muscles bunched and shifted under their skin. They were impressive creatures, in a sort of grumpy muddy tusk-filled way. He wondered if players appreciated how boar-like boars were. Probably not. Probably they were too busy hitting them with swords to notice the finer points of boar-ness.

Then, the first boar took a step sideways. Not towards him, not exactly. More like around him. It shifted its weight, moved its head a little, and then just walked past him. Just walked right on by, like he wasn't even there. Like he was just another rock, or tree, or a bit of scenery in Boar Den West. The second boar did the same. Just following right behind its friend, also completely ignoring him.

They walked right past him and went straight for the players again. The standing player was still frozen, still just watching him. But the boars didn't even glance at the player now. They just went right for the one who was still down in the mud, the one who was still flickering.

Barnaby turned his head, slowly, to watch them go. He watched them lumber over to the fallen player, snorting, nudging at him with their noses, prodding him with those tusks – not gently. The standing player finally seemed to snap out of it then. He yelled something again, louder this time, a real shout of alarm, and he moved. He ran forward, sword raised, charging towards the boars, towards his fallen friend.

But the boars were already doing something to the player on the ground. One of them was lowering its head. Tusks pointed down, getting ready to do whatever it was boars did when they had a player cornered. It did not look good. It looked like it was about to be very bad for that player.

And that was when Barnaby moved. RMovedthis time. Not just walking slowly, not just stepping out from behind a rock. He ran. He ran straight towards the boars, towards the players, towards the whole messy chaotic scene. He still didn't have a weapon. Still just had his hands. Still didn't have a plan. But he was moving now. He was running. And he was pretty sure suddenly that he was about to do something even more illogical, even more unexpected, even more completely not-guard-like than anything he'd done so far. He was running to help. Help. For real. He just had to see what happened next.

He ran, and in moments he was there – right in the thick of it. He plunged into the chaos, the space between the thrashing boars and the desperate players. Sound exploded around him: the furious snorts of the boars, the ragged yells of the standing player, and the weaker, grunting sounds from the one still down in the mud. It was a sensory overload, a sudden rush of noise and motion and mud spraying up from churning hooves.

The boar closest to the fallen player, the one poised to attack, swung its massive head towards Barnaby. It was a sudden, violent movement, and for a split second, Barnaby thought it would charge. But then, something shifted in the boar's posture. It hesitated, its momentum checked. The charge faltered, those heavy hooves still digging into the earth, scattering mud, but not driving forward. It just held its ground, its gaze locking onto Barnaby, those small, fierce eyes narrowed in something that almost looked like… consideration?

The second boar mirrored its companion's hesitation, stopping just behind the first. A low rumble vibrated from deep within its chest, a quieter, less aggressive sound now. Almost like they were conferring, boar-style. Whispering threats, maybe, or just… boar-planning. Barnaby couldn't decipher boar intent, but the sudden shift in their aggression was undeniable.

Barnaby remained motionless, an island of stillness in the muddy frenzy. He held his ground, meeting the boar's gaze directly, allowing them to assess him, to react. He became an observer again, even in the heart of the action, studying the creatures before him. The curve of their tusks, the coarse texture of their fur, the powerful ripple of muscle beneath their hides – they were formidable, undeniably. He wondered, briefly, if the players truly registered the raw… boar-ness of these creatures, the sheer physical presence of them. Or were they too focused on health bars and loot drops to appreciate the reality of what they were fighting?

Then, the first boar shifted. A deliberate movement, almost casual. It stepped to the side, its bulk rotating, angling away from him. Not towards him, not directly. But past him. It maneuvered, subtly positioning itself to bypass him entirely. And then, it simply walked onward. Past him, around him, as if he were no more significant than a particularly damp rock formation. The second boar followed instantly, falling into step behind its leader, mirroring its dismissive indifference towards the suddenly… irrelevant guard.

They moved directly towards the players again, their focus snapping back to their original targets with a disturbing single-mindedness. The standing player, who had been caught motionless, finally seemed to break free of his stunned paralysis. He yelled, a desperate, ragged cry, and launched himself forward again, sword raised high in a renewed, frantic attack. But the boars were already committed to their new course, their path set, their target locked.

Barnaby pivoted, his head turning to track their movement as they closed on the downed player. He watched, a knot of something tightening in his code, as the boars reached the prone figure, snorting and pushing, their tusks lowered, their intent suddenly, brutally clear. One of the boars angled its head downward, tusks aimed at the unmoving player – poised to deliver a devastating blow. It was a moment of stark, unavoidable threat.

And in that instant, Barnaby moved. A surge of unexpected energy propelled him forward. No more hesitant steps, no more careful observation. He ran. He sprinted towards the boars, towards the players, towards the looming threat, driven by an urgency he'd never known before. He was still unarmed, still without a real strategy, still acting entirely on impulse. But he was moving with a speed and decisiveness that surprised even himself. He was running to intervene, to disrupt, to protect – to do something, anything, to change the course of what was about to happen. He had to see what would come next. He had to act.