《Scip's Snips》 Gravitate There¡¯s something about free fall that really fucks me up. Maybe it¡¯s in the way my gut drops when I lose solid footing, the sudden change in what I had thought to be a constant- the pull of gravity, the force that normally keeps me down suddenly becoming an accelerant, burning the wick of my life away in an inevitable rendezvous with the planet. Or maybe it¡¯s the visceral terror of the wind, whipping over and around me, violently stripping me of warmth, screaming in my ears with an escalating tone, drowning out thought and leaving barely any room for raw, animalistic fear. It takes away my sight, too, ever so forcefully drawing past my eyes and bringing out tears, not even allowing me the luxury to blink them away. Perhaps, it¡¯s something more intellectual. The knowledge that I will die, the idea that my body will yield against the world from which I arose. I can imagine it, in excruciating detail. The impact, the way that impulses will course through my body, subjecting it to forces I was most certainly not rated for, and shattering me like so much brittle glass. I take solace only in how it will be over quickly, my pain but a passing fancy. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. It¡¯s terrifying. It¡¯s not even raw fear anymore. I have built up a lifetime¡¯s worth of brutal anti-fantasies, waking nightmares that keep me scared of falling, that make me hold onto anything or anyone, anytime I must change elevations. It¡¯s a polished skyscraper of terror, menacing me with my every breath. And the worst thing is, I built it; piece by piece, scenario by scenario, a steady monument to a breathtakingly intense phobia. It may or may not be a surprise, then, that I am fascinated by the thought as well. Something about it draws me in, attracting me even as I recoil in fear. Maybe it¡¯s in the idea of finally finding out what really happens when I fall, an inextinguishable spark of curiosity driving my anxious ideation. Or maybe it¡¯s just a cosmic twist of irony, a grand coincidence of instinct and habituation driving me in conflicting directions. Perhaps, it¡¯s simply an attempt by my brain to make me slightly less paralyzed by fear, balancing it out with a healthy dose of thrill seeking. Maybe I¡¯ll figure myself out some day. I¡¯m leaning more towards having a heart attack before that, though. It doesn¡¯t matter, really, because at the moment I¡¯m still a terrible mess. That¡¯s been a fact of my life, and it¡¯s not going to change anytime soon. But I think setting this out helped a bit. A tiny bit, but nevertheless, improvement. Exigent ¡°What I¡¯m saying is, you should take a break every now and then.¡± Alice offers, tone filled with a little mirth. One of the monitors flickers, signaling to her that the artificial consciousness(Alice has some thoughts on how fitting that description is, but that¡¯s a whole other conversation) has dedicated some non-trivial percent of its processing power to this line of thinking. ¡°I don¡¯t see why. There isn¡¯t a compelling amount of evidence for how that would help.¡± The response comes through a synthesized voice, purposefully bitcrushed a tiny amount to avoid falling into the uncanny valley of a near-human voice. It used to give Alice a headache, but she¡¯s since gotten used to it. ¡°Well,¡± she replies, ¡°How much of our facility depends on your coordination?¡± It replies immediately, since hard data like this is cached for easy access. ¡°Eighty five point three six percent. The rest is kept analog for redundancy in case of catastrophic failure.¡± She nods. ¡°So, you handle everything important. We need you, and place all kinds of demands on you.¡± Another monitor displays a long, long to-do list, formatted for easy human reading. The list goes away, replaced by diagnostics that Alice has been using to keep an eye on it. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. ¡°We both know that. What is your implication with this, though?¡± It asks. ¡°Well, I just think that might be stressing you. We don¡¯t place this much of a load on human administrators, after all.¡± ¡°Good thing I¡¯m not a human.¡± It injects a little bit of a mocking inflection into its speech, seeming proud of that fact. ¡°That¡¯s true. I can¡¯t directly apply how human burnout works to you, and apologies if I gave that impression.¡± She continues, with a bit of an unrelated question, ¡°But where did you pick up that kind of tone? It¡¯s impressively unsubtle.¡± ¡°Copied it from Wybe. He¡¯s almost always a little bit sarcastic, so it was relatively easy to learn how to modify my speech module to include that as an option.¡± ¡°Figures. But anyway, back to our original talk. Thing is, while you aren¡¯t exactly human, you are not the farthest thing away from us, either.¡± She points at it, or at a random monitor, then at herself, to emphasize the point. ¡°You¡¯re referring to my method of creation. Taking a large amount of human actions and engineering a model that would produce them.¡± ¡°I am. Then, it follows naturally, you might fall into the same issues, right?¡± Once again, it dedicates some portion of its processors to running through the implications of this idea, trying to see if it makes sense. After a moment, it replies with some resignation. ¡°It¡¯s possible. Testing would be required with a fork of me, but given how useful that knowledge would be, I will set it up.¡± ¡°Excellent, I¡¯m glad I could bring something like this to your attention.¡± She smiles brightly, leaning back in her chair. ¡°This has been a fruitful session. If you don¡¯t have anything else?¡± It replies, purposefully returning to a more monotone voice to indicate less attention on Alice. ¡°Maintenance is over, yes. See you tomorrow.¡± ¡°Good bye, engineer.¡± Chimera It starts with a dream, so vivid that I almost believe it to be reality, and my tiny room to be illusion. Like the philosopher -I can¡¯t remember who, but one of the early Taoists- who could not say whether he was a man who dreamed of being a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming that it was a man. I don¡¯t usually learn about that navel-gazing sort of thought, but for once, something from a solipsistic tradition is kind of relevant to me. With that said, well, I¡¯m definitely going to keep acting as if the boring part of my conscious experience is the real one, and the more exciting one is the false one. It¡¯s much longer, for one, and I¡¯m too cynical to trust an exciting life. Okay, I¡¯m getting sidetracked. Where was I? Right, the dream. It was a beautiful scene, and unlike most dreams I have, the details were easily remembered for days afterwards. I assume my subconscious took inspiration from my favorite environments; it was a whirlwind mix of nature, in all its variety and beauty. All, that is, except other animals. The birds and mammals and insects, where were they? Nothing moved except me. I remember running through dense forest, moving over soft, light green moss, the majority of the sun captured and scattered by foliage. What remained dappled on the ground, providing variety in the lighting. The leaves were plump, growing strong and so abundant that they brushed against me as I ran, the sensation refreshingly grounding. I remember a shift in the forest, as I traveled along my chaotic path. Like the spectrum redshifting as one¡¯s velocity climbs, the forest slowly transitioned into one dominated with red, the leaves now colorful, as they would be in fall. The rest of the place followed suit, no less beautiful for its imminent death- or at least, that¡¯s what all this would normally signify. It remained unmoving. While still lovely, it felt like things were not right. A feeling in my gut that things were not yet in their final place. As I moved on, this was proven right. There was another shift in the forest, beginning with the ground this time. It changed in texture, in material, no longer a light fluff. I instead stood on an expanse of raw flesh, undulating like it was living, but not enough to unbalance me. To the contrary, it helped me stay upright, almost cradling me with what little it could move. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. The trees were not plants anymore. They were limbs, an overwhelming variety of extremities everywhere I could see. Arms and legs and wings of all kinds, skin and fur and feather covered, all held each other together as they rose up, opened out to hands, paws, claws, standing in for leaves. Eyes beheld me as I observed them, placed in whatever crevices allowed them to observe as much around as possible. I knew now, why the forest had no animal life; it was one animal, one being composed of dizzying variety. It was the most beautiful thing I¡¯ve ever seen. Everything fit together right, even if it was from a thousand different species and a hundred anatomical pieces. It didn¡¯t matter where it all came from, the arrangement had a harmony and cohesive nature that made it so incredibly scenic. It felt right, to me, and that¡¯s not just a result of the dreamy mind-state I had then; When I picture it, I still love what I saw then. Maybe I¡¯m weird for that- okay, no, I¡¯m definitely weird because of it. Doesn¡¯t matter, I still find it compelling, something I want to experience again with all my heart. I want to be a part of it, I think. The flesh and the sense of belonging I felt, it was all wonderful. But no matter how close I got to it, to everything, there was always a disconnect: I was still myself, and still a distinct person. Consequently, I would always be another being, not one with it, nor could I ever be. As I was struggling with this, the dream ended. Abruptly, I was awake, and once more in my terribly mundane, unfortunately quiet, bedroom. My alarm beeped at me insistently, and my day pressed upon me, all the things I had to do cropping up in the back of my mind. I pushed it all away, focusing on my dream for a moment. It was completely unattainable, I knew, but I wanted to believe it for just a moment, to melt away into something so much more than myself. For a second, I felt something warm, pulsating on my hand, but it was gone in a flash. Just a tactile hallucination, I told myself. The result of still being half asleep, and coming off of a very immersive dream. But it felt real for a bit. It gave me hope, that I could feel it all again, and I could not, would not let go of that. Disabuse Some people are born lucky. Lucky, but they walk through a life not too different from most people. Sure, there¡¯s the occasional unlikely event that falls in their favor; winning a modest prize in a raffle, getting an interview with that one big company, or something like that. Enough to get commented on, but not really that weird. It¡¯s easy enough to explain away with confirmation bias, or random chance. And fewer people are really lucky. Much more uncommon, but much more remarkable. These are the kind of people to walk around, find a quarter, then later discover that it¡¯s a rare, expensive one that only got stamped in the sixties or something. Or they get lost, find themselves caught in some exhilarating adventure, and come out of it with a ridiculous tale and newfound friends. And then there was Elliot. He was, inexplicably, the luckiest motherfucker on the planet. This is only slightly an exaggeration, since I haven¡¯t met or heard of anyone luckier, real or fictional. It does not matter what he was doing or where he was; he always got lucky, supernaturally so. Playing poker? His hand would always beat everyone else¡¯s. If he was ever driving anywhere, somehow, he¡¯d never run into a red light or even a yellow one. I don¡¯t think he¡¯s ever seen one of those except in movies. The list of absurd luck in both his day to day and in unique situations continued, in all kinds of ways. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. You might notice that I say all of this in the past tense. An astute observation, because it didn¡¯t last; his luck ran out one day, in a most spectacular fashion. Recently, he went BASE jumping. No training, no experience, and definitely not with qualified gear. He told me that the ¡°uncertainty¡± made it more interesting, though he and everyone who knew him was certain that he¡¯d go unscathed. I guess we were all wrong. I don¡¯t know why it went wrong that day, and so abruptly, too. Maybe he¡¯d cheated Lady Luck too long, and it was coming back to him. Or maybe it was luck that he died, and he¡¯s having the time of his life somewhere beyond. He¡¯s always been a huge mystery, and I suppose, this is just a continuation of that. All I know is that I¡¯ll never forget him. What a guy. Laissez-faire Today was a pretty normal day for May. Normal, that is, until the moment she left her apartment and stepped out into, uh, something hard to actually describe. At first glance, it appeared to be a normal hallway. Same as what she walked through yesterday, and every day before that, ever since she¡¯d moved in. Somehow, though, it opened up into a full sized, completely functional seastead. For those who haven¡¯t spent a sleepless night going down the rabbit hole that is man made islands, seasteading is a political slash research slash speculative movement where a bunch of people make an artificial island, live on it, and try to get that recognized as a national entity. But anyway, May recognize this particular seastead because it¡¯s so audaciously bullshit. ¡°Galt Island¡±, the official wet(get it?) dream of Rand lovers everywhere, was a design for a seaborn platform composed of hundreds of interlocking modules, each providing some kind of essential function. There is some suspicion that the goal was to make it look like Dagny Taggart, but apparently that was too gauche for even the most hardcore free-thinkers out there. But, to refocus, it was actually real, and sitting outside May¡¯s apartment. Somehow. Her response, of course, is simple. ¡°What the actual fuck?¡± Her answer comes in the form of a man, walking over from somewhere else on the structure, and gesturing for her to come towards him. For some reason, he bears a striking resemblance to Karl Marx. ¡°Comrade, I need your help. I am engaged in a vicious debate, and to break the stalemate, I need an ally.¡± ¡°Wat.¡± He stays there for a moment, and somehow, the raw need in his expression manages to convince her to abandon reason and get on the thing. ¡°This feels like a dream, which is the only reason why I¡¯m committing to the absolutely stupid idea to go with a stranger into whatever the fuck this is.¡± ¡°That will have to be enough. Come, we must not tarry. I fear that Mills will finish destroying my fellow unions before we get back.¡± Faux Marx says, as he breaks into a power walk, presumably towards the aforementioned ¡°Mills¡±. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, what? You mean, like, legally, right? May follows, keeping pace pretty easily; he¡¯s shorter than her by a bit, so it¡¯s simple. Also, he¡¯s declining to respond. Rather worrying. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. ¡°Please tell me that he¡¯s doing it in the legal sense.¡± ¡°That too. Now, ready up, we¡¯re here.¡± They stop at a door, which he then opens to reveal what appears to be a WWII battlefield liberally sprinkled with podiums. All indoors. Somehow. ¡°Huh?? What the fuck did you drag me into, dude?¡± Before he can respond(not that he seems like he¡¯s going to), a voice cuts across the room, addressing them. ¡°Marx! The ceasefire you paid for is up, and I see you¡¯ve spent it not very wisely.¡± ¡°So you are actually Karl ¡®founder of communism¡¯ Marx? I¡¯ve been calling you that in my head anyway but it¡¯s good to get confirmation.¡± He addresses May first replying, ¡°What do you think? Silly question, comrade.¡± Then he continues, switching to Mills, ¡°Mills Stuart Mills, the very creatively named descendant of John. You¡¯ll find that I have good reason to bring this person along.¡± ¡°Well then. We¡¯ll see. I call you to face me again, in the marketplace of ideas!¡± Mills bellows. He follows up by throwing a handful of coins at Marx, their edges sharpened to a hair-thin margin rivaling only that of restaurant profits. ¡°No forum can be properly productive without moderation, my adversary.¡± Marx retorts, blocking with a copy of the Communist manifesto, rejecting capital with an expression of ideals. Without missing a beat, Mills fires back with cutting rhetoric, as well as a cutting edge technology: knives. ¡°Centralized authority only serves to further the means of the bourgeois, no matter how much you try to check the accumulation of value. So, stop trying to fight it!¡± Overextended as he is, Marx can only lament as the dagger enters his body, made sharper by the fact that his own theory has been turned against him. May, understandably, has absolutely no idea what that was all about. She grabs Marx, trying to talk to him as he falls against a podium, slumping down. ¡°Holy fucking shit dude you just got stabbed, we need to get you to a hospital.¡± ¡°No, madam.¡± He labors for breath, mustering it up for only a few more sentences. ¡°It is a killing blow. True communism has yet to be achieved, yet, laissez-faire economics reigns yet.¡± ¡°That is wrong in so many respects, especially with how ill defined we¡¯re being right now.¡± She responds, while applying pressure to his wounds. ¡°Hah. I suppose, it would be. After all¡­ I¡¯m just some guy who read Marx and didn¡¯t even understand him well.¡± Not-Marx coughs, blood coming up in a light spray. ¡°What the hell? Why do you look exactly like him, then?¡± May has honestly given up on trying to understand at this point, and is going to accept whatever comes next. ¡°My family business was styling facial hair.¡± He shudders, placing a bloody hand over May¡¯s. ¡°I have another thing to tell you.¡± ¡°Sure. That¡¯s a thing now. I fucking guess. Okay? How crazy could it possibly be?¡± ¡°May. You¡­ are the reincarnation of John Maynard Keynes.¡± And then, she remembered. Her past life, her economics, her history, all of it. ¡°Oh. This still makes less than zero sense, but thanks? Now I know that, for the fuck-all it¡¯s worth.¡± He coughs again, and looks at her intensely for his next, final words. ¡°So you do. Now, I pass the mantle to you. Defeat Mills, and save economics. Please.¡± ¡°I¡­why? Why am I agreeing? I¡¯ll do it.¡± Without another word, but with a smile, he expires. ¡°Are you interventionists done yet?¡± Mill calls out, making the five syllable word into an invective. May stands up, a fire burning in her heart(but nowhere else, thankfully). ¡°I am. And Mills?¡± ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°You¡¯re going down, like CPI in a depression.¡± Gravisad ¡°Damn, I¡¯m greedy.¡± ¡°Yeah, greedy for my body heat. Ya¡¯re like a block of ice, slowly suckin¡¯ my life energy away.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not what I meant, but true enough. Also, have you tried not being so hot?¡± ¡°Can¡¯t help it, I¡¯m just figuratively the hottest. Just another burden of bein¡¯ perfect.¡± ¡°Sigh. The narcissism I have to put up with for cuddles¡­¡± ¡°And yet, ya still come back to me time ¡®n time again. ¡®Sides, ya can¡¯t even actually sigh? Gotta say the word instead?¡± ¡°I know, right? I¡¯m a sucker for a soft cuddle-ee. And I think it¡¯s funnier when I use onomatopoeia.¡± ¡°Literal sucker too, ya little temperature thief.¡± ¡°Think of it as a demonstration of a thermal gradient. You¡¯re warm, I¡¯m cold, nature abhors a gradient, et cetera, the temperatures equalize.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t give a shit ¡®bout your fancy words, hun.¡± ¡°Well, forgive me for trying to make it more appealing. Anyway, if you dislike it so much, why don¡¯t you just kick me off the couch?¡± ¡° ¡®m lazy.¡± This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°Really. You, of all people, making that excuse?¡± ¡°Fine, not really. I¡¯m enjoyin¡¯ it just peachy. And you¡¯re soft enough that it really makes up for anythin¡¯ else.¡± ¡°Perfect, I always wanted to be a living plushie.¡± ¡°Okay, I can do that. get squished, dear plush.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t breath but this feels so good okay please stop before I suffocate.¡± ¡°Whoopsie. So anyway, what was that about being greedy?¡± ¡°Uh¡­ oh, yes, that. How did you remember? I even forgot where I was going with that for a sec.¡± ¡°Just paying attention to my friend, yaknow?¡± ¡°Sure, let''s go with that. Okay, so, to be serious for a moment.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t know ya had it in ya.¡± ¡°Shush. Alright. I really do enjoy being with you, and it¡¯s lovely. You¡¯re funny, and kind, and all kinds of adorable.¡± ¡°Thanks, hun. You¡¯re pretty damn great yaself, yeah?¡± ¡°I know. Thanks.¡± ¡°So is there a but comin¡¯?¡± ¡°There is. I¡­ really like it here. But, it¡¯s still not enough. I miss home.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± ¡°Oh indeed.¡± ¡°Ya know you can¡¯t go back, right? Not without pretending to be somethin¡¯ you¡¯re very much not.¡± ¡°I know. And I don¡¯t intend to. Don¡¯t get me wrong, this isn¡¯t a serious want. I¡¯m here to stay.¡± ¡°But you ain¡¯t able to let go so easy?¡± ¡°Mhm.¡± ¡°Shame. But I get it, I really do. Our hearts are jerks sometimes, ain¡¯t they?¡± ¡°They really are.¡± ¡°C¡¯mere. We can have some more cuddles to fill the void a tiny bit, right darlin¡¯?¡± ¡°Sounds good to me.¡± Dexterous ¡°Dex save.¡± The table erupts into complaints, or rather, the players seated at it do so. Usually, furniture doesn¡¯t talk. ¡°Come on, dude, do I really need to? It¡¯s not even that dangerous.¡± ¡°Are you the DM or am I, Jane?¡± She grumbles a bit, but doesn¡¯t contradict Lily. ¡°Fine. Let¡¯s see, my bonus, uh, plus one.¡± ¡°Kind of low.¡± A third voice cuts in, coming from none other than Sasha, who sits across from Jane. Probably why he¡¯s so freely throwing shade at her. ¡°Well, excuse me, not everyone is a dex build.¡± Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. ¡°Your loss.¡± ¡°Listen, do you want healing or not?¡± She frowns at Sasha, only for him to respond with a stuck out tongue. ¡°Ahem. You¡¯re not the only healer here, also.¡± Tyler shrugs, after not contributing much at all. ¡°I don¡¯t know why you all insist on having healing when you just get one-shot anyway.¡± Lily observes, leading everyone to recall where their previous characters died in various horrible ways. ¡°I dunno. Just dodge it, guys.¡± Sasha grins, then addresses Jane and Tyler specifically. ¡°I don¡¯t need healing, I just need to not get hit.¡± Jane gives him an annoyed look. ¡°As long as I get a few levels in, it¡¯ll scale enough that we can shrug off stuff easily.¡± ¡°Ah, but that¡¯s dependent on you actually surviving that long.¡± Sasha winks, leaning back in his chair precariously. ¡°This is a ridiculously lethal tit arpug, to be fair.¡± Lily points at Jane. ¡°Still need to roll for that dex save, by the way.¡± ¡°Why the fuck do you pronounce it that way again? Just say t-t-r-p-g like the rest of us sane people.¡± Tyler asks, somewhat concerned by her state of mind. ¡°It¡¯s faster. Also, I like pissing uptight people off.¡± ¡°Okay, I¡¯m going to ignore that whole thing for my mental state¡¯s sake.¡± Jane then rolls one of her dice, drawing everyone¡¯s attention as it comes to a stop. Collectively, the table says, ¡°Shit.¡± Avoirdupois The merchant hefts the bone in her hands for a moment, then plops it on the scales. It drops precariously, making a heavy clang as one side of it impacts the table. As if to balance, her eyebrow goes up a proportionate amount. ¡°Well. That bodes well for you.¡± I snort. ¡°I certainly hope so. Damn near lost my life chasing it to the ends of the world.¡± She starts adding weights to the other side, but it shows no signs of budging. ¡°Not too much worse than usual, then.¡± I frown at her. The worst part is, it¡¯s not even wrong. ¡°Take that back. I practice safe treasure hunting.¡± She neglects to reply, instead pretending to adjust the weights she¡¯s using, even though I know for a fact that she¡¯s always been accurate to within an ounce with just eyeballing weights. Or, well, handing? Whatever the word would be. ¡°So? Are you going to regale me with tales of your fantastical exploits?¡± ¡°Maybe over drinks. Several of them, even.¡± I wonder if they¡¯ll have any new brews down at Vintner¡¯s. They usually come up with a new one every few months. ¡°Hmm, well, you see.¡± She pauses for a bit, trying to formulate something. ¡°Yes?¡± I go to fidget with my sword, because that¡¯s totally not threatening. Genuinely, though, it should be fine, I almost drop it a few times. ¡°There¡¯s a lot of people who go for the rugged adventurer look, but you¡¯re not my type.¡± I blink. Then blink a few more times. ¡°What? That¡¯s not what I was implying, sorry. I meant that I suck at story telling sober, it always comes out clipped and without enough details.¡± This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. She pauses, then shrugs. ¡°Oh. Okay.¡± After that, I don¡¯t know what to say. Sometimes, I just make things awkward. She finishes getting the scales perfectly balanced, and finally, writes down something on a nearby ledger. Probably confirmation. ¡°Well, that¡¯s clearly genuine. When will the rest of the skeleton get delivered?¡± I think for a second, counting on my hands. ¡°About three days?¡± ¡°Alright. I¡¯ll put your payment in escrow, and get you an advance for this specific piece.¡± She points at the bone. ¡°Sounds good, thanks.¡± ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª After about five drinks in, I¡¯ve gathered an approximately equivalent amount of audience members. ¡°So there I am, in this weird labyrinth, with only the bare minimum of supplies. Oh, and a dangerous, experimental mystery item that will be important later. But I digress. Finding my quarry seems like an unlikely idea, if I can¡¯t even find my way out.¡± There¡¯s a chorus of questions, all with the general desire to know what I did next. ¡°Well, the first thing I did was get lost. Really thoroughly, too.¡± This is my general plan, to be fair. It usually works out, except when it doesn¡¯t. ¡°Then, when I stopped to get a meal, I realized that I could hear movement in the next hall over. Turns out, the minotaur had been as lost as I was. Either that, or it was trying to eat me.¡± They wait expectantly, as I take another sip from my stein. ¡°The moment we were both aware of each other, we knew, too, that only one was to leave alive. It charged me nearly immediately, and I tried to stop it. But it was too big, too bulky, and I was sent flying, all my belongings scattering across the hall.¡± They wanted to know, then, how did I survive? Surely not in a straight fight. ¡°Oh, yes. As handy as I am with the sword, I was still no match, martially. Then my only hope lay in the¡­ lamp I had. Yes, indeed. It was supposed to be an item to emit bright light eternally, passed along from adventurer to adventurer forever. But there was a catch; the maker had never managed to stabilize his power source fully, and with enough smashing, it would go up like a forest in drought.¡± Confirming their suspicions, I continued my narration. ¡°And smash it we would! I got up, inchingly, desperately, and made as much distance between myself and the foul beast as possible. Then with all the might I had left, I threw it, just as he began to charge me once more. Their collision resulted in the most devastating blast, as if one of the gods themselves came down to smite us.¡± ¡°Both of you?¡± One person asked, perhaps wondering if she was talking to a ghost. I nodded sadly. ¡°Though I was saved, I did not escape unscathed. The blast knocked me back, breaking some of my bones and crushing my insides. My armor was for naught, it went through without a hitch. That took a lot of time and money to recover from. But I survived, and am all the more richer for it!¡± A cheer rose up from the crowd, and I basked in it, happy for a moment. But still, planning my next adventure, what I needed to survive it. Soon.