Treegiraffe2's Arc

Chapter 8 of 10

The first players arrived at dawn. Treegiraffe2 met them at the town square, boots crunching on the loose stone. A girl with red hair and a heart on her shirt claimed the first cottage. A boy in a green flannel took the next. A brown-haired girl in a floral shirt picked the one by the greenhouse. Treegiraffe2 walked them through the farms, the storehouse, the beehive. She showed them everything. She named a role for each new face. But she forgot one. Skibble stood at the edge of the square, gold chain catching the light. He had said yes to Tetra2 before she finished asking. He helped her survive her first night. He taught her to swing a sword. And she had never given him a job. She watched him watch the new players get their places. He said nothing. He turned and walked toward the dark stone weapons hall. That silence scared her more than any zombie. She ran after him. Inside the hall, forges burned. The rack held gleaming diamond swords. The battered dummy stood in the yard, still wrapped from their old training. "Skibble, wait." He stopped but did not turn. "You've got farmers. Builders. Everyone fits somewhere." "You fit," she said. "I just didn't say it out loud. That was wrong." He faced her. His dark eyes held no anger, only distance. "Then say what you mean." Treegiraffe2 pulled a fresh diamond blade from the rack. She held it out to him, hilt first. "Every player who comes here has to learn the rhythm. Two hits, step back. You taught me that. Nobody else can teach it right." She took a breath. "Be our defensive trainer. The official one. This hall is yours." Skibble looked at the blade. He looked at the dummy. Slowly, the distance left his face. He took the sword and tested its weight. "About time," he said. A grin cracked through. He did not wait. He called the three new players into the yard. The red-haired girl came first, then the flannel boy, then the girl in florals. Skibble handed out blades and lined them up before the dummy. "Feet apart," he called. "Don't chase them. Two hits, step back. Never let them box you in." Blades bit into the wood. The flannel boy missed and tried again. The red-haired girl found the rhythm fast. Skibble circled them, calling the count, sharp and steady. He belonged here. Anyone could see it now. Treegiraffe2 leaned in the doorway and watched. Her town had housing, food, and now a trainer who would keep every player alive. Her best friend had a place at last. Then she counted the yard. Three players, learning to fight. But three cottages held her whole population, and two more sat empty. The square between them was quiet. A town needed more than a handful of people to feel like home. She had to bring in a real crowd.