This World is an Isekai. (2)
Ferio and I mounted our horses and gave chase to the goblin rider on its wolf.
It wasn't an easy pursuit.
This wasn't open plains ideal for a gallop—it was an endless stretch of mountains and forests.
A horse larger than a wolf had no easy time weaving through the uneven terrain between trees.
Often, where the wolf shot straight ahead, our bulkier mounts had to swing wide around obstacles.
And then there was me as the rider, which was another problem.
I'd only ever done leisurely commuter rides on horseback, never this full-tilt sprint. This was my first.
Lift my head even a little, and I'd snag a branch around the neck, tumbling off in some slapstick comedy routine.
Luckily, Pony was smart enough to dodge most of those branches,
but I still couldn't raise my head from her neck the whole time. I just hunkered down like quiet cargo, entrusting everything to her.
Tactical maneuvers to corner the enemy? Yeah, no way I could think about that.
The silver lining was that the wolf's stamina couldn't match a horse's.
Wolves had decent endurance, sure, but not like horses, whose lives revolved around running.
The wolf would bolt across the mountains without regard for terrain, vanishing from sight.
But it had to hole up somewhere to catch its breath, so scouting the area around its escape route usually revealed it quick enough.
Once spotted, another furious chase would erupt.
Rest, spot, pursue. Rest, spot, pursue.
If I'd had arrows, I'd have gotten prime shooting chances several times over,
but I hadn't restocked since the cave raid.
By the time we'd crossed mountains and forded streams, the sun was dipping toward the west.
Shwaaaaa!!
With sunset came rain, forcing us to call off the chase.
Navigating a dark forest without moonlight was risky enough;
add pouring rain, and a dozen ways to die cropped up.
The horses were exhausted, and so was I—dizzy, on the verge of collapse.
It's like riding a roller coaster: you tense up without realizing, and even sitting still wears you out.
This was hours of that on a galloping horse.
Chasing down one goblin—one enemy—worth risking our lives like this?
"Ferio, this feels wrong. Let's call it."
No more wolf tracks. The downpour had washed them away.
At least the long chase left the horses a stream to drink from—but the wolf side probably had the same luck.
"……."
Ferio ground her teeth, still unwilling to quit,
but now the horses wouldn't obey. They were done running, plain and simple.
Even a person would refuse orders in that state.
"Fine. Head back."
"I appreciate the quick thinking, but turning back now? No chance."
"Huh!? Oh!"
Ferio finally snapped out of it, assessing our situation.
We were lost, no exaggeration.
Standing in this rain much longer meant hypothermia—passing out and waking up dead, if at all.
Summer strandings could kill via hypothermia; early autumn rain made it a sure thing.
The horses' body heat was keeping us warm for now, but it wouldn't last.
"It's too dark to ride, so lead them by hand. Cloak up first to block the rain and let's walk."
Ferio and I led our horses on foot.
Stepping off the swaying mounts onto solid ground brought dizziness and shaky legs,
but we couldn't stop. To survive, we had to move.
"Sorry for dragging you into this…"
"Got it, so hurry up and follow. It'll be pitch black soon—we won't even walk."
"Chase failed, no idea where we are. Guess I'm following your lead."
"The chase is the issue? The raid succeeded. Speaking of, you were chattier today—turns out it's all just complaints."
"…………"
"Hey, hey. Don't go radio silent now.
You weren't insulting you, Knight Lady—don't tell me you're sneaking a sword under that cloak?
I meant you finally seemed your age, gossiping like peers. Gotta whine like a kid sometimes… wait, is that the insult?"
"…Pfft."
"There. Laughing means no sword, good."
"…Kirgil. You're no amnesiac. That was a lie from the start."
"Whoa!? Swapped the sharp blade for a sharp tongue.
I figured you for brawn-over-brains, lady."
"That's insulting."
"My apologies, milady knight.
Survive this, and I'll watch my mouth."
"Heh, caught red-handed and still shameless.
Make it out, and today's a memory."
"A memory, huh. Poetic.
Yeah, I'd like to live long enough to remember it fondly."
Ferio perked up a bit, her gloom lifting.
We'd skirted it, but calling out my fake amnesia like that? Curious how she knew, but better not poke the bear.
Women—always sharp somewhere.
I'd told her to follow, but I wasn't wandering blindly.
The goblin chase barely interested me from the jump.
So I'd scoped the area, marking safe spots as sunset loomed.
Thanks were due to Elias the hunter.
I wasn't this thorough by nature.
Hunting taught me that survival knack from him.
He said first-time hunters in unfamiliar turf often lost their quarry—and themselves.
Always pack water and fire, no matter where.
And dark comes day or night—find shelter first.
Water for pursuit and survival basics.
Fire preserves body heat overnight, scares beasts, doubles as emergency weapon.
Humans weaken in dark, and it doesn't wait for nightfall.
As sun set and clouds rolled in, I'd noted landmarks and hidey-holes.
"We're here."
A high rocky overhang—plenty of terrace-like space for two horses, Ferio, me, and rain cover.
Caves risked beasts or goblins;
open like this beat sealed death traps, long as it blocked rain.
Arrival wasn't the end. Now came the real work.
"Ferio, your lips are blue.
Ditch the metal gear and wet clothes—huddle with your horse for warmth."
Battlefield? Stripping advice spells trouble.
But survival trumped that now.
"…Got it."
Ferio hesitated,
then ditched pride for sense and complied.
Meanwhile, I dashed into the rain, gathering firewood.
Dry rot-harded wood, pine that caught easy—I hauled load after load like a delivery guy, stacking plenty before prepping the blaze.
Ferio was down to cloak only now. Reminded me of my summon day.
Sorry, but crisis killed any libido flat.
I was peak gamer zen, mid-ranked match.
Had her shave wood for shavings—heat plus tinder.
Her orc-neck-slicing sword proved awkward, so she borrowed my dagger, peeling bark like sharpening pencils,
churning out kindling.
Cloak or no, moving flashed skin, but she showed zero shame.
Reminded me of military SF flicks—co-ed baths, no biggie.
Maybe normal here.
Makes sense: in life-or-death, fussing over pervy protags while swinging swords or spells? That's weird.
Old NCO buddy said trainee girls weren't "girls"—just fellow soldiers, rolling in mud alike.
Anyway, I built a windbreak of rocks and logs,
prepped the fire pit.
Shavings and quick-burners in a hasty hearth,
out came my ever-present fire kit.
Modern world? Lighter.
Here: flint and solid fuel tab that lit instant.
Pocket-sealed against damp, even rain-ready.
Strike, light before moisture hit,
touch to shavings and starters.
"Cough! Cough!!"
Damp wood belched smoke like mad.
Still, I fanned air and added shavings till flames stabilized.
Missing thunder cartridges suddenly. Wait, no suicide talk!
Those vinyl-wrapped babies lit wood one-shot, rain or shine.
Don't misuse or diss 'em.
Effort paid: flames roared hot enough for branches, pit sustainable sans enclosure.
Crack!! Pop pop crack!!
"Ow! Hot!"
Moisture made sparks fly fierce, but beats freezing.
No more shavings needed—just feed dried fuel timely.
I perched on a small rock like a fisherman, tending the blaze.
Fire trance broke; wet clothes chilled deep now.
Fire secure, I used Pony as changing booth, stripping down.
She immediately licked my face and body nonstop.
Salt-craving from my sweat, sure,
but staying put felt like a shower.
Eek!
That back-scrub sensation? Way too weird!
Hyaah!