《Hit It Very Hard》 Chapter 1: Stormfront It''s late night in early November, the year 2050, and I am seriously getting frustrated by my lack of progress up this hill. With the skies above hammering down in the pitch dark, I am struggling to see five feet in front of the car while I''m driving even with the fog lights turned on. There''s so much water draining off the road down the hill into the forest below that I may as well be trying to drive through a shallow river. If I take too long out here the risk of dying in a mudslide is very real. I''m frustrated because I''m being forced to less than 10mph just to maintain traction. Any faster this and I''ll be skidding in place until the water flow carries me over the precipice. Mercifully, I believe I am close to my destination now. If I angle my head just right next to the window I can see the glow from the floodlights that ring the research facility. Common sense dictates that I shouldn''t be trying to drive in this weather, but I am compelled to reach my destination before midnight. If I''m not signed in before the calendar date changes, then the $2000 dollar express flight and $400 lease on this saloon, to say nothing of the effort to get out here on extremely short notice, would be wasted. Not only that, but I¡¯d miss out on the opportunity I travelled 6000 miles to take advantage of. Given the severity of the weather I might be able to convince them to let me in anyway, but even then I was supposed to have arrived 2 hours ago, and I don¡¯t want to push my luck any more than I already am by driving up this hill. I give brief consideration to putting some music on to lighten the mood but I need to concentrate on the road ahead, and even with the cacophonous rainstorm drowning out even my ability to think, sound is my best early warning of anything potentially dangerous like the aforementioned mudslide. I grit my teeth and turn what looks to be the last bend before I crest the plateau, spinning the wheel aggressively right, while in contrast, pressing delicately down on the accelerator. I can feel my rear wheels subtly drifting further along than I intended, skating across the water''s surface. The slope is alike to a rushing stream. The weight of the car is probably the only thing keeping me on the road. Spray from the water deflects off the slick tarmac and splatters on the windscreen in big fat gobbets, further obscuring my view of the road. If there¡¯s any debris mixed up in that it had better not chip the bodywork or I¡¯m going to lose my deposit. I can just picture that shit-eating service desk jockey smile the guy at the rental place will have as he hands me the bill. My grumbling is cut short as I finally reach the plateau the research facility I¡¯m here for a couple hundred yards down the road. Its design is the overly artistic, glass-walled kind that businessmen have been enamoured with for the better part of a century. Squat and square in basic form, with additional peaks and flourishes, the building rises a good 4 stories from the ground, and the perimeter is an imposing steel bar and barbed wire fence. The whole place is lit up like a Christmas festival, and I spy a small car park in front of the building with a few dozen expensive-looking vehicles ¨C and an unmarked truck. A light on the dashboard flashes on and a chipper ringtone starts to play as I approach the imposing front gates. Frowning I reach over and press a button on the touchscreen to take the call, confused as to who could possibly be calling me. ¡°Good evening,¡± says a distinctly hollow sounding man, ¡°You are approaching a secure facility. Please state your name and intent.¡± The voice is eerily sterile, immediately putting me in mind of a text-to-speech program, so I respond simply, ¡°Cyril Lancaster. I¡¯ve been invited to attend.¡± Seconds pass. ¡°Name and purpose verified. Please provide proof of your identity by speaking the passcode you received on: <11/10/50>. Our security team will perform a second check to confirm your identity on site. Please ensure that you have the appropriate paperwork to hand. Failure to comply or impersonation of: will result in legal action and the authorities will be contacted,¡± says the sterile voice. I stop the car in front of the gate and apply the handbrake, ¡°CL1378.¡± Another pause. ¡°Passcode accepted. Opening gate. Please proceed to the front desk for additional screening. Welcome: .¡± The call ends as a buzzer sounds, and the gate steadily sinks into the floor. I sigh in relief, ¡°Made it.¡± I lift my long coat over my head and hunch over as I sprint through the storm dragging my suitcase behind me and push through the door into a large, open reception. Letting my coat fall back down to my shoulders, I rub my dripping wet face. To the right is a ring of comfy looking art deco styled armchairs and a glass coffee table with a collection of this morning''s newspapers. I still find it fascinating that the printed version of these outlets still sees circulation, but I suppose the written word will never truly go out of style. Across the hall, behind the large front desk a door opens and a tired looking Indian fellow in a sharp looking shirt and tie enters the room with a wide smile, followed by a stone-faced blonde woman in body armour with holstered shockstick ¨C equal parts taser and nightstick. The man speaks up with a cheery cadence in a mild Australian accent, ¡°Ah, welcome! I must say I wasn''t expecting any more attendees to arrive. Mother Nature is a scary old woman, is she not?¡± His hands move expressively as he speaks, but the bags under his eyes and the slipshod way he''s knotted his tie tells me that his enthusiasm is forced. I probably forced him out of bed. I almost feel guilty, but my empathy is tempered by the shit I slogged through to get here before the day was out. ¡°When Sharon Jennings gives you an invitation to an exclusive event, a little rain isn''t a good reason to decline,¡± I chuckle, playing along with the small-talk. My joke elicits a polite laugh from the man, ¡°Too true, sir. Ah, would you mind if my colleague here checked your pockets and luggage? Standard security protocol, you understand.¡± I nod, and the stoic security approaches me with a metal detector as I turn out my pockets on the desk surface. ¡°My name is Sanjit,¡± he continues, taking a seat and typing his login details into the sleek computer, ¡°Welcome, again, to The Think Tank. We''ll just get you signed in, Mr...¡± He reaches up to the documents and ID I took out of my coat pockets, his eyebrows shooting up in shock, ¡°Mr Lancaster. Ah, I see. Your thesis on human-prosthetic interfaces was truly revolutionary. My cousin can dance again thanks to you.¡± This time his smile is genuine. It¡¯s a reaction I¡¯ve gotten pretty used to hearing when I introduce myself to people, and my reply hasn''t changed much since the first: ¡°Please, don''t give me too much credit. My theory may have broken the bottleneck, but I¡¯m not the one who put it into practice. You''d be better off thanking the engineers and programmers who made the limb.¡± ¡°So humble!¡± Sanjit exclaims, the security officer backing away from legal groping to rifle through my suitcase, ¡°But let¡¯s get back to the important bits. As your invitation told you, a room has been prepared for you. In the morning there will be a presentation at 8 am sharp, after which, breakfast will be brought to your tables ¨C if you made any specific requests when accepting the invite, the catering staff will do their best to accommodate you.¡±This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. I asked for a stack of pancakes and a jug of fruit punch. Nothing too fancy, although I¡¯m sure they''d have brought out a seared shark steak if I asked for one. I mean, maybe. ¡°No communication with the outside world is permitted for the duration of your stay,¡± He continues, obviously reciting a memorised list, ¡°And we are fully equipped to deal with any medical emergency you might suffer. Furthermore, the door to your room will be locked after you enter until 7:50 am when a member of staff will come to collect you and guide you to the meeting hall. In the event of a fire or similar emergency, the doors will either remain locked or else you will be escorted to a designated exit by a member of security. If you have any difficulties, your room has an intercom that is linked to the Pseudo-Intelligence which detected and contacted you on your approach to the gate.¡± ¡°Pseudo-Intelligence, you say? What¡¯s that?¡± I ask, staring out the corner of my eye at the woman as she paws through my spare briefs, feeling vaguely embarrassed. I don¡¯t envy her job, I¡¯m just glad they¡¯re clean. Sanjit clasps his hands together and smirks, ¡°Of course, everyone has heard of Artificial Intelligence, yeah? Well, a PI is like that, but without an ego or personality. It nigh-perfect mimicry of humanity''s ability to solve problems, from logical step-by-step progression common of simpler machines to bursts of inspiration. It was quite a breakthrough when it was created 12 years ago, but it¡¯s limitations, both intentional and not, have left it incapable of much more growth. Pill is, in essence, capable of thinking like a human - to a point - but lacks any emotional context for decisions. Honestly, I¡¯m impressed. Scientists the world over have been trying to understand how to create true AI for the better part of a century. Getting a machine to make non-deliberate leaps of logic is in itself amazing. And Sanjit says it¡¯s more than a decade old? Makes me wonder what they¡¯ve accomplished since then. ¡°It seems that I¡¯m in for a number of surprises here today. Hurricane Jonathan turning north this afternoon may turn out to be the least interesting thing about this trip,¡± I laugh. Sanjit doesn¡¯t respond verbally, just giving me a wink before typing some more into his computer. Just when I start to feel as though the damp is starting to seep through my clothes into my skin, the security officer stands up, handing my luggage back and giving me a curt nod, ¡°No problems here, Mr Spiderman.¡± Her face is deadpan, but seeing me wince, I think I see her smirking at me for a second. Sanjit pipes up, ¡°Mr Spiderman?¡± ¡°He has a pair of Spiderman-¡± ¡°Comics! I figured it would be a long flight over so I packed some reading material,¡± I interrupt, glaring at the woman. She stares back, amused. ¡°Well,¡± Sanjit coughs, obviously unconvinced, ¡°I should be able to get the rest of the paperwork squared away pretty quickly. If you don¡¯t mind can you show Mr Lancaster upstairs to his room? It¡¯s number 11.¡± The security officer nods, and waves for me to follow her to the elevator. I sigh, thank Sanjit, and follow after her. Standing in the fancy transparent elevator, the woman snorts a laugh, ¡°So...Spiderman, huh?¡± ¡°I will end you,¡± I growl, which only makes her laugh more.
My room is actually surprisingly spartan, given how over-designed the rest of the building has been. More akin to a college dorm room or prison cell than anything else. The fact that I¡¯m locked in here until morning makes me think the latter is a more appropriate comparison. I¡¯m honestly too tired to really care about the implications of that, but I can only imagine they don¡¯t want us wandering around looking for a bathroom and stumbling across company secrets. Not that I¡¯m entirely clear on what this facility is even for, just that the head researcher, Sharon Jennings is a world-renowned computer genius and her husband is the 4th richest man on the planet, and they¡¯ve sent some confidential invites to a carefully selected group of people - myself included, naturally. The room has a closet, a single neatly made bed, and a small ensuite bathroom. I waste no time in undressing, drying off and getting into bed. It¡¯s been a long day.
I¡¯m woken up by a buzzing noise coming from the intercom. ¡°Good morning, . The time is <7:30>. Please prepare yourself for collection in <20> .¡± After a quick shower, I comb my curly black hair straight and dress up in a suit and tie, complete with black and white moccasins, only to be interrupted in the middle of adjusting my tie by the door to my room being opened suddenly. In the doorway stands a young woman with an exceptionally sharp face in a businesswoman¡¯s attire, holding a tablet like a clipboard. I¡¯m getting flashbacks to highschool just looking at her. ¡°Good morning Mr Lancaster. My name is Shirley, and I will be escorting you to the main hall. Are you ready to go?¡± Her tone is certainly polite, but her bearing gives the sense that she expects the answer to be ¡®Yes¡¯. I nod almost on reflex, and follow her out into the corridor, fiddling with my tie as I go. Contrary to last night, we don¡¯t head to the elevator, but instead, follow the corridor past several other rooms into the second-floor veranda of an atrium that encompasses the back of the building. On the ground floor, a small stage and podium have been set up in front of a number of circular tables and chairs. About a dozen other people are milling around or sipping coffee. Shirley waits patiently at the top of a spiral staircase as I try to pick out any familiar faces among the crowd. But, having no such luck I descend the steps behind her. Half of the people present are making excited conversation around one of the tables closest to the stage. Sat down, nursing a mug is an exceptionally attractive Asian man in his mid-twenties. I don¡¯t know his name but he definitely seems like some kind of celebrity. I suppose that ignoring gossip columns and the like as a matter of personal dignity has decided to bite me in the ass at the strangest of times. Whatever. I¡¯m not planning on talking to them anyhow. Never been one for mingling at events like these. A few people turn their heads when they hear Shirley¡¯s heels clacking against the polished stone floor, but are distracted once again when another set of brisk footsteps can be heard approaching from behind the stage itself. A middle-aged man walks on stage, and immediately all the talking stops, as the gathered crowd of people regards the strangely dressed newcomer. I say, ¡®strangely dressed¡¯, but that¡¯s only in the context of who he is and what he¡¯d presumably come here to do. The man is instantly recognisable, even out of the loop as I am, as the fourth richest man in the world, Stephen Jennings, head of an empire of gaming developers, travel agencies, airlines and telecommunications. As well as experimental medicine, in recent years, according to rumour. The problem here, that several of us are having trouble processing, is that Mr Jennings is wearing what can only be described as pyjamas. Complete with old bunny slippers that have an ear missing from the left slipper. Eccentric doesn¡¯t seem to describe the first impression he¡¯s giving. Mr Jennings steps up to the podium and fiddles with something before tapping a microphone, ¡°Hello? Uhh..volume up a bit...Hello? There we go. Good Morning! Hope you all slept well?¡± He gives an awkward smile, stares at the microphone as if questioning its existence. Taking the silence as affirmation he continues, ¡°So, I¡¯m Stephen. You can call me Steve if you want.¡± He scratches his bedraggled hair and adjusts his glasses, ¡°And welcome, to my home!¡± Steve(?) spreads his arms wide and does a little spin, ¡°You¡¯re probably all brimming with curiosity as to why my wife decided to invite you all here. She¡¯s uhh..still in bed, though. Um, she¡¯ll have a one-on-one chat with you after breakfast. It¡¯s kind of a long story, really. But you aren¡¯t the first group of people invited here - although there¡¯s a few less than we were expecting thanks to Jonathan turning his bluster north for a bit. I hear we had a bit of a daredevil who went ¡®fuck that¡¯ and showed up anyway though.¡± He winks at me, as I take a seat, and I wave back, uncomfortable with the sudden attention. ¡°Gotta respect that. God knows I wouldn¡¯t be caught dead in that storm. Anyway, for the past 20 or so years, my wife and I have been working on a bit of a secret project. One that¡¯s, to be frank, cost us both billions of dollars. I don¡¯t know the exact figures - I sleep better not knowing - but this project is the culmination of thousands of talented professionals and supporters worldwide. Each of them, like you, has signed an ironclad confidentiality agreement...err..¡± He stops, staring at something on the podium for a moment, presumably his script, then clears his throat and starts again, ¡°Yeah, you¡¯ve all signed that. And we¡¯ve spent a lot of money keeping the project airtight. You were all rigorously vetted before we even considered contacting you, and we¡¯ve been keeping tabs on you since then to make absolutely sure that nothing pops up in the morning papers. Naturally, if you did, the story would be crushed, you wouldn¡¯t be allowed in and you¡¯d be getting a call from my lawyer army.¡± He smiles, and suddenly I¡¯m reminded of the kind of influence someone like him wields. Of course, I had basically no time at all to get packed and on the next flight, so the thought of running to the tabloids with this never crossed my mind. ¡°So congratulations on having integrity,¡± He claps, ¡°But I¡¯m getting off-topic. How about I ask you all a simple question, yeah?¡± The pause that follows is morbidly pregnant. ¡°Given the chance, would you like to become a hero?¡± Chapter 2: Disconnect/Reconnect Some of the audience starts muttering to each other, while Steve scratches his beard. Myself, I¡¯m not entirely sure how to respond to that. I can¡¯t say I hadn¡¯t been really into fiction when I was a teenager, and even a decade later I still have several shelves worth of classic fantasy and sci-fi literature. Nowadays, most people use e-readers for their novels, but collecting literature in book form is something of a hobby. I think about a third of my collection is autographed or first editions. Steve speaks up again and the murmuring ceases, ¡°Sorry, that¡¯s a bit of a loaded question, isn¡¯t it? Maybe being an evil mastermind, or something less contentious would be more your speed. Point is, my wife has had a dream since she was a little girl. To be that hero. The villain. The humble fisherman doing his best to get by in a world of chaos and magic. Not because she wanted prestige. But because, and this is what convinced me to marry and support her¡­¡± I lean forward, curious. ¡°There¡¯s not a lot of wonder and mystery left in the world,¡± he announces, frowning, ¡°The more we advance, the less there is to discover. There¡¯s no romance in it anymore. And since building a rocket and fucking off into space isn¡¯t what we¡¯d call the greatest idea without a destination in mind. To a world we don¡¯t know even exists, lightyears and generations away; We can only do as we always have. Make our own world. Our own adventures. Humanity might not be able to leave for the stars in our lifetimes, but what we can do is bring the stars to us.¡± A couple of people gasp, my eyes widen as I begin to see where he¡¯s going with this. The pieces of information I¡¯ve gathered up until now forming an answer. Pill the Pseudo-Intelligence. The money, the experimental medical research and the power couple¡¯s shared interest in video games and fictional realities. Emboldened, Steve continues, ¡°A few of you seem to understand what I mean already, but I¡¯ll spell it out. We have successfully invented Virtual Reality. Not that headset and haptic glove nonsense of yesteryear. True VR, and the AI to run it.¡± I can feel my eyes bulging, my heart rate soaring. They actually broke the singularity? ¡°You¡¯re all here, to play a game that will put that question to you again: Given the chance, would you be a hero? A villain? Or something in between? Free to choose your own path in a world of magic, who would you become? Would you even change at all?¡± Steve pauses and looks at each of us intently. We all squirm a little under the scrutiny. ¡°This will be your chance to find out who you really are. And play the single most complicated and expensively produced RPG ever created. You are the last group we will be inviting before we move to commercial launch - people to whom we owe much of our success to. Your stories will shape the history of Project: Eden - Actual name pending - that future players will experience. At the moment, we don¡¯t have the resources to make the game an MMO, and frankly, it¡¯ll be decades before it goes into full swing, as the industry we¡¯ve created expands and advancements are made. What we do have is a full experience. However, it is still a prototype - a precursor - of what¡¯s to come.¡± My mind is turning somersaults in overdrive, and my hands are shaking with excitement. This is amazing, truly, truly magnificent! The possibilities of this new technology are groundbreaking enough to herald a new age of humanity! The information age is dead, and Virtual Life is coming to take its place. Steve claps his hands together, ¡°Now, who wants breakfast? I¡¯m starving.¡±
A team of catering staff in pristine white uniform files out to the tables carrying a variety of dishes to each of the attendees, including a glorious stack of 5 thick pancakes and a gravy boat with warm maple syrup for me, and what I¡¯m pretty certain is a BLT sandwich for Steve, who has taken to sitting on the edge of the stage. Everyone else has dispersed amongst the arranged tables, meaning I now have two people sat at my own table. The first is a white woman with dyed red hair tied up in a bun eating a smoked kipper and salad wearing a frilly, bright yellow blouse, with a white corsage affixed to the left shoulder. Though intensely focussed on her food, the man sat opposite her manages to convince her to tell me her name - Alexis McDonnell - before she goes back to eating. The man, African I think, introduces himself as an author I¡¯ve heard of, Rhys Owusu. He wrote a fairly successful - if mostly forgotten - series of courtly intrigue-style novels inspired by old tribal politics. Apparently, Mr Jennings is a big fan of his work and set up a meeting with him about a decade ago to discuss it, then invited him out of the blue after years of silence yesterday. A literature nerd myself, I enjoy discussing recent trends in fiction with him as I eat when someone taps me on the shoulder. Turning around I see Shirley standing behind me, tablet at the ready like some sort of honour guard, ¡°Apologies for interrupting, but Mrs Jennings would like to speak with you now, Mr Lancaster. If you¡¯d be so kind as to follow me¡­¡± Surprised, I make to leave, but I still half of the pancakes left to eat. I hesitate to leave the greatest pancakes I¡¯ve had in my life unfinished, but Shirley sighs, ¡°You may take the pancakes with you, Mr Lancaster. Mrs Jennings will not be troubled, as she has stressed that this is to be a casual affair.¡± I waste no time in gathering up the plate and cutlery in one hand and waving farewell to Rhys & Alexis with the other. Rhys smiles and returns the gesture, but I¡¯m not convinced Alexis is even paying attention to the world beyond her plate. Not that I¡¯m one to judge her, given my attachment to these pancakes. Shirley leads me back behind the stage, and down a long glass corridor connecting to a second building, two stories tall, built similarly to the first. She presses a few buttons on a touchscreen panel next to the door at the end of the corridor and steps back, ¡°Mr Lancaster, and his...pancakes, here to see you, ma¡¯am.¡± From the other end of the intercom, I can hear shuffling fabric that sounds suspiciously like someone getting out of bed, before a woman¡¯s voice says, ¡°Come in. I¡¯ll be with you in a minute. Pill! Open the front door. Where did I lea-¡± The audio feed cuts, and the door slides open with a quiet beep. ¡°The dining area is on your left. Mrs Jennings will join you there. Excuse me,¡± Shirley bows slightly, and heads back to the atrium. Crossing the threshold, I step into what can only be described as someone¡¯s home. By the door is a coat rack, with several dozen pairs of shoes and boots at the base. Directly ahead is a large open kitchen with several open boxes of cereal on the countertop and the cardboard remains of a Chinese take-out. On my left is a small dining area with tall chairs and a huge flat screen tv monitor flush with the rock wall. On my right is a staircase leading up to an overhanging second floor. I take a seat in the dining area and get back to shovelling flapjacks down my throat. A voice from upstairs calls down when I¡¯m about to put a forkful into my mouth, ¡°Coming! Sorry about the wait.¡± The owner of the voice, Sharon Jennings, a woman in her early fifties, descends the staircase quickly, blonde hair bouncing behind her in a trail. She, unlike her husband, has actually bothered to put respectable clothes on, a tailor-fit white shirt and black pants. I¡¯ll just ignore that she called me here from her bedroom and didn¡¯t get up until I was knocking on the metaphorical door. Sharon Jennings. A world-renowned physicist, and principal creator of the Crystal physics engine that dominated the gaming market almost 30 years ago. She married her husband shortly after he bought her company. And that¡¯s about the extent of my knowledge. I mostly know her as one of the pillars of my teenage years spent playing video games, a major influence on how I¡¯ve grown as a person, albeit indirectly. Mid-approach, Mrs Jennings stops, ¡°Oh, those look delicious. Pill!¡± ¡°Confirmed,¡± responds a slightly too loud monotone voice. ¡°Ask the canteen to send in another stack of pancakes with some bacon, and a pot of coffee, please. Also, turn your voice down by two in the house.¡± ¡°Order received. Communicating...Orders given. Estimated time of arrival <10> .¡± Mrs Jennings nods, satisfied, then smiles apologetically at me, ¡°Sorry, my stomach came before my manners. I¡¯m Sharon, and I must say, Mr Lancaster, that I owe you a massive debt, which I¡¯m sorry I couldn¡¯t pay back sooner.¡±If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. She takes a seat across from me. My confusion must be a sight to behold because a second of looking directly at me makes her laugh heartily, ¡°Sorry for sounding cryptic. I¡¯m honestly glad to finally have a chance to talk to you. That thesis of yours has had wider ramifications than you probably ever realised. Honestly, I find myself curious why you¡¯re a Mister and not a Doctor. I heard rumours, but nothing conclusive.¡± I grimace, and shove another chunk of now cold pancake in my mouth and chew, thinking about how much I should really tell her. It¡¯s not really something I¡¯m all that proud of, and given my reputation, it¡¯s often better to let that side of things stay buried. ¡°It¡¯s...kind of embarrassing to talk about¡­¡± I say, carefully, ¡°But to put it bluntly, I flunked out.¡± Now it¡¯s Mrs Jennings¡¯ turn to be shocked, ¡°You flunked out? A bright young mind like you?¡± I decide to bite the bullet and tell her everything, ¡°I¡¯m not anywhere near as smart as my reputation would have you believe. The thesis that made me famous is something I threw together a couple days before the deadline after 13 shots of espresso. I figured I could convince my professor to let me try again if I handed something that looked reasonably finished in, so I just bullshitted about how the brain perceives the body for 280 pages. Pulled a bunch of articles off the internet for research. It was such a horrendous mess, my professor kicked me off the course for failing the task so hard. I was already on thin ice as it stood. It wasn¡¯t until it was put under peer review that someone noticed something of value.¡± I polish off the pancakes, ¡°And the rest is history. Engineers and programmers had spent years trying to track down why robot prostheses had such a high rejection rate, and here I come along, a delirious college student jacked up on an unhealthy amount of caffeine, and unwittingly solve it without even meaning to. The idea that the brain perceives the entirety of the arm, not just the muscle and sensory input just never occurred to them. Once they started digging deeper into that line of thought, suddenly the bottleneck was broken. I didn¡¯t even find out until almost year later when a reporter tracked me down to my shitty old apartment for an interview. I¡¯ve been living quietly off the patent ever since.¡± Mrs Jennings smiles, ¡°I believe the term for that is serendipity, Mr Lancaster. And I do believe you are selling yourself short. Thanks to you, tens of thousands of people can walk comfortably again. We may not be in an age where true cyborgs roam the world, but even that is only a matter of time. If and when that happens, you will be the one people look back and remember, even if you''re not the one who designed the technology. But more than that, you helped solve a very real problem we¡¯d been struggling with.¡± ¡°You mentioned that. What did you mean?¡± I frown. ¡°You¡¯re familiar with Phantom Limb Syndrome, yes? A part of your thesis mentioned it as evidence.¡± ¡°Melzack¡¯s paper. I remember.¡± ¡°Well,¡± she tilts her head, ¡°The main problem facing anyone trying to create a true VR experience is interrupting the connection between consciousness, perception, and body, then transplanting the ¡®Self¡¯ onto a second body without severing the connection with the original. We were able to simulate dreams in our early models for the system. The problem was that the subject wasn¡¯t able to fully immerse in the Avatar construct, and in a number of cases, could feel both bodies simultaneously, which led to several instances of either sensory overload or disconnect.¡± I grimace, trying to imagine what it would feel like to be stabbed in the arm in one body, whilst being perfectly fine - other than feeling an itch on your foot - in reality. The conflicting signals would play havoc with the brain¡¯s ability to process information. They¡¯d be feeling limbs that weren¡¯t there, and those ¡®limbs¡¯ (really, an entire body) would cause immense discomfort, if not outright agony. ¡°I think I understand. In tricking the brain to accept prosthetic limbs as the original, you found a way to trick the brain into thinking that the real body wasn''t there and the virtual construct was the real body. Then you completely disconnected the mind from reality without the brain even realising it was moved. A controlled coma, almost,¡± I say, after a minute of thought. ¡°See? You¡¯re a smart cookie,¡± Mrs Jennings smirks, ¡°You just figured out what took a team of thousands of doctorate holders 6 years and millions of dollars of funding in less than 5 minutes.¡± I feel my face flush, unaccustomed to such high praise. Let alone from someone like her. ¡°Well, I admit I did lead you to the right answer, but I can¡¯t help but regret not getting you onto the project back when we were still struggling with that. Obviously, it¡¯s a lot more complicated than what you just hypothesised, but you¡¯ve got the idea of it.¡± ¡°To be honest, it¡¯s been years since I¡¯ve even thought about any of this,¡± I say, leaning back into the chair, feeling oddly comfortable with the conversation. I''m reminded of debates with my old college roommate. ¡°Such a shame. But enough about the past for now. Let¡¯s talk about the present.¡± The front door opens again and in walks one of the chefs from before, a tall, moustached man, carrying a plastic tray with Mrs Jennings¡¯ order. ¡°Ah, excellent. Thank you, Jimmy, they look perfect,¡± she smiles, getting up to take the tray off the man a good 4 inches taller than her. He bows his head briefly, then promptly turns to leave with nary a word. Taking her seat again, Mrs Jennings sets the tray down and picks up her knife and fork, ¡°Although I¡¯m reasonably confident you¡¯ll accept, we¡¯ve called you here to be the last people to test the game and technology before we release the patent and trailer, and start working on turning it into a commercial version. The game itself is complete, and we have a couple dozen machines ready to go. But creating and maintaining it all is a massive amount of capital, as well as space. It¡¯ll be a number of years before we officially go to market, with a number of facilities similar to this one dotted around the world equipped with several hundred VR machines ready for extensive play sessions - at a rather hefty price tag I might add.¡± She puts a bite of syrupy pancake in her mouth and moans a little, ¡°Sho good..." I raise an eyebrow. "Uh, sorry," She apologises, sheepish, "I¡¯ll be candid with you, Mr Lancaster, this is a passion project of mine. I¡¯ve spent billions of my husband¡¯s money bringing this dream into reality, and as popular as the finished product will be, it will never be able to recover the investment, even though our exact business model is still a work in progress. But that was never the point. I just want to bring a little wonder back into our lives. And Stevie is a bored man with entirely too much money on his hands. Neither of us will regret it, not at this point. We¡¯ve talked to authors, architects, doctors, athletes, martial artists...all kinds. Talented, passionate people. But each and every one of them, when asked what they want from life has said essentially the same thing. ¡®I want more.¡¯¡± I pour myself some coffee, and swirl the black tar around the cup, ¡°I can get that. Humans are ever greedy. I want in. This is the sort of opportunity I¡¯d have killed for as a teenager. Hell, I still might. Lots of people would, actually. Whether its a success or a failure, this is going to be a monumental time in history. That¡¯s what I think.¡± At this a complicated look forms on Mrs Jennings¡¯ face, ¡°I¡¯d thank you not to joke about that. I¡¯m-We¡¯re already well aware of the lengths some people are going to go to have a taste of Project Eden¡¯s apples. It¡¯s not something I¡¯m looking forward to.¡± I nod, ¡°Sorry. I¡¯m not really known for my tact.¡± She waves her fork at me, ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it.¡± ¡°So, what can you tell me about this game? I gather that it¡¯s supposed to be a swords & sorcery RPG affair?¡± ¡°There¡¯s a lot of information I can¡¯t really give you. To begin with, I don¡¯t fully understand the game myself. It¡¯s curated and populated by dozens of AI of varying complexity in a persistent world. Even now, thousands of fictional characters, portrayed by AI are living out their lives in the game, in an ever-evolving world. We have hundreds of data banks going miles underground working constantly to maintain it. Our technicians work around the clock feeding gallons of liquid oxygen into the coolant system to keep the hill we¡¯re on melting into a silicon volcano, and our private electrical grid can power New York for almost a week. The scale is truly monstrous, and the majority of our spending.¡± Mrs Jennings takes a long draught of her coffee, then continues, ¡°What I can tell you, is that yes, it¡¯s a High Fantasy setting. The world is called Eden, and it is home to a number of different sentient species and a wide variety of monsters. There are 5 main continents, with about 100 different countries when I checked the logs a week ago, though that may have changed since then. It features an extensive, intuitive skill and class acquisition system. Performing specific actions, meeting certain conditions and so-on can get you new abilities that help define your character. As for your actual character themselves, they¡¯ll be created from the ground up by you as a native of the land in an act of cosmic editing.¡± She winks, ¡°We won¡¯t be doing that in the release version though. Players after launch will be in a different situation.¡± ¡°How so?¡± I ask. ¡°That would be spoilers, Mr Lancaster,¡± She grins. I silently wonder why she even mentioned it in that case, then ask a couple of questions I¡¯ve been sitting on since I heard this would be a game, ¡°How do you handle player character death? How about the roleplaying aspect?¡± ¡°Assuming no interference from other people, death is permanent. You only get one shot with a character, so no Leroy-ing into a dragon¡¯s mouth, alright?¡± She snickers, ¡°As for the roleplaying? It¡¯s mandatory. You can play as yourself if you wish, but only within the context of the world of Eden. Whatever your goals or actions, the world will react accordingly. Also, there is no easy way to tell whether you¡¯re talking to another player or an NPC.¡± ¡°Understood. Sounds fine to me. Cheapening death is one of the fastest ways I know to destroy immersion and interest in a character,¡± I muse, ¡°Though I must say I¡¯m curious how you handle the player¡¯s absence, in that case. I¡¯m sure that prolonged play won¡¯t be much of a problem, but what about after? What if they need to, just as an example, attend a funeral in real life? Do they just, I don¡¯t know, vanish?¡± ¡°In your case, you will be ¡®under¡¯ for the full duration of your character¡¯s lifetime - game time, just for the record, moves at several times that in reality. One of the things we¡¯re testing for is the viability of such an approach, as well as the short and long-term effects on players - in essence, we want to know if it¡¯s safe to let them stay the full time, or if we need to break it up. There¡¯ll be a more official talk about all that later on when we hand out the next round of paperwork. In the event of an emergency, however, we will pause the simulation for you and wake up all the players in the session. It is, after all, still a computer program,¡± She finishes her plate. ¡°Having said that, when we expand the number of facilities and available machines, we will have to come up with a new solution.¡± I scratch my chin, ¡°When do we start?¡± ¡°Tomorrow.¡± Chapter 3: Who I Am After that, Mrs Jennings insists on making small-talk for another 15 minutes before her husband walks in and reminds her that she still has the other people she invited to talk to, and I bid farewell. I pass Ms McDonnell and Shirley in the corridor on the way back to the atrium and am met by the collective stares of the gathered crowd. ¡°Hey, what were you doing in there?¡± Asks the abnormally handsome guy I took note of earlier, not quite demanding or overly arrogant, but with a force of certainty that comes with supreme self-confidence. I shrug, ¡°Just chatting with Mrs Jennings.¡± His charisma isn¡¯t really impressive enough to sway my eternally curt speech. I¡¯ve also talked more in the past half hour with Sharon than I have in the last 5 years. Or at least, it feels like I have: I¡¯m exhausted. Another member of the inquisition pipes up - a small middle-eastern woman with entirely too much jewellery I think I recognise as a Bollywood actress, ¡°What did you talk about?¡± ¡°My old thesis. Stories from when she was developing games back in the ¡®20s. You¡¯ll all get your turn, apparently.¡± ¡°What¡¯s she like?¡± This time Rhys chimes in with a question. ¡°You¡¯ll find out when you meet her, I guess. Either way, I¡¯m going back to my room for a bit. I¡¯ve got to fill out some more paperwork in an hour or so.¡± I don¡¯t wait around for anyone to object, briskly walking on toward the staircase, ignoring the indignation I leave behind me. I¡¯m just not in the mood to keep talking. I¡¯ve got a lot of shit on my plate, and I need some time to myself to process it all. It takes me a minute to figure out how I¡¯m supposed to get back in my room before I think to ask Pill to let me in. The PI complies, and I enter, collapsing face-first into the unfamiliar smelling bed. The tension of the last hour drains out of me as I check the time on my wristwatch. ¡®So¡­.True Virtual Reality. Thousands of Turing grade AI living out lives in a simulated fantasy RPG.¡¯ I roll over and stare at the white ceiling, running a hand through my hair. I can hardly believe it, but supposedly I¡¯ll see the proof of it first-hand tomorrow after I¡¯ve signed off on a whole stack of legal waivers, confidentiality agreements and whatever else the ¡®lawyer army¡¯ has cooked up. It¡¯s not escaped my notice that for the duration of the test, the Jennings Investment Association will practically own my entire existence. Also worth consideration, is that while Sharon assured me that the technology, whilst a prototype is basically fully functional and safe, there remains a risk to mind and body. Even if nothing goes wrong, living a whole life as someone else, even if I don¡¯t roleplay as someone else, is going to have drastic and permanent effects on who I am and how I perceive reality. When all is said and done, will this truly be reality to me anymore? I¡¯m reminded of an old British tv show where a comatose police officer wakes up after months, having experienced a lucid dream the whole while, only to feel such a disconnect that he¡¯d rather commit suicide to return to the dream than live his old life again. It¡¯s something a lot of drug addicts experience as well, I think. It¡¯s a sobering thought. A bucket of cold water dunked over my earlier excitement. The Jennings didn¡¯t exactly talk about the risks involved. Not in the pitch Steve gave in the atrium, nor in the one-on-one with Sharon. But I don¡¯t doubt for a second they¡¯re not aware of it. They may have even had testers in the past that suffered these problems, and as candid as they are I also doubt that they¡¯d be too eager to talk about it whether it happened or not. This is their life¡¯s work, their dream, their passion. They need this to work or else all the time, effort and money they¡¯ve poured into it become a meaningless waste that some other schmuck will salvage for their own vision of VR. In the end, what I¡¯ve got to decide is whether I want to trust them and drink the delicious Kool-Aid they¡¯re offering us. I guess that I could probably discuss this with the others, maybe hear their perspectives on it all. But I can¡¯t help but think back to Steve¡¯s speech. Given the chance, who would I become? To be brutally honest, my life as it is isn¡¯t really going anywhere. I¡¯ve secreted myself away in an apartment in North Dakota, reading old fantasy novels and wasting time on a space exploration MMO. I don¡¯t have many friends, and my parents died of old age last year. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll be missed if the worst happens. ¡°In the end, who am I?¡± I ask aloud. In high school, I was never bullied, despite looking like the quintessential nerd. It¡¯s not that nobody tried, it¡¯s that I met hostility head-on. When the stereotypical thug and his cronies from my grade tried to extort my lunch money out of me by cornering me in the men¡¯s bathroom, the teachers had to pull me off them after I fought literally tooth and nail, biting a chunk of Andy Michaels¡¯ ear off in the process. After that, and a three-week suspension, I gained a reputation as someone to be avoided. People I thought were my friends were forced to abandon me by peer pressure, and making new ones was basically impossible. To this day, I¡¯m amazed that my college accepted me with an incident like that on my resume. Of course, I fucked that up anyway, but ever since that incident, I¡¯ve felt like I was holding myself back. I wanted to fight like that again, but the world being what it is, I would never be able to satisfy my aggression without turning to a life of crime. I picked up boxing for a few months in college, but that just made it harder to keep my head above water with my studies so I ended up quitting. ¡°Laying it all out on the table, there¡¯s really only one answer to all this,¡± I sigh, knowing that for better or worse, I¡¯ve made my decision. I sit up, lips peeled back in a toothy grin, ¡°Let¡¯s play!¡±
An hour and a half later, I¡¯m sat with Ms McDonnell, Shirley and a lawyer in an office on the third floor of the main building, with a 5-inch stack of paperwork in tiny font, separated by coloured sticky notes. Though books have mostly gone out of style, paperwork has endured, to my eternal dismay. ¡°If you have any questions or concerns, don¡¯t hesitate to ask,¡± the lawyer, a grey-haired old man in an incredibly expensive suit, tells us. McDonnell groans, pinching the bridge of her nose, ¡°The Lord save me from paperwork.¡± I murmur an agreement, sucking in air and reaching for the first document. As expected, the documents all boil down to the following points: I understand that in participating in the test, I put myself at risk of physical and mental harm. In the event of an accident during testing, I cannot prosecute the company or staff, but on-site treatment or counselling will be made available should I require it. I cannot talk about anything I experienced here with anyone at any point until the game is released to the public, or I will face an extortive fine. Records of my feedback, brain and body functionality - as well as my in-game experiences - will be retained for study indefinitely. I cannot leave The Think Tank until the testing period is over unless specifically instructed by authorised personnel. I must maintain civil conduct with staff. Any complaints should be given to management or the Jennings. I must disclose full details when giving feedback. And so on, and so on. All in all, the terms they¡¯re laying down are fair, but the slog of reading through each and every clause, corollary and subsection is something I could do without. When I¡¯m done, a good three hours later, I throw my pen on the conference table and sink into my chair with a loud grunt, and I notice that a few more people have since joined me and Ms McDonnell in the room. She gives me a tired smile before going back to her now greatly diminished pile. She had a headstart on me, but I guess a lifetime of reading literature has made me more efficient than she is. I give her a pitying look as I hand over the files to Shirley, who passes it along to the lawyer who I¡¯m pretty certain has been playing solitaire on his laptop this whole time. I can just about see it in the reflection given by the glass wall behind him. Bastard. After that, Shirley escorts me to an adjacent office where Steve, now dressed in a slightly more respectable t-shirt and jeans, is sat behind the simple wooden desk reading a tattered science fiction novel, ¡°Oh, hello Shirley. Didn¡¯t hear you come in. And a hello to you Mr Lancaster! You look like you¡¯ve run a marathon.¡± I grunt, taking the seat in front of the desk and sinking into the thick padding, ¡°If I hold my arm out now I¡¯d probably try to sign my signature on your face.¡± ¡°Sorry about that,¡± he laughs, ¡°But I have to cover my ass, yeah? Pill, could you call Matthew Tildon to Shirley¡¯s office?¡± ¡°Confirmed. Orders¡­.given. Estimated time of arrival <2> .¡± ¡°That will be all Shirley, Jake is next door, so you can take the next candidate to him,¡± He gestures to Shirley with his phone is a sort of shooing motion. She nods stiffly and leaves the room. Steve relaxes into his chair as she leaves, ¡°Great. I won¡¯t take up much of your time, I just need to give you a couple things and tell you the schedule for today and tomorrow. I¡¯d have someone else do this, but the storm has left us a little understaffed until the authorities deal with the flooding on the roads, yeah?¡± Steve stares at me for a moment, ¡°¡®course that isn¡¯t going to dissuade some people. But at my age, that¡¯s just not good for my heart. I went hiking in the Himalayas last year, and let me tell you, my heart damn near exploded out my chest when one of the spikes came loose. I¡¯m lucky to still be alive!¡± I shrug, ¡°When someone like you tracks someone like me down and invites them to a place like this, I¡¯d be a fool to not do my utmost to attend. And if what you¡¯re doing here is the real deal, a fool is the kindest thing I could call myself for missing out.¡± Steve guffaws, ¡°Hah! That¡¯s the spirit! I¡¯m looking forward to watching what adventures you get into if that¡¯s your attitude!¡± He drops his phone on the desk and leans back, picking something up from the floor. ¡°This,¡± he waggles a small, booklet, ¡°Is a primer of the commonly known lore of Eden. Stuff you¡¯d be expected to know no matter who you are or where you live. A lot of it should be familiar to you if you¡¯ve played RPGs or read fantasy novels in the past. I highly recommend you spend the next few hours studying it.¡±Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. I take the book, actually a tablet made to look like a book, and pocket it. ¡°As for the schedule - you can ask Pill if you forget any of this, it knows all your appointment times - Lunch will be at 1, Dinner at 7, and you have to go speak to the Avatar team to get your character mo-¡± Steve is interrupted by a knock at the door, though briefly annoyed, his breezy smile returns within seconds, ¡°Come in.¡± A short balding man of advanced years enters the small office, his shirt a little too tight around the gut, ¡°You wanted to see me, sir?¡± ¡°Matthew, meet Cyril Lancaster. I¡¯m almost done, so you get to talk to him about his character bio and walk him through the lore after.¡± I proffer my hand to him and shake it, his skin feels like paper and the way it shifts over his bones makes me slightly queasy. It¡¯s similar to shaking hands with a well-cooked rack of short ribs - the meat just flakes off the bone. For the sake of propriety, I try not to let my discomfort show. ¡°I¡¯ll just wait here then,¡± he smiles. Steve nods and continues, ¡°You need to visit the Avatar team at 8 to get your in-game character model made. Then it¡¯s back to your room for an early start tomorrow at 7. You¡¯ll have a quick medical check-up, to make sure you¡¯re still fit to test and so we have a baseline with which to monitor your condition during the session. Any questions?¡± ¡°None that I can think of. For now, anyway.¡± ¡°Awesome. Matthew, he¡¯s all yours,¡± Steve claps his hands together and gives Matthew double finger guns. Mama, I¡¯ve found a man who is more of a worthless dork than I am. Are you proud of me now?
I follow Mr Tildon to the elevators, which we take below the ground floor in silence. I feel like I should make conversation with him, but his impatience in reaching our destination makes it difficult. Despite his short stature, bulging stomach and advanced age, he walks at a brisk pace that belies his physical condition. He power-walks out the elevator and around a corner into a large room which closely resembles a library, with several people working at desks typing into computers in the middle of the room. The walls are lined from floor to ceiling with books. A rolling staircase rests in the back, with even more books stacked on it like a makeshift shelf. Not stopping, Mr Tildon walks down the middle of the rows of desks to a large crescent-shaped one at the end. I follow him behind, slower, marvelling at the number of books on display. My collection, in comparison to this, is like a puddle next to a lake. It¡¯s not the largest collection I¡¯ve ever seen, it¡¯s not the Library of Congress, but it is the largest private collection I¡¯ve seen in person. The smell of old paper is strong, and the humidity of the air in the room is notably different from out in the corridor. After a minute spent reading out, I approach the large desk. Mr Tildon has made himself comfortable already and stares at me expectantly. ¡°You like books,¡± He says, not as a question but a statement of fact. ¡°Yup. I¡¯ve got a pretty good collection, but this just makes it as though my efforts are somehow inadequate. If I wasn¡¯t already going to be participating in the test, I¡¯d have loved to spend a month or two in here just reading,¡± I tell him, honestly a little disappointed. He cracks a small smile, ¡°Glad to see that appreciation for the written word isn¡¯t dead just yet. To be honest, about half of these were written in-house by myself and my team here over the past 30 odd years. They probably won¡¯t see the light of day for another 30 or in my lifetime either, which I can¡¯t help but find a shame. Of course, we have digital copies as well, but you could call this room my vanity. There¡¯s just something gratifying about physically seeing how far we¡¯ve come since Sharon hired us all those years ago. The rest is research material.¡± I feel my jaw slacken, ¡°There must be close to a thousand books in here!¡± ¡°1782 and counting, actually. Not all of it is substantial in content, but you wouldn¡¯t be able to tell just by looking at the shelves.¡± He clears his throat, ¡°But we¡¯re not here so I can show off. We¡¯re here to help you create your character¡¯s backstory and integrate it into the simulation for tomorrow. Our ability to ¡®edit¡¯ the world is fairly limited, so you can¡¯t make it too complicated or it¡¯ll cause a massive chain reaction that will obliterate the...for lack of a better term, the ¡®canon¡¯ of Eden¡¯s history and current events.¡± I nod along, ¡°Mr Jennings gave me a primer on the commonly known lore. I was expecting I¡¯d be able to read it first, before I made a character, though I do have something in mind already.¡± ¡°The Lore Primer is more of a gimmick Stephen came up with to seem cool if you ask me. It¡¯s just a collection of general revision notes you can refer back to later. I¡¯ll tell you what I think you need to specifically know to play your character.¡± Nodding again, I decide to kick off the lecture with a question, ¡°So where do we start?¡± Mr Tildon scratches his chin, contemplative, before taking a deep breath, ¡°I suppose the best place to start is with The Origin. It¡¯s a widespread belief that the world is presided over by godlike entities representing primal concepts like Life, Death, Force and so on. These entities were once part of The Origin, and have since split apart for reasons unknown. These entities, whilst powerful, were not possessed of Ego. They simply existed. But they did not exist peacefully. By their natures, they conflicted and rejected anything, not of itself. From this conflict, shards of the ideas fell further into the abyss and formed stars. Some shards formed together to create intelligent Gods who were also by their natures compelled to conflict and reject those in opposing aspect. Through these conflicts, the destruction of many stars and the eventual sealing of The First Ideals in their own separate realms, Eden was formed, and life flourished, presided over by the surviving Gods, now greatly diminished in strength. They turned to mortal worship in order to redefine their existences; So as society progressed and the minds of those mundane fools became more sophisticated and complex, the Gods, once pure, came to resemble the people below.¡± I close my eyes and recite it back in my head, ¡°So that¡¯s the game¡¯s creation myth, is it?¡± ¡°Indeed,¡± Tildon affirms. ¡°Is it true?¡± I ask, eyebrow raised. ¡°Gods do exist, and small ethereal crystals known as Yddr which inspire certain qualities in those who hold them, though extremely rare have been discovered once or twice in recorded history. As for whether or not it is true, you will have to form your own opinions. Just know that the major religions of Eden treat this as gospel,¡± He responds smugly, his face giving away nothing. I file away the possibility of someone on high lying to their followers in the back of my mind for later consideration. ¡°So what about society and the dominant races? Who do we get to play?¡± ¡°Though admittedly lazy, the standard fantasy race tropes are present on Eden due to Stephen¡¯s insistence, despite my own feelings on the matter. With respect to Tolkien, the tropes he created and codified are..overused. But Stephen is very much a traditionalist, and he¡¯s the one who pays me an exorbitant amount of money to be his chimp on a typewriter, so I must swallow my pride. There are Humans, not as numerous in population as some fiction, though little different from our own culture. They are split amongst 6 kingdoms in the northern continent of Arglon and are almost always at war with one another over something. Most commonly control of a large inland plain which sits in the centre of 4 of the 6 kingdoms. Dwarves are everywhere. They pursue the perfection of the crafts and hoard knowledge almost religiously. It is a common saying that to pry a dwarf¡¯s lips open one must use their own pickaxe. They have the most kingdoms of all the races, but several of them are nomadic - wandering the world in search of ancient knowledge and the finest materials above or below ground. They have a slightly longer lifespan than the average human, but they have a far tougher time living to that age due to their reckless pursuit of perfection. Elves are, thank the powers that be, not confined to deep forest canopies. I was able to convince Stephen to give up on that old stereotype at least. The Elves are a mountain-dwelling species that form elaborate cities above the clouds. They have weak constitution due to spending most of their time in the thinner atmosphere away from most other life, but their agility in the mountain ranges is unparalleled. An elven ranger can scale a landslide in less than 30 seconds, with no equipment, where the same feat would take an experienced mountain climber from our world up to an hour of slow and careful progression. They have a reputation for being stubbornly reclusive, and new settlements are being discovered by other races even in modern times. Basv?l, or Beastfolk, are divided into two types across a number of subspecies: Follbas, also known as High Beasts or Full Beastfolk, are close to the animals they represent. Most are feral, but some form tribes, and of those, a few have advanced to a manner of civilisation reminiscent of aborigines. Though usually seen as primitive, they are powerful, highly observant and cunning. Tribal Follbas are not by any means stupid, but their feral cousins have given them a bad name, and years of persecution for the transgressions of the ferals have made them highly territorial and suspicious of outsiders. Munbas, known more commonly as Earkin, is the derivative of Follbas. For one reason or another, they are descended from subjects of cross-breeding experiments between Follbas by an ambitious long-dead mage-queen, and another species. Most commonly humans, who they closely resemble. They have a fairly even standing with humans, but the survival rate of births to Munbas are atrocious, as even generations later, their bloodline is still unstable and leads to grotesque, crippling mutations in 2 out of every 5 babes. They generally adopt the culture of their parents. Half-Elves are more or less the same as Munbas, but are held in higher regard due to how uncommon it is for humans to interact with an Elf, which most human commoners hold in awe. Selms, are a race of lizardmen, who are just as comfortable in the water as out. Though many assume them to be a variant of Follbas, they insist that they were created by their patron deity, the God of Nature to serve as custodians of the natural order. Their culture is similar to that of Celtic druids. A peculiar quirk of their species is that the more adept at magic the individual, the larger their bodies, with the average Selm standing at barely 5 feet tall. Only one empire exists, but they have villages and towns wherever nature flourishes. Gurn are, functionally, a mix between orcs and ogres, appearing like humans, but averaging 6 and a half feet tall, with grey skin and small horns on their shoulders they pierce and ornament with the emblem of their clans. They mostly congregate on the central continent of Lirt, but they maintain a port town on Arglon that is considered mostly neutral and the best place to hire mercenaries. As for their hat, they don¡¯t take kindly to oathbreakers, taking contracts as almost sacred. If you enter into an agreement with a Gurn, you do so in the knowledge that they feel honour-bound to complete their end, and expect the same of you. Oathbreakers are hunted down by special assassins from the Gurn¡¯s clan, and a rib is taken for each promise broken. These ribs are kept by the clan head on a huge tapestry which they hang in their conference halls as a warning to negotiation partners.¡± Mr Tildon takes a deep breath, reaches for a bottle of water and drinks greedily. The races sound pretty standard, but I do actually admire his interpretation of Elves. It¡¯s certainly a novel idea, that keeps the spirit of the classic interpretation. I can¡¯t help but feel a deep desire to find my way up to one of their cities. The view from up there must be majestic. ¡°That all sounds pretty awesome, really. I assume each race has their own traits and abilities, like magical affinity and the like?¡± I ask after a moment¡¯s consideration. ¡°Correct. Though to avoid excessive metagaming, the traits will only be revealed once you¡¯re in the game, and the traits available depend on the individual character,¡± he explains. ¡°What about monsters? Dungeons and the like? I assume they exist.¡± Mr Tildon takes another swig of water and puts the bottle back to one side, resting his chin on the knuckles of his left hand, ¡°They do. Monsters are semi-magical in nature and show up in areas dense with ambient magic. If the density of that magic reaches a certain point, a ¡®dungeon¡¯, known locally as a Trial Ground is formed, it¡¯s nature dependent on the area it forms in. A Trial Ground will gain more and more mana over time until eventually the structure bursts, blighting the surrounding area and releasing the hordes of monsters contained within. Specialist magic users are employed by the governments of the world to track down and contain these wild Trial Grounds and either force them into a more traditional dungeon or in extreme circumstances, purge them. The main difference between monsters and dangerous wildlife is that when slain, a monster¡¯s mana and will crystallizes inside the corpse. If not properly dealt with the monster will revive later on, but if killed directly by one of the sentient races, the warrior in question will gain an extra burst of experience points. Mercenaries and Adventurers are frequently hired to deal with them, but some smaller countries prefer to have their armies do it. It¡¯s wholly dependent on the area.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the difference between a Mercenary and Adventurer? They¡¯re practically the same thing, as far as I¡¯m concerned,¡± I ask, interested. Adventurers in traditional literature tend to be work-for-hire. The way he said the two words implied they were something special. He picks up a pen and paper, draws a line down the middle, labels each half as ¡®Adventurer¡¯ and ¡®Mercenary¡¯. ¡°Mercenaries are generally part of larger bands and associations, they are hired directly by the country to deal with problems that a small group of Adventurers can¡¯t. Their quality tends to be rather poor, and their vast numbers mainly consist of those who couldn¡¯t cut it as an Adventurer. Mercenaries also don¡¯t really move around all that much, usually under long-term contracts. If something requires a more specialised touch, Adventurers are called in. Successful Adventurers are worth several dozen Mercenaries, but they don¡¯t cope well with rigid structure and are prone to wandering from town to town in search of work or else risk starvation. Some Adventurers further specialise as Frontiersmen; Explorers and cartographers that search for new lands and potential settlement locations. As for the internal structure of the organisations behind Adventurers, that varies, though they have a universal competency ranking system.¡± Finished, he hands the paper to me for a moment, then takes it back, ¡°I¡¯ll use this for the other testers as well. I¡¯ll get a scan of it sent to your Lore Primer as well.¡± ¡°Thanks. So it¡¯s like the difference between a sledgehammer and a scalpel, in effect. Alright,¡± I tap my cheek, turning slightly in place before looking back at him, ¡°Last question, then. What¡¯s the deal with magic? Is it common?¡± ¡°Fairly common, though most don¡¯t have any real talent for it. Even those with potential, rarely see it fulfilled. Spells consume a portion of the caster¡¯s internal mana reserve to form themselves, as well as ambient magical energies to maintain themselves. In an area blighted by a burst dungeon, for example, most forms of magic are impossible to use, due to the absence of magic in the zone. Some devotees of the gods also have access to a form of magic, that is subtly different from standard mana-casting, supposedly being miracles granted by the deity they worship.¡± I smile, ¡°Great. I think I¡¯m ready to tell you who I am.¡± Chapter 4: Who I Will Be Nealan Forrester was born to poor human parents. For generations, his mother¡¯s family had been lumberjacks in a village on the outskirts of the Righteous Monarchy of Herod, the smallest kingdom on the northern continent, a country of little importance that hides its insignificance behind grand titles and elaborate ceremony. Graciously regarded by neighbours as a chicken with dyed feathers trying to pass itself off as a peacock. His grandparents and two uncles had died suddenly in a bandit raid before his birth, leaving the family business to the remaining daughter and her husband, an apprentice to the family. Nealan was a quiet boy. Living on the outskirts of the nearby forest, he spent much of his childhood learning herblore and survival skills from his father, and how to cook meals and mend clothes from his mother. For fun, he snuck out to the forest and climbed trees, or playing with sticks, pretending to be a hero. He never got along with the children his age, preferring to listen to the wisdom of his elders and stories of adventure and tragedy. Dreams of becoming an Adventurer were doomed to never be anything else. His family were little better than paupers. They earned enough to barter for food and linen, but the equipment and training that separated an Adventurer from a sellsword with delusions of grandeur required hard coin, and a lot of it. What little his parents had was kept aside for emergencies, or perhaps as a dowry - should Nealan ever marry. Nevertheless, Nealan grew up hale and hearty. By the time he was 14 he was assisting his father in felling trees. Stronger than most in the village, he helped out here and there carrying heavy loads for the locals. He had almost given up on ever leaving when a small horde of monsters whipped into a frenzy by survivors of the previous bandit group attacked the town. Unused to dealing with anything but lone, cowardly beasts, Nealan wasn¡¯t of much use against their numbers or their savagery, sustaining injury after injury, but never backing down. Only emboldened, a strange excitement boiling under his skin. But alas, he was one man, with no weapons, no armour, and no skill or experience. Adrenaline fuelled brute strength would only carry him so far, and by the time a dozen monstrous beasts lay broken at his feet, his strength was failing him fast, and the blood loss was catching up to him. Staggering forward to fight another beast, a horn sounded, loud and close. Scouts from a passing Mercenary band called The Bronze Loranics noticed the attack before it began, and convinced their comrades to intervene. They weren¡¯t in time to save the whole village, many homes lay collapsed, 2 dozen lay dead, ripped apart and gnawed on. But their intervention saved Nealan¡¯s life. After dealing with the attack, and taking payment from the survivors, the Mercenaries prepared to leave. Nealan begged their captain to allow him to join the band. Weakened and bloodied though he was, the captain accepted. Not because his performance in the attack was impressive - indeed, nobody from the village or the mercenaries saw him fight. Neither was it because of the strength of this teen¡¯s resolve, as bravado is cheap, and resolve without foundation is worth even less. He accepted this apprentice lumberjack simply because he needed to replace some of the troops lost in the incident, and wasn¡¯t particularly fussy about who took the place of the deceased. For the next 3 years, the young lumberjack turned hired thug scrounged every last coin he could, and trained with what shoddy weapons the band had available. By no means a prodigy, and lacking a skilled mentor, Nealan came to rely on his innate strength and willpower to solve problems, instead of technique. Now, he has returned home, not hardened, but more confident; To visit his ageing parents one more time before he takes his hard-earned coin to finally pursue his old dream.
This is the story I hammered out with one of Mr Tildon¡¯s assistants, the man himself is busy with other testers fresh out of paperwork hell. At the very least it¡¯s the broad strokes of Nealan¡¯s-my life. If I¡¯m going to do this, then I have to stop thinking like Cyril Lancaster is a different person from Nealan. ¡°Last chance to change your mind about any of the details, sir,¡± the pale, overworked assistant, Derek, informs me, tapping his stylus on his desk. ¡°Unless you have any suggestions, I¡¯m happy with what I¡¯ve laid out, as it stands,¡± I respond, a little expectant. I doubt that Mr Tildon would let any perceived attempt at metagaming past him, but I¡¯m not convinced his assistants share that same dedication, even if they¡¯ve been here as long as he has; Which be all accounts does not seem to be the case, unless Derek started working for him in the cradle. Derek changes his grip on his stylus and taps it to his cheek, thoughtful. So far he¡¯s been pretty helpful in clearing up the details concerning the world, but this is the first time I¡¯ve asked him for advice on the character himself. ¡°A couple o¡¯ things spring to mind,¡± he eventually says, with an accent I¡¯m having trouble placing, ¡°First of all, You didn¡¯t say too much about what Nealan actually looks like. What is clear is that he doesn¡¯t look like you - at least not exactly like you just from the way you describe his physique. No offence, but you¡¯re pretty thin to be lifting sacks of grain without a barrow and ripping the jaws from mutant wolves with your bare hands.¡± Feeling vaguely insulted, I grudgingly concede he has a point. Whenever I talked about Nealan¡¯s body it was only to mention that he was stronger than average. Which as far as original characters go, is right up there with ¡®teleports behind yuo¡¯. It¡¯s pretty lazy, but Nealan is a simple character, meant to grow past that background. There¡¯s also the meeting with the Avatar team after dinner, so having a clearer idea of what Nealan looks like is only a good thing. I think for a minute, sucking on a bottle of energy drink that came with my lunch, then take a deep breath. ¡°Alright. How¡¯s this: Nealan is a large man by the standards of most. Not so much in height but in build. It couldn¡¯t be said that he returned home rippling with muscle, but shoulders had broadened, and there is something more defined about how he holds himself - a sense of dignity in his grey eyes that wasn¡¯t there before, though weak.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. His messy black hair had been cut shorter than before, but by someone who has no mirror or assistance. He is dressed in a dirty, undyed linen tunic with rusty chainmail that barely fits his frame, chafing with every motion, solidly made if old and worn-out leather boots and simple trousers tied off with a length of rope. At his hip, tied to a second belt, made of poor quality leather, is a scabbard for a large, well-maintained knife. The chainmail was in such bad condition that the Loranics'' quartermaster let Nealan keep it as a favour, but the rest is his own. He also has a cloth sack - cut from an old bag of grain - in which he keeps his other belongings. Firemaking supplies, a day¡¯s rations, a spare shirt, some dried herbs and a small waterskin.¡± While I speak, Derek transcribes it onto a mounted tablet that serves as his computer. When we¡¯re both finished he picks up the tablet from its pedestal and reads through what he¡¯s written, muttering under his breath, ¡°Sounds good. Any scars, tattoos or the like? How handsome would you say he is?¡± ¡°A number of scars on his arms and legs from the monster attack. None since then thanks to the healers in The Bronze Loranics. They offered to clear up the scar tissue, but he refused. They¡¯re an important part of him now, and he also thinks they make him look rugged. No tattoos or jewellery,¡± The last question gives me pause for a moment, wondering if I should indulge my vanity, before deciding it doesn¡¯t fit the parameters I¡¯ve already set up, ¡°He¡¯s fairly ok looking, if you¡¯re into battle-scarred teens. Most won¡¯t give him a second glance, but he¡¯ll stick around in their memory a little longer than others. He¡¯s also missing a small piece from the top of his left ear.¡± Might as well own what I did to that poor bastard, Andy. Derek adds the new details, ¡°Much better. Facial hair?¡± ¡°None. He wants a beard as proof of his maturity, but taking care of his regular hair has taught him that he¡¯d probably stab himself in the throat if he tried to trim it on his own. He never trusted another merc enough to let them have a blade that close to his neck either.¡± Derek nods, ¡°I think that should about cover it for his appearance and demeanour. The other thing I wanted to bring up, now that you¡¯ve essentially completed the character design, was what Traits or Skills he might have acquired. The game¡¯s AI curator will choose or create some based on the information you have given me. By default, this means you get your racial traits and 2 or 3 character traits. I can¡¯t tell you exactly what you¡¯re going to get, but I can guess you¡¯ll be able to start with an apprentice level understanding of herblore, for example.¡± He puts the tablet back in its place and drops thestylus into a coffee mug, ¡°Which brings me to the next point, and the reason you¡¯ve signed so many waivers and agreements. In order to accurately portray your character within these parameters, the system will step in to reconcile the differences, to a point. The knowledge and skills you gain should only last as long as you remain in the game, but that was only with short-term testing. For a long-term experience, there¡¯s a good chance some of the changes will stick. You could wake up in a week¡¯s time and suddenly be an expert botanist. So, just remember that when you suddenly know the names of plants you don¡¯t recognise - the system is compensating.¡± I shrug, having already accepted the risks involved this morning. ¡°Seems like a net gain to me. Not going to back out at this point,¡± I say, perhaps a bit too casually. My nonchalance causes Derek to grimace a little. ¡°Well, it¡¯s your life,¡± He sighs, resigned, ¡°That¡¯s basically everything. I¡¯ll send this to Matthew. He¡¯ll check for any problems and submit it to the AI curator for implementation.¡± ¡°Fantastic,¡± I grin, then stand up from my chair and offer Derek a handshake. He nervously accepts, ¡°Thanks for the help, man. I¡¯m looking forward to seeing what shenanigans I get into as Nealan.¡± ¡°So am I,¡± He smiles, letting go, ¡°Someone from security will take you back to your room. You need clearance to use the elevators.¡±
Because the universe is cruel, I¡¯m greeted by the woman who searched my luggage last night in the corridor outside the Lore team¡¯s office. Despite the late shift she¡¯d been working, she looks spry and alert. Seeing me approach, she folds her arms and smirks, ¡°Heyyy, Mr Spiderman. Last to arrive, first to finish, huh?¡± My fists clench involuntarily at the ribbing; I smile wide, swallowing my desire to punch her smug face because I strongly suspect that if I did I¡¯d be eating floor, and I don¡¯t want to ruin my chance to play the game by starting a fight with the staff, ¡°My name is Cyril, not ''Mr Spiderman'', and I just want to go back to my room for dinner. So if you''d be so kind as to take me back, I''d appreciate it.¡± If my strained voice and stiff posture bother her, she does an admirable job of ignoring it. ¡°Alright. Friday¡¯s pizza night, y¡¯know? What¡¯s your favourite?¡± She asks, walking away. I calm down and play along, ¡°Seafood. I grew up on the coast so we always got the good fish, and I hate how greasy pepperoni makes it.¡± ¡°I hear that. I like meat pizzas well enough but some places just use the oiliest sausage they can find. Makes me gag. I just go for the veggie stuffed crust.¡± ¡°Eugh. Processed cheese makes me gag,¡± I retort. We stop in front of the elevator while she fiddles with her ID, ¡°It¡¯s so bad, and I get that, but I just can¡¯t help myself. It¡¯s like my stomach sees all the roast tomato and spinach and just cries out for garbage to balance it out.¡± The elevator doors on the right open, and one of the other testers, escorted by a different member of security, walk out. We exchange nods and move quickly inside before the doors shut. She swipes her card and sets the elevator moving back above ground to the second floor, when it occurs to me that I never bothered to ask her name. ¡°What¡¯s your name anyway?¡± ¡°Jillian McDonnell,¡± she says, giving me a half-assed salute, ¡°Senior Security Officer.¡± ¡°McDonnell? You related to Alexis McDonnell?¡± I ask, surprised. ¡°Yup. She¡¯s my cute little sister,¡± Jillian is all sisterly pride, ¡°You¡¯ve met her then?¡± ¡°After a fashion. She was sitting at my table for breakfast and was just behind me in the paperwork. Neither of us are very talkative though, so that¡¯s as far as I can say that I ¡®know¡¯ her,¡± I explain, grunting as the elevator lurches to a stop. ¡°Yeah, that sounds like Lexy. She¡¯s very shy, but an absolute wizard with a knife,¡± Jillian snorts. ¡°Is all your family in security?¡± I retort, stepping out the lift. ¡°Nah, she¡¯s a tv chef. If she weren¡¯t so vain she¡¯d eat herself into a coma. Never seen anyone move a knife as well as her though. The boss likes her show, so she got an invite. The fact that she¡¯s my sister just made her background easier to vouch for.¡± We arrive at my room, ¡°Actually...if you end up meeting her in the game, could you look out for her for me? You seem like an alright guy. I mean your impulse control is awful, but weirdly honest. I dunno,¡± she bites her lip. ¡°No promises. There¡¯s supposed to be virtually no way to tell an NPC and a player apart if the hype is to be believed. We aren¡¯t really allowed to break character either, so I may never know I¡¯ve met another player until I leave the simulation.¡± Jillian sighs, throwing her hands up, ¡°Well, shit. I had to try. Between you and me, this whole thing has me uncomfortable. I don¡¯t know what it¡¯s going to do to Lexy, and it¡¯s killing me that I can¡¯t go with her. I mean, I asked, but they can¡¯t replace me on short notice. Best I can do is protect her real body while she¡¯s under.¡± Her concern is a little touching, honestly, but the contrast with the relationships I have - or rather, don¡¯t have - in my own life sours my mood further, ¡°Can¡¯t say I sympathise, since I¡¯m going through with it myself. I don¡¯t have any family left close enough to share your trepidation either. This past day just went to show how stagnant my life had gotten.¡± She looks at me with eyes full of pity, but decides to respect me by keeping silent, exercising a capacity for tact I was almost certain she lacked. I guess there are lines she isn¡¯t willing to cross. ¡°I guess this¡¯ll be the last time I see you for a while. Nice meeting you. Ya tactless bitch,¡± I smirk. She blinks several times in surprise, then grins wide, ¡°Don¡¯t make me tase you, you cocky bastard.¡± Chapter 5: Dreams of Home I wake up. Or do I? I don¡¯t see anything resembling my room at The Think Tank. Am I dreaming? If I am, this is a strange dream. The terrain around me is pure white. I can¡¯t see my body. I can¡¯t feel it either. What¡¯s going-
CONSCIOUSNESS LOAD SUCCESSFUL. STABILITY AT 89.82%. REQUESTING CLEARANCE TO LOAD AVATAR.
Wait, I¡¯m in the simulation already? I just got back to my room.
CLEARANCE DENIED. STABILITY INSUFFICIENT. DIAGNOSING...MEMORY LOAD INCOMPLETE. CONTACTING ADMINISTRATOR.
What¡¯s happened to my memories? Hello? A woman¡¯s voice, slightly muffled but calm,echoes throughout the abyss, ¡°Hello Mr Lancaster, sorry about the trouble. There was some data loss during the transition from meatspace. It sounds scarier than it actually is - short-term memory is harder to convert because the brain hasn¡¯t finished working through it. We¡¯re just about to attempt to reload the missing data, past test-subjects reported some discomfort, so just a heads-up.¡±
RELOADING MEMORY COMMAND RECEIVED FROM ADMIN/Merril. PLEASE STANDBY FOR MEMORY RELOAD.
I wake up. Or do I? I don¡¯t really understand exactly how this whole thing is supposed to work. I have a basic understanding of neuroscience, naturally, but this is leagues beyond anything I¡¯ve ever studied. The terrain around me is pure white. I can¡¯t see my body. I can¡¯t feel it either.
CONSCIOUSNESS LOAD SUCCESSFUL. STABILITY AT 100%. REQUESTING CLEARANCE TO LOAD AVATAR.
Oh. That¡¯s why. I¡¯m still logging in, so to speak. My real body is covered in tubes and stuffed full of sedatives, hooked up to the computer via a space-age looking coffin.
CLEARANCE GRANTED. RETRIEVING AVATAR...AVATAR RETRIEVED. LOADING AVATAR.
I blink. Then I realise, a moment later, I now have eyelids with which to blink, and unfamiliar hands, with calloused palms and thick fingers. With even thicker forearms, tanned skin marred by scar tissue from animal bites and scratches. My chest feels tight, breathing causes something stiff to dig into my flesh, and I note that I¡¯m wearing a rusty chain-link vest.
AVATAR/NealanForrester LOAD COMPLETE. BODY SYNCHRONISATION 97.86%. BEGINNING LOGIN SEQUENCE. BEGINNING AVATAR MEMORY TRANSFER.
I wake up. For real, this time. It''s a little after sunrise, and the light shining on my face disturbed my sleep. I''m sat on the grass, leaning against a tree trunk, about a half hour''s walk away from my parents'' lodge. Hm. My parents? Yes. My name is Nealan Lancaster. No. Nealan Forrester. This is strange. Not uncomfortable, per se, but the memories of two different people born of the same origin are jumbled up in my head. I recognise that I am, at my core, Cyril. But right now, I am Nealan. I draw my feet in and sit cross-legged, glancing over at the sack with what few travelling supplies I have left next to the tree roots.
LOGIN SUCCESSFUL. AVATAR SYNCHRONISATION STABLE AT 99%. DISCONNECTING CURATOR PROTOCOL. ESTABLISHING LINK TO WORLD SYSTEM. SAY ''STATUS'' TO COMPLETE.
GOOD LUCK, , AND HAVE FUN.
Guess that settles it. I''m on Eden, in the Righteous Monarchy of Whatever. Nealan never actually bothered to find out what the name of the country he lives in was, so that information appears to have been censored from my mind. I can recall knowing what the name is, but I can''t access the information. There''s probably a lot of similar blocks in place if I take the time to go through everything I''ve ever learned, but daylight''s wasting and my parents aren''t getting any younger. "Status," I speak aloud, in a voice that''s not as deep as I remember it being, likely owing to my new age.
Name: Nealan Forrester Age: 17
Race: Human Class: N/A
Level: 1
Statistics
Strength 12 Intellect 14
Dexterity 8 Willpower 14
Agility 10 Reflexes 9
Constitution 12 Focus 11
Perception 12 Magic Affinity 8
Charisma 8 Stamina 10
Professions
Herbalist Apprentice Level 3
Woodcutter Apprentice Level 5
Chef Novice Level 4
Tailor Novice Level 2
Traits
Racial:
Survival of the Fittest (Human) Humanity is a versatile species, capable of adapting to nearly any situation or environment. When learning unfamiliar new skills, gain +25% bonus experience for the first 5 levels. (Skills similar or directly related to already known skills will not receive a bonus.) Negative (Natural) environmental effects are 30% less effective after enough time spent acclimatising. (Acclimatisation rate varies, modified by Willpower, Focus and Constitution)
Personal:
Dauntless Where others may falter, you thrive. Fear and Intimidation effects have their potency reduced by 60% Gain +1 Willpower when targeted by Fear and Intimidation effects. (Stacks 5 times)
Battle Hunger You live to fight, and fight to live. All or nothing. When fighting enemies 10 or more levels higher than you, there is a chance you will gain the ability, Adrenaline Rush. Adrenaline Rush increases Strength, Reflexes, Focus and Willpower by 3 for 15 seconds. When the effect ends, the user is exhausted of all non-health resources. Cannot be used voluntarily. 1/week cooldown.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
Forest Walker You are at home amongst the trees as much as you are amongst your own people. When in forests you have familiarised yourself with, your Perception, Reflexes and Focus increase by 1.
Active Skills
Reckless Strike Abandoning finesse, you strike with full-force. Reduces accuracy by 60%, Inflicts 30% more damage. High chance of injuring self. 40s/per use
Ignore Pain Through sheer force of will, you dull your sense of pain. Duration dependant on Willpower,Constitutionand Focus. If the user loses concentration, the effect ends and cannot be reapplied for 1 minute. Cannot be used past a certain threshold.
Spells
N/A
Weapon Proficiencies
Straight Daggers Novice Level 6
Shortswords Novice Level 8
One-handed Maces Novice Level 4
One-handed Axes Novice Level 7
Two-handed Axes Novice Level 10
Greatswords Novice Level 1
Two-handed Spears Novice Level 6
Shortbows Novice Level 6
Hand-to-Hand Novice Level 9
Titles
Forest Ranger Familiarise yourself with every inch of a forest. Grants Trait: Forest Walker
The Undaunted Survive against overwhelming odds through your own strength of will. Grants Trait:Dauntless
Brute Beat an enemy to death with the strength of your fists alone
A large window hovers about 50cm in front of my face. There''s a lot to read through, but there''s nothing too out there. As planned, I have the basis of a strong warrior type. My dexterity is a little lower than I was expecting, but in hindsight the details about how bad at taking care of my hair I was probably docked me a point or two. The only thing that really worries me is the Battle Hunger trait. In a tight situation, Adrenaline Rush could be the deciding factor in whether I live or die, but if I can''t end the fight within 15 seconds of activating it I''m going to be up shit creek without a paddle. It''d pretty be much the definition of a last resort, if I was able to activate it when I wanted it. The cooldown of a week is also a pretty big drawback too. The bottom line is, that as situationally powerful as it can be, I absolutely cannot rely on it to carry me through fights.
SYSTEM MESSAGE In order to familiarise yourself with your Avatar, for the first day, unrestricted use of the Status screen is free. In future, you will require the use of specialist tools or abilities, each with their own quirks and limitations.
A second screen fades in as soon as the Status screen is dismissed. Looks like further difficulties have been dropped on me. Indeed, my memories as Nealan tell me that the tools required to view status are uncommon and expensive to use. Even more expensive to buy for yourself. Some guilds allow their members limited access to one of these items for free, like the Adventurer''s Union who use it as part of the initiation process. Regardless, it''s time I get going. The rainfall last night ruined my torch so I was delayed in getting home, but Mam has to be worried sick. I call her Mam. Really, Nealan?
I take a swig of lukewarm stream water from my waterskin as I walk, wincing as the welts on my shoulder shift underneath the rough chainmail. My shirt is far too thin for this, and the armour itself really isn''t a good fit. I''m feeling sore all over thanks to that detail. Mercifully my boots are long-since broken in so I don''t have to worry about blisters on my feet as well. The road I''m following is barely worthy of the label. There''s no money for grand roadbuilding projects and the labour required would be hard to acquire, to say nothing of the need to protect them from monsters. Off in the distance, I can see the Klennock Woods, my old childhood haunt. Da and Mam live in a lodge on the western edge, 10 minutes'' walk from the village, which isn''t far off now. Since I was last here, 3 years ago, give or take a month, the village has recovered nicely. There aren''t as many buildings as before, but the Alderman has invested in a wooden palisade that surrounds the village. Da probably had to work himself ragged to get all those trees down to the village without me around to help him. I bite my lip, worry creeping in. I can''t help but share in Nealan''s concern for his father, and it''s a familiar pain.
Approaching the main gate, I''m stopped by a harsh shout from someone around my age with a shoddy bronze helmet strapped to his head and a bone-tipped spear. He''s pretty lanky, with the beginnings of a blonde moustache that just make him look like an idiot. "Halt! This is Klennock Village. Armed travellers must relinquish their equipment before being allowed entry!" he declares, full of self-important bluster. I stare at him, unmoving, "Lonn, you need to see my Mam about your eyes if you don''t recognise a local." Insulted, Lonn is about to brandish his spear at me when recognition flashes across his face and he takes a step back, sputtering, "E-err, Nealan! S-so good to see you back..here." He smiles nervously, fingers clenching and unclenching on the haft of his weapon. "Just get out the way, Lonn," I tell him curtly, before remembering something, "Actually, is the Alderman around? I should probably let him know I''m back for a few days." "Oh! He''s probably in The Woodsman for breakfast. Otherwise, check his house. It''s the big one with the barrow out front." I thank him, and move into the village, relishing in the nostalgia. Not far from the gate, is The Woodsman, a mediocre Inn with 2 floors and an ale cellar run by the Lanno family, who are actually minor nobility, believe it or not. Or at least, they''re related to minor nobility, that''s just what they tell their customers to make the inn look good. It''s still early morning, so the streets are fairly clear as I open the heavy wooden door inward to a large common room, full of tables and stools made locally by Jann the carpenter with wood me and my Da collected. I like to think there''s a little bit of me in every building in the village. Nealan does, anyway. Still getting used to that. Behind the long counter is a young woman, rather pretty if you ignore the unfortunately large nose, in an apron with curly black hair tied into a bun. If memory serves, her name is Lizzle. Seeing me enter, her expression shifts from boredom to the trademark ''service'' smile adopted by retail workers the world over since the concept of merchants was invented. She opens her mouth to give a rehearsed spiel, but stops, shocked. "Oh my stars and days, Neal! It''s been years!" She exclaims, throwing down a dirty rag she was wiping the counter with and rushing out to greet me, "You''ve certainly grown! I almost didn''t recognise you." I grunt, in response, rolling my eyes, "At least someone remembers me. When Lonn stopped me at the gate I swear he was so overcome with nerves he was about to scream ''Bandit'' in my face and throw his spear at me." Lizzle giggles, "Don''t be too hard on him. He''s been pretty tightly wound since you left. He looks up to you, y''know?" I sigh, "I couldn''t begin to understand why. Have you seen the Alderman? Lonn said he might be here, but obviously, he''s not." Lizzle smiles apologetically, "You just missed him. But he''ll back in an hour, so if you want, I can pass him a message?" I think about it for a moment, then nod, "Works for me. Just tell him I''m back for a couple days. Don''t know how long exactly, but I''ll be back at home if something comes up." "No problem. You''re going straight home, then?" She asks, eyes wide as if anticipating something other than a curt ''Yes''. I feel no need to change tacks now, "Yes." Disappointed, Lizzle pouts, "Be sure to visit me later, ok? I want to hear stories! The first mug''s my treat." She winks, and I groan inwardly, recalling that Lizzle used to have a bit of a crush on Nealan before he left. I caught her staring more than once when I helped lift kegs off wagons for her father. She seems to have a thing for strong men since I also recall her flirting with a few of the Loranics while the Captain was extorting payment from the Alderman. "I''ll think about it. Anyway, be seeing you," I turn and leave, perhaps a bit quicker than is probably necessary.
The lodge is exactly as I remember it. Single story, made almost entirely out of logs, save for the roof which is a mixture of slate tiles and some sort herbal tar Mam cooked up to seal the cracks. Overcome with emotion - worry, anticipation, guilt - I knock on the door and call out to my mother, "Mam? I''m back." There is a brief, silent pause before the scurrying off feet rushes to the door and opens it, damn near breaking my nose as it swings out, only missing by a hair''s breadth. Mam, a short woman in her late thirties with greying hair stands in the doorway, panting heavily. Then, she starts to cry. "Welcome home, son," she sniffs, pulling me into a hug. I feel my face flush, and my eyes sting as I hold back tears of my own, my memories mixing and churning together with Nealan''s. "Yeah...I''m home." Chapter 6: Family Eventually, Mam lets me go and wipes her puffy eyes with a handkerchief. Looking up at me a wide smile, she laughs, "My, my, look at me. You must be tired from the road. Come in, come in! There should still be some bread left in the oven. Walther is just out for his morning walk, he should be back any minute." I follow her inside, the smell of home bringing me supreme calm. There''s really nothing quite like it. That''s the same even in the real world. One of the advantages of being the only providers of lumber in Klennockis that we have plenty of material and clout in the village to build a large house. It may only be a single floor, but there''s plenty of room for a living room, kitchen, pantry and three modest bedrooms. The third room is for guests and the occasional patient of my Mam, who functions as the closest thing to a doctor the village has, even if she''s just a herbalist. "I''m just going to go get this chain off and change my shirt. It rubs me in all the wrong ways, and I don''t care for the smell," I call out, walking to my old room. "I''ll have a look at you after, Nelly, I have an ointment for that," Mam calls back from the kitchen. My face flushes at the old nickname. She knows full well I hate it. Well, she knows Nealan hates it, but as seems to be a running theme, I share his sentiments on the matter. Nelly is a stupid nickname. I push open the door to my bedroom. It''s cleaner than I left it, and the bed with its woollen blanket and straw mattress has been made. Something I can never be bothered to do. In the corner is a simple wardrobe, with a pair of drawers for my unmentionables and my ''best'' clothes. Something I have to wear for important events like the old Mayor''s funeral. Honestly, they make Nealan look ridiculous, like forcing a gorilla into a tuxedo. Rolling my eyes, I steadily pull the taut chainmail over my head, my breath catching as the rusty metal scrapes over already sore skin through my shirt. I strongly suspect that I''m bleeding in a few places as well, which is part of why I also want to change my shirt. My suspicions prove correct. Inspecting the thin shirt, I spot a few splotches of blood around where my shoulder blades would have been. Deciding it''s probably better to wash the blood and grime off than put another shirt on, I walk out into the hallway bare-chested and head to the kitchen. Mam is at the stove, cooking up what looks like a saucepan of porridge oats for me. Hearing me come in she turns to give me a smile, before noticing my lack of shirt and subsequently, the scrapes and sores. Tutting, she waggles her wooden spoon at me, "You should really pay better attention to your well-being, Nelly. Look at what that scrap metal''s done to ya. Yer a mess." I avoid eye-contact, "Some armour was better than no armour. And the quartermaster said I could have it. So I took it." "Bloody irresponsible man, foisting that off on my boy," Mam harrumphs, stirring the pot some more, There''s a bucket of water over by the fireplace in the living room. I was going to use it to scrub the flagstones, but you look like you need the scrubbin'' more. I''ll leave your porridge on the table to cool and go get that ointment." She scrapes the porridge into a wooden bowl, places it on the kitchen table and bustles off to get her supplies.
Retrieving the bucket and a rag, I take them outside and start wiping off all the sweat and grime accumulated from several days travel. The water is freezing, but a hot bath and soap are a little beyond our means. No choice but to make do. If I''m honest, the cold is mostly from the northern winds on my damp body. Shivering, I straighten up to notice that a man is walking in my direction from the treeline. No, he''s limping. Shit. Dropping the rag, I sprint towards them. A small part of me marvels at how much swifter Nealan is than what I''m accustomed to, but it feels so natural that who''s to say what I am and am not accustomed to? I manage to reach and catch the man as he staggers forward, preventing him collapsing. Belatedly, I realise he''s my Da. A lot older than I remember him looking, but that comes second to the nasty wound on his right calf, which is bleeding profusely. I notice that the shape of the wound looks like a bite mark from a large beast, only torn; As if Da pulled his leg out of it''s jaws by force. "Son..?"He inquires, huffing, voice weak. "Yeah, Da, I''ve got you. Come on, I''llhelp you back. Are you gonna pass out?" I ask, mind racing. "No, I''ve lived through worse, just hard to walk. The wound isn''t too deep." He spits on the ground, putting an arm around my neck.
When Mam sees both of her family members walk back into the house in need of medical attention, to her credit, she doesn''t panic or flinch. She just gets to work with determination. Inspecting our injuries, she leaves me to take care of my own treatment, rubbing a pungent smelling green paste over the worst sores, and wrapping a bandage around it. This leaves me with an unpleasant tingling sensation I desperately want to scratch at, but a sidelong glare from Mam halts my probing fingers before I get the chance. Da isn''t really much better off. Stripped of his trousers, he''s biting down on a chunk of wood as Mam sews the wound closed with a wooden needle and some expensive Iron Silk Thread. A single spool of which could feed us all for a month, but let it not be said that Mam won''t go above and beyond for her husband''s well-being. Once finished, she hands Da a potion and prods him until he downs the foul tasting concoction. The taste of Mam''s rejuvenation potions is one thing I do not have any nostalgia for, and the flavour haunts me to this day. I''m half-convinced she adds extra ingredients for the express purpose of ruining the taste as a deterrent to us injuring ourselves. Letting out a long breath, Mam''s tense shoulders sag, looking at Da with a mixture of concern and anger, "So? What did you piss off to end up like this?" Reaching for a fresh pair of trousers, Da says, glibly, "A Dirolft Alpha." Mam''s expression hardens, "Explain." I shift uncomfortably, the temperature in the room seems to drop 10 degrees.
Dauntless Activated!This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Intimidation and Fear effects reduced by 60%!
Huh. Neat. Da, on the other hand, is receiving my mother''s ire full-force. I can hear him gulp audibly, "I-I went out into the woods for some kindling like normal when a Dirolftattacked me. Iwas holding it off easily enough, but then a much bigger Dirolft jumped out with its pack not far behind it. The first one got his jaws on my leg while I was distracted, so I smashed my axe in it''s skull, pulled my leg out and ran for the treeline." Inwardly, I can''t help but admire his grit. A Dirolft- Think large wolf with a long, scaled tail - on it''s own is enough to take down a common mercenary, but to kill one and escape an Alpha is nothing short of miraculous. Idly, I wonder what kind of stats the old man has. Mam, on the other hand, is less impressed, "What possessed you to try and stand your ground against a Dirolft! You''re not a young man anymore, and you had to realise it''s pack wasn''t ever going to be too far away! And to top it off, you left behind my grandfather''s axe!" Da tries to voice a defence, but looking at Mam''s furious demeanour, his honed Husband-instincts kick in, and he decides that the best way to survive this conversation and not spend the night in the guest room is to just stay silent. Then, looking at me, Da tries to change the subject. "Thanks for helping me, sonny. It''s great to see you back home..." "I''ll go get the axe," I declare, surprising even myself. "What?" I take a deep breath, committed to it now, "That axe is what puts food on our table, right? I''m saying I''ll go get it."
Quest Accepted!
The Life and Pride of a Lumberjack
Personal Quest Difficulty: Hard/Very Hard
Your father, Walther Forrester, Klennock''sonly Lumberjack, has run afoul of a pack of Dirolft, and in escaping, has lost the Forrester family heirloom. For the sake of your family''s livelihood, you have declared you will retrieve your birthright from the Klennock Woods. Objective/s: Locate the Axe 0/1 Return the Axe to Walther or Yvette Forrester 0/1 Optional: Destroy the Dirolft Pack 0/1 ???
Rewards: ??? Increased Fame in KlennockVillage Additional Rewards May Be Available
Mam takes my declaration about as well as might be expected, "Absolutely not! Neither of you are going anywhere near those woods until you''re healed, and even then, not until an Adventurer comes to clear out those monsters!" Da looks defeated, torn between wanting to retrieve the axe and agreeing with her assessment of the situation. Indeed, I have to admit that her plan is a damn sight better than me rushing into the woods alone, but I''d be lying if I didn''t have any ulterior motives. The quest is just added motivation if I''m honest. I was already going to do it anyway for two reasons. The first is quite simply because Da needs that axe to do his job as well as he does. The other reason is that I want to fight the Alpha. Not to avenge my Da''s flesh wound, but for my own satisfaction. I felt my blood crying out for battle as soon as Da mentioned it. Likely a side-effect of the Battle Hunger trait, even if it wasn''t explicitly stated. Or maybe that''s just me deflecting blame. I have to remember why I even agreed to this in the first place - to stop holding back. And yet here I am again, holding back. No matter. I stare back at Mam and Da, and say with confidence, "I won''t be going immediately, but Iam going to get it back." I decide it''s probably best not to mention I plan to fight the Dirolfts as well. Convincing them to let me go is pushing it as it is. Indignant, Mam puffs herself up, hands on her hips, "No, you will not young-" "Fine. You can go," Da interrupts her, staring back at me with a look of understanding. Mam recoils, head snapping to face him, "Walther are you out of your mind?!" Calm, Walther stands up, wincing as he puts weight on his injured leg, "Vette, he''s made up his mind. Even if I were in a fit state to stop him doing it without our blessin'', I wouldn''t try. It''s like he said, that axe is my life. I''d go back to get it myself if I could run without bursting my stitches." Horrified, Mam steps forward, the fury back, "Fool of a man, you barely escaped and you want to send our boy back there with the pack still close by?!" "Vette," cold, authoritative, Da refuses to back down, "You''re mywife. You''re Nealan''smother. You aren''t our jailer. I''m not expecting you to accept it with a smile, but I''m asking you to understand our pride." This rare showing of a spine shuts her up. Mam chews her lip, turning around and hugging herself. Time stands still, until a ragged sigh escapes her chest. "Fine. But it won''t be now. His porridge is probably almost cold, and I won''t have my boy''s first meal back go to waste. The Alderman needs to be told about this as well, so he can put in a request for an Adventurer. I won''t budge on that." Me and Da share a smile, and we both agree readily. Mam''s head droops, "Come on then Nelly, go get your porridge ''fore it goes hard."
While I eat the stodgy, barely warm porridge, Mam goes out to the village to inform the Alderman about the Dirolft pack and Da''s injury. He, meanwhile, takes has taken out his knife and starts carving himself a makeshift walking stick from a solid branch taken from our stockpile of green wood left out behind the lodge to dry. "So," Da says absentmindedly, "I never asked what the story with your bandages was." My face scrunches up as I force a lump of porridge down my throat, "Chainmail. Too small for me and my shirts were too thin." Da carves another strip of wood off the stick, moving the sharp knife with a single sweeping movement, "I see. Did those sellswords not have armourers?" "No. Just a bunch of scavenged equipment. The Bronze Loranics were pretty small-time, really. We usually got hired to escort merchant caravans and give the clients some warm bodies between them and any monsters or thieves that attacked. Not that they ever did, but I still got paid, so I bore with it until I felt like I had enough to buy myself a proper sword and leathers at Mhin. Then I''d apply to the Adventure Company. Do a few jobs, earn a reputation." He flicks the knife tip over one end, removing a stubborn piece of bark, "You told your Mother about this? When you sent that courier saying you were coming back, she thought you''d ''come to your senses'' with all this Adventurer malarkey." I grimace, trying to remember exactly what Nealan told the messenger, "I did tell you both before I joined the Loranics." "But not since you came home." I stir the last globs of porridge around the bowl, "No. I haven''t been back long, and it never came up." Da nods, "Son. My opinion on this should already be obvious. I''m not going to stop you following your path. I''d be a poor excuse for a man, and a worse father if I tried to force you to continue me and your grandfather''s work." He turns thestick over a few times, rolling it in his palms, "Your mother isn''t going to like it much though. This is her legacy, not mine, after all. Nevermind you going off to risk your life against monsters for an axe, but leaving Klennock altogether, perhaps never to be seen again." Da takes his knife and starts sawing through one end of the stick, "When you left with those mercenaries, she was beside herself. Couldn''t get her appetite up for months. Only started eating again when you sent that first letter back. Your handwriting were so atrocious she laughed herself into tears," He smiles, wistfully. I finish the bowl and take it over to the counter. Mam''ll draw some more water from the well and wash it later. "So, I won''t stop you from going. Just do us both a favour and visit when you get the chance, ok? It''ll put both our minds at ease to know you''re doing well for yourself." "...I will." A single tear rolls down my cheek as I leave the kitchen. Memories of my own dead parents fresh in my mind. Chapter 7: The Same Roots Shutting the door to my bedroom, my knees give out and I slide down to the floor, back resting against the door. The motion rough, thanks to my shifting bandages. I wince, but I grit my teeth and ignore it. A hand on my face, I wipe my eyes and sniff, nostrils full of backed up snot - Fuck, I almost swallowed some of it, ugh. I can''t go out and face those mutant dogs like this. I can barely see through the tears. I thought I was over this by now. It''s been a year. I''m not even Cyril anymore. I''m barely even Nealan. I think that''s the problem. It''s not that I''ve not gotten over it. It''s Nealan and Cyril''s memories and emotions converging on a single point, and the most important thing in Nealan''s life is his mother and father. They mean everything to him, and by extension, they mean everything to me. To Cyril, a man who''s parents are not only dead, but never got to say goodbye. My-Cyril''s parents - I hesitate to call them my ''real'' parents - died in 2049, at the ripe old age of 63 and 61, in their sleep at home in Florida. It was uncanny, the doctors said. They didn''t die simultaneously, but It was as if my mother sensed her husband''s passing and died on the spot to join him. The nurse who accompanied me to the hospital morgue, while the coroner stood respectfully off to the side, said it was the most romantic thing they''d ever seen. I retorted, with more venom than I intended, that she had a rather deviant understanding of romance. Honestly, I couldn''t help but feel abandoned. But time went by, and I moved on. They never loomed large in my life, so adjusting was disturbingly easy, but experiencing Nealan''s life, I''m stumped by the realisation that I have parents again. Darkly, I mutter to myself that I should have used the monster attack as an excuse to make Nealan an orphan so I wouldn''t have to feel this emotional contradiction, but that wouldn''t be fair to me, to him, or to them. On the other side of the coin, Nealan, through Cyril, has learned what that abandonment, that loss felt like. My head lolls back, thumping against the door. I stare up at the ceiling for a while, until the tears dry. I must look a right fool, now, to the people who are monitoring us from behind invisible cameras. Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I look towards my old bed, and beneath it, to the spare hatchet I used to help my Da. I stare at it through the shadows. My shuttered window rattles as a breeze rolls by. Eventually, I come to a decision. To simply not think too hard about it. I''m Nealan Forrester. Cyril might be my true identity, and the driving force behind my actions, but he made the decision to become Nealan. So that''s what I have to do. It won''t be easy, and by the very nature of my existence, pretending to be Nealan like an actor or a roleplayer on some message board isn''t going to cut it. Treating this as a character to play instead of a life to live is only going to cause me more grief, and I don''t really want to have to deal with an identity crisis every other week. To that end, I consider the spare hatchet. If an outsider, without the benefit of Nealan''s memory, were to see this quest, they''d question why a classless level 1 peasant would go to so much trouble for an axe. After all, there''s a spare right here, and if that wasn''t an option, the local toolsmith, Barek, would certainly put together a working replacement. Sure, it has sentimental value as an heirloom that''s served generations of lumberjacks... But that would be the point that most people would miss, wouldn''t it? It''s served generations of lumberjacks. Most of my knowledge of metallurgy is being held behind that pesky censor, but both Cyril and Nealan know enough to understand that this axe is uncommonly well-made. For starters, Nealan has never once since his Da sharpen the axe. And as Cyril, I can tell you that even with the advances in reality, a single hatchet would be destroyed by the time it got to the end of even one generation. Trees are, after all, a tougher material than most would give it credit. An axe in this world, made by your average smith, would probably start to blunt after a few dozen swings. And on the local Klennock trees from which the village and forest take their name, it wouldn''t even penetrate the bark after 50. The spare hatchet I have was just for chopping down younger saplings as practice. My father may be getting on in years, but even before, the only reason we ever got as many trees brought back to the village is that axe. And as old as he is now, he''ll need it to even get half as many per year. That''s probably one of the things that scare Mam the most, really. That I''ll die in some forsaken Trial Ground somewhere with a goblin shitting down my neck, while my Father loses all ability to work. With there seldom being a need for an extra pair of hands - or a herbalist that can''t make intermediate medicines - they''ll end up starving to death if they don''t rely on the village''s charity. And being useless, idle. That is the one thing she cannot abide by in anyone. In summary, and at the risk of repeating myself yet again... They need that axe.
I''m not sure how long it''s been since I shut myself up in my room, but the mid-day sun has already started to come into view past the clouds. I walk into the living room, where my parents sit in silence, staring at me as I walk in, now wearing a fresh tunic and carrying the spare hatchet on my shoulder with the head pointed toward the floor. "I''m going." They nod, out of sync. I turn and walk down the hall. "Wait!" Mam cries, I freeze, my hand halfway to the door. I turn around, and she shoves a small leather pouch, tied shut by knotted string toward me. "Take this with you, just in case," she says, smiling sadly.
Received Item!
Pouch of Pungent Powders
Quality: Uncommon Uses: 1
A pouch containing a secret mix of toxic herbs and spices. When thrown at a vulnerable enemy''s face, they will suffer from -8 Perception and become unable to see and/or smell until the powder is washed off. Particularly sensitive foes may be dazed or stunned.
I have to put serious effort into resisting the urge to scream ''Pocket Sand!'', and accept the gift solemnly, tying it to my leather belt. For something so small and simple, the effects are ridiculous. It''s obvious that Mam wants me to use it as an oppurtunity to run away if a Dirolft finds me, but I have bigger plans for this pouch of wonder. I turn back toward the door, using the feigned embarrassment to hide an evil smirk.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. "Thanks, Mam. I mean it," I tell her, "I''ll be back before it gets dark, with or without the axe. I don''t fancy my chances if I stick around after sunset." I leave the house, the sound of faint sobbing fading behind me.
I stand at the border between Klennock Woods and what is essentially my backyard. The treeline is a bit further back than when I left, and a smattering of fresh tree stumps dot the threshold, evidence of my Da''s recent labours. Nerves clash with anticipation, as I step from foot to foot, trying to work up the courage to go in. It''s not very true to my character to be hesitating now, but I just can''t help but want to take in the moment I really start my - our - new life as an Adventurer. Albeit an unofficial one, mind you. I inspect my weapons one last time before I head inside.
Simple Iron Seax
Quality: Common Weapon Type: Straight Dagger
Damage: 2-8 Damage Type: Slash/Stab
Enchantment: N/A Requirements: N/A
Integrity: 85% Durability: Average
A long,single-edged knife, with a defined point. Ideal for slicing andpenetrating animal hide.
Amateur''s Bronze Hatchet
Quality: Common Weapon Type: One-Handed Axe
Damage: 8-15 Damage Type: Slash
Enchantment: N/A Requirements: 9 STR
Integrity: 87% Durability: Poor
A Bronze Hatchet made for an amateur woodcutter.
I don''t really have any context for how effective these are as weapons, but a glance is enough to tell me that while the hatchet will do the most damage, it won''t last very long if I use it incorrectly. Bone, it should be noted, is significantly tougher than most types of wood, and the bones of monsters are often even denser. I''m not about to start dodging around, looking for weak spots pretending I''m a rogue or anything, but common sense dictates I focus on targetting the fleshy bits if I don''t want to wear out my weapons. Having said that, despite my superior proficiency with axes, the seax I keep on my belt seems like it''ll be the better weapon in the long run. I sigh, resigned to just using both at once, and walk forward, hopping over a stump along the way. Because I can''t be bothered to walk around the stupid thing. Sunlight bleeds through the sparse canopy above, and dead leaves carpet the soil. Moving silently is a chore, but I''m not really going for the subtle approach here. I doubt the Dirolft pack are this close to the edge of the woods yet and considering what Da did to the one that caught his leg, I would expect the Alpha to pull back to their den for a little while, just in case. Whether or not that''s actually what happened I have no idea, but I find it hard to give a flying fuck.
You have entered a forest you have familiarised yourself with!
Perception +1
Focus +1
Reflexes +1
The notification window blinks into view for all of a couple seconds. I''d almost forgot about that trait with the fuss I made over Battle Hunger. Pausing, I look around amongst the trees, and the sense of familiarity grows stronger. I start to notice little details I didn''t see before like a blue-grey squirrel about 20 yards away, scurrying across the forest floor. "This should help a lot," I mutter. Da wasn''t exactly clear about where he was attacked, but with his leg in the state it was, it can''t have been very far. If I had to make a guess, I''d say he could probably push himself to run for about 5 minutes before the pain forced him to slow down, which gives me a nice estimate of where to start looking, when I also take into account where I saw him exit the woods, since he''d be certain to take the most direct path back to the lodge. Finished adjusting to the slightly higher clarity, I start jogging.
Meanwhilst, back at The Think Tank, Sharon Jennings stares intently at a video feed on her tablet, then back to the email it accompanied. One of the administrators noticed an unexpected spike in emotional activity in one of the testers - the famous and self-deprecating unwitting father of modern prostheses, Cyril Lancaster. There was something visceral about seeing him break down like that, after meeting his Avatar''s parents. The psychiatric evaluations, both before he was invited to the facility, and before he entered the simulation, suggested that he''d mostly moved on from the passing of his true parents a year ago. What the video recording showed now, was quite the opposite. And, all respect to the man and his parent''s unfortunate passing taken into account; That the simulation was able to have such a profound impact on someone so quickly after entering was simply fascinating. Additionally, as she would guiltily admit to her husband later, it was more than a little gratifying. It was certainly a shame to put him through such an experience, but he did sign all the related documents accepting responsibility for such events, and seeing what could easily be called the first great success of the game''s systems, programming and writing efforts for this last test cycle was a good sign. Cyril, she felt, was a truly interesting man, and she looked forward to talking to him again, after his time in the simulation was at an end.
Elsewhere in Eden, a young woman, barely 15, sits on the edge of a cliff, legs swaying back and forth against the face. A Half-elf, with striking red hair tied into a low-ponytail, she looks out at the city below, and marvels at the view. Reaching into her backpack, she pulls out a freshly baked pie and takes a bite, happy.
Amongst the Follbas, deep in the eastern Mana Wastes a young hunter, with large cloven hooves, dirty yellow hide and the head of a rhinoceros, complete a large horn on his snout, awakes in his yurt beside his loving harvot - his lover. Reaching over, he strokes his face, carefully. The Munbas wakes, smiling at his partner in turn, before rolling over and apparently going back to sleep. Outside, a throng of his tribe gathers in front of the Master of the Hunt, and he knows it is time to go. The Munbas watches out the corner of his eye as he leaves, knowing he likely won''t see him again. Or any of them.
Beneath the ground, in the darkest caverns, an old man, with a beard that reaches his ankles, shuffles along, leading his two children, all three of them dwarves, as they pursue safe shelter - their clan scattered by monsters barely an hour before. The youngest, a boy, screams as sharp appendages descend from above and impale the old man, dragging him into the shadows. A sickening crunch follows a gush of blood falling to the floor, splashing both children''s faces with gore. The old man''s arm, still holding his glowing staff, falls after. The elder, a girl, grabs her brother''s arm, and pulls him along, sprinting into the abyss.
In the southern continent, a lone Selm Druid cries tears of blood as he destroys the locus of life in this grove, tearing the mana from its form. He pushes through pain and anger to see this wretched spirit destroyed for good. Behind him his only daughter, a small girl, barely 2 years old, lies dead, ripped into three pieces, the blood soaking into the green, nourishing the dying grove through her unwitting sacrifice. Though he knows that nature is cruel, there are some things you just cannot accept.
Across Eden, 11 different people experience the stories they made for themselves, of lives they wished to lead. One by one, each of them comes to understand the weight of their decision, and through their realisations, they begin to understand just who it is they really are. Chapter 8: Brutal Efficiency If I didn''t know any better, I''d say today was another pleasant day in the woods. A soft breeze blows through the forest rustling the leafy canopy, branches swaying to and fro, disturbing the rest of small, colourful birds. I slow down my pace, deciding that I''m close enough to where the axe likely rests that I should probably conserve my energy. My status screen doesn''t have any clear indication of how far my stamina is going to take me, same for health points which presumably exist if weaponry has a flat damage value attributed to it. But despite jogging at what is probably my former running pace for at least 2 minutes, I don''t even feel particularly winded. Emotional turmoil aside, living in Nealan''s body really is quite something else. My inner neuroscience student is slavering at the complexity of the feedback I''m getting. A pity I didn''t get to quiz the technicians or the medical examiner before they turned me into Discount-Neo. I make a mental note to ask them about how it all works when I return. I heft the hatchet off my shoulder and grip I tightly in my right hand, with my left hand hovering over my knife''s scabbard. From this point on I should assume I''m entering the Dirolfts'' territory and that I can be attacked at any time for trespassing. If memory serves, there''s a smallish abandoned root fox den a little further north of here that they''ve probably dug out and taken residence in. The root foxes were a persistent nuisance to me and my Da, but they never got too violent and minded their own business so long as Da left some tree roots nearby for them to chew on. Presumably, the Dirolfts have already eaten them, which is a damn shame. They were pretty friendly towards me when I was a kid, even if they spared my Da scant mercy if he annoyed them. The trip down memory lane is interrupted by an odd smell. Closing my eyes, I take a few short sniffs. It''s faint, but I''m positive its blood. I wince at the accidental pun. Shaking off the shame, I come to the conclusion that wherever it is, the corpse of the DirolftDa killed can''t be far off. Licking my finger, I hold it up, trying to figure out which way the wind is coming from, then walk towards it.
Before long, I come across what I''m looking for. Though not precisely where the wind was blowing from, when I approached the general vicinity and the smell intensified, tracking down the source of the odour was a simple matter of hot or cold. On the floor, the corpse of brown-furred Dirolftrests, almost peaceful if not for the axe embedded in it''s skull,the leather-wrappedhaft pointed off toward the sky like a macabre sundial.
Quest Updated!
Locate the Axe 1/1
Not like I needed the reminder, but that''s step one down. I begin to approach before freezing up, a soft growl reverberates from behind me. It appears as though one of the Dirolftstuck around. I don''t think I can make a grab for the heirloom, even if it would be a better weapon against the beast, but I''m reasonably confident I don''t need it. Raising my bronze hatchet, I grab the handle with both hands, gripping tightly. Breathing deep, I turn around, locate the Dirolft skulking behind a tree, and charge towards it, axe held at centre-mass, ready to parry if it takes a lunge for my throat or legs. Lacking the intelligence to hesitate, now it''s been discovered, the monster coils back and leaps - lupine maw split wide to show two uneven rows of jagged teeth and a snake''s forked tongue. I halt just before It collides with me and ram the haft of my hatchet in it''s jaw, as if on reflex, the Dirolft clamps down, hind legs swinging and flailing behind as I move with it''s momentum, twisting the hatchet and slamming the monster on it''s back, letting go of the tool, and hastily drawing my seax. It yelps at the impact, relinquishing the axe and scrabbling to get to it''s feet - but too late - I stomp a booted heel intoit''s flank and ram the knife into it''s neck, twisting the blade with a wrench of both hands, and holding it in place until it stops struggling. The fight lasted for all of 30 seconds. Quick and efficient, I see no reason to drag out the fight long enough for it to howl for it''s pack. Yanking the knife out, I wipe off the small amount of lingering blood on it''s fur, as well as the slobber from the handle of my hatchet. A quick glance around the area doesn''t reveal any additional Dirolfts waiting in the wings, so I let out a shaky breath and stand, giving the warm corpse a long, hard look. I half-expect to feel something after killing it, some sort of fear or disgust. But all that remains is a lingering sense of satisfaction at how easily I dealt with the thing. In a way, it''s final proof that the life of an Adventurer is not out of my grasp; I''m already better than a common mercenary with this, after all. Idly, I wonder if I should try skinning the pelt off it, but decide better of it. I don''t even know where to start on the task, and I''m liable to ruining the fur with my shitty dexterity and amateur sensibilities. There''s also the very real risk that the scent of exposed flesh and offal will attract more Dirolfts or worse. I can probably haul the corpses back to town and see if one of the locals will take them off my hands for a bit of coin though, but that will have to wait until I''ve made sure that the Dirolft pack is dead, so I don''t get run down on the way back by vengeful beasts. Regardless, time''s a-wasting, and if nothing else, I need to collect Da''s axe from the other corpse. I approach the older body, which smells something fierce now that I''m up close, and prepare to remove it from the Dirolft''s skull. It''s bitten pretty deep into the head, easily splitting the monster''s brain. As sharp as the axe is, Da had to have swung it pretty hard at an awkward angle to get it like this. I''ve always known he was stronger than he looked, but even so, seeing the result of that strength applied to something other than a stationary tree is quite the thing. I place my left boot on the Dirolft''s open maw, then, after dropping my old hatchet, I take the haft of the heirloom into my hands and tug, hard. For a brief moment, nothing happens, but I feel it slide out all at once, a wet shlicking noise accompanying it that ends with the crunch of bone snapping under my foot from too much pressure. It''s unclear whether I was putting too much weight on the corpse, or if the time spent decaying had weakened the bone, but the sensation is incredibly unpleasant, sending a shiver up my spine. Job done, I hold the axe up and take a better look at it. Da never let me touch it, mostly on account of my age the times I got curious enough to try, so it''s not unlike finally getting to see the inside of the metaphorical cookie jar.
???
Quality: Unique, Magical, Masterwork Weapon Type: Two-handed Axe
Damage: 60-79 Damage Type: Slash
Enchantment: ??? Requirements: 12 STR,Forrester Bloodline
Integrity: 94% Durability: Extreme
Abilities: ??? Magical Affinity: ???
A Lumber Axe of supremequality passed down from father to son for generations.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. The true worth of this marvel of metallurgy and enchantment is perhaps long forgotten.
Forget the Sword in the Stone, this is the Axe in the Dirolft! No wonder Mam was so upset Da lost it, holy fuck! My eyes damn near bulge out of their sockets as I observe the stat sheet on this glorious bastard of an axe. Filial piety is pretty much the only thing stopping me from taking this beauty and running for the hills. But I''m not a heartless bastard, and though it''s my birthright, the axe is still rightfully my father''s until he can no longer swing it. I sigh, cursing my good nature half-heartedly. Having said all that, it''s not going to stop me from using it while I have it, so I make the executive decision to shove the handle of the hatchet between my belt and my waist, the head peeking over the top like a hook to hold it in place, then give the heirloom a few practice swings. It''s a fair bit heavier than the bronze hatchet, with a shiny silver coloured head and light engraving; Fastened to the head with bolts of metal through the wooden haft. Confident that I''ve gotten the backswing of the tool under control, I take a few minutes to reacquire my bearings, constantly alert for any other roaming Dirolfts and eager to try out my new (borrowed) toy on them.
Trees pass me by and give way to even more trees. With no real landmarks in sight, it''s pretty easy to get yourself turned around if you can''t catch a glimpse at the position of the sun through the canopy. Thankfully, one detail that''s remained the same is where the big ol'' ball of flame rises and sets, so if I wasn''t already familiar with the layout of Klennock Woods I''d not have too tough a time. There''s also the option of just climbing a tree, but I''m a bit bulkier than when I was 8, so I''m not confident the trees will be able to support my weight at the top, despite experience and Da''s lectures telling me that a Klennock tree is stronger than normal and could probably do just that. Soon, a clearing comes into view. In the centre protrudes a large mound of soil, covered in rocks of varying sizes, and infested with thick, leafy grey vines. At the base, an opening into an underground root fox den, surrounded by an archway of discordant stone formations, now burst at the seams, theground scraped and gouged out into a pile of sodden earth, atop which lies a much larger Dirolft, the approximate size of a small car, sunning itself. Almost certainly the Alpha. It''s scaled tail is as thick as my arm, and the maw on the brute could probably swallow me whole. An experience I''d prefer to avoid, thank you very much. Scanning the area, I don''t see any other Dirolft. That doesn''t mean there aren''t any nearby, there could very well be some in the cave, or further ahead, amongst the trees at the opposite side of the clearing. Regardless, I''ve been presented with an opportunity, and I''m damn well going to take it. Not wanting to waste time and give the monsters a chance to realise they''re about to die, I take several deep breaths, raise the axe over my head, and burst into a sprint, breaking into the open space at speed, but eschewing the traditional warcry, since only an idiot announces their presence prior to an ambush. Even so, the Dirolft stirs in reaction to my presence, the great brown mass of fur bristling. But whether through the depth of it''s slumber, or the difficulty of moving it''s lumbering form, the monstrous wolf reacts far too slow to present a defence. I leap up, and hammer the axe down hard into it''s skull, making use of Reckless Strike to add further power. The accuracy penalty is difficult to apply when striking such a large, mostly stationary target after all. The effect is immediately noticeable. The blade sinks easily into the canine face, obliterating it''s left eye and eliciting an excruciating howl from the Alpha. Vibrations from the rough impact travel up my arm, and I can feel my joints scream in response to the excessive force used. Worthy of it''s title, the Alpha Dirolft is not dead from the first strike and starts flailing wildly, snapping at my leg and attempting to shake me off. Holding onto the embedded axe, I ignore the agony I feel in my arms, rendering the beast''s efforts to get me off self-destructive; Since shifting my weight around so violently causes the axe to twist in the wound, gouging it further until it executes a roll. I dismount it''s head, pulling the now loose axe with me, and stumble down the loose pile of dirt. In the distance, I hear another two Dirolfts howl in response to their leader''s pained cries. I can''t afford to let them rally. Thankfully, the wound is causing the Alpha intense distress, and it rolls back and forth, whining as it scratches with both forelegs at the fleshy dent. Thus, it is defenceless to my next overhead strike. I imagine splitting a log as I aim for it''s neck, swinging over and over again with all my remaining strength until I cleave through entirely. Tired, and covered in the spray of the beast''s blood, I lift the axe over my shoulder with one hand and fish out the Pouch of Pungent Powders with the other. As if on cue, the remaining monsters rush from the treeline from opposite directions in a fury. Recognising I won''t be able to loosen the string in time, I abandon the hasty plan and drop the pouch on the ground to take the axe back. The one barrelling down on me from the south-east reaches me faster, aiming it''s toothy vice toward my leg, which it gets, in the form of my boot to it''s chin. The tip forked tongue flies off, caught in the scissors of it''s forcibly clenched teeth. The attack stopped I twist around, swinging wide and hard with my axe for a second Reckless Strike at it''s partner. Predictably, I miss, only managing to graze it''s neck before it tackles me to the ground, gnashing at my throat. Grabbing it''s throat, in turn, I wrangle my other arm around it''s head and twist, snapping it''s neck, only to feel the teeth of the now recovered first Dirolf around my shoulder. Gritting my teeth, drawing my spare hatchet, I take a page from Da''s book and smash it into the skull of the final monster, then prise it''s mouth open, pull the axe from it''s corpse and hit it again for good measure. All enemies defeated, the silence is broken intermittently by heavy breathing and pained, half-crazed laughter. "That...WAS AMAZING!" I yell, grinning from ear to ear, heart still pounding, "Ha..hahaha...HAHAHAHA! This is exactly what I''m talking...about..." My elation is cut short, surprised by the sudden urge to dry heave, and the pain in my arms and bitten should returns, in all it''s intensity, and then some. Shaky fingers, now starting to numb, let the axe slip from my grasp, and I collapse to my knees, screaming in pain. Revelling in the bloodlust, I didn''t pay much attention to the brutal way I dealt with the monsters, nor to the harm I was doing to myself. I figured it would be fine since Nealan had gone through similar before, but I neglected to remember that Nealan was delirious from blood loss, and fainted before the adrenaline high wore off. Furthermore, as Cyril, I may have been a scrappy bastard, but I never killed anything larger than a big house spider. Seeing the corpses mutilated like this, by my hand, after feeling every inch of blade I fed their bodies, spraying myself in their blood and hearing their anguished cries, the numbness I felt with the lone Dirolft earlier shattered. Theirs was a swift death, unlike these. I didn''t give myself the time for it to disturb me. Flexing my stinging fingers and clutching my bleeding shoulder, I stand up, resolving to learn to better control my emotions in battle, and out of it. Losing myself in the Hunger is a swift way to lose my sanity and become a literal axe murderer...
After a few minutes spent calming down and removing a strip from the right leg of my trousers to bandage my wound, I notice something peculiar on the body of the Alpha Dirolft: What looks suspiciously like a cattle tag on one of his floppy ears. But if that''s the case, who owns this thing?
Quest Updated!
Optional: Destroy the Dirolft Pack 1/1
Bonus Objective Revealed!
Discovered evidence that the Dirolft Alpha (Lvl.8) has an owner 1/1
That can''t be a good sign. One does not simply lose an animal this large, after all, and if I''m honest, I was expecting the pack to be larger than it was. For now, let''s take the Alpha''s head back to the village as a trophy, and drop Da''s axe off on the way. Chapter 9: Whats Mine Yemesvel wakes up. No, wait, that''s not who I am, is it? Yes, it is. Yemesvel is Yemesvel. Oh. Right. Still doing the third-person thing. Totally didn''t expect that little character detail to pop up when Yemes- I created her. I can suppress it but she''s spent the last 12 years referring to herself by her name so I''m fighting an uphill battle against a deeply ingrained habit. It sneaks up on me when I''m not paying attention. I already get funny looks from the Runts when I try to stop it. Or, at least a different breed of funny look. Yemesvel is a bit more of an oddball than I wrote her to be. But they''re used to that, so, for now, It''s being written off as Yemesvel being Yemesvel... I realise that''s the correct usage of the phrase, but even so, I swear I felt a fleeting sense of smugness when I said it. This whole two minds of the same cloth in one body thing is unreal. I mean, it is unreal, just... "You know what, forget it," I grumble, sitting up and instantly regretting taking a nap on the edge of a steep cliff. The city of Redault stretches out beneath me. A sprawling, filthy place, built in the shadow of a mountain. The mountain I almost fell off the side of in my sleep but whatever, details. The trek up here was definitely worth the view. I don''t know if It''s the elven part of my heritage or my higher than average focus and perception, but I can quite literally see for miles up here. I''m reminded of my days spent as a sous chef in Paris, when the staff took a trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower for my birthday. I smile at the memory. It''s a shame I don''t have an ice cream to drop over the edge so I can come full circle, completing the cycle of clumsy idiocy. Hm. There''s an idea. I should try making ice cream. I think the local nobility only has fruit yoghurt and Shaved Ice. This injustice will not stand, or Yemesvel is not Yemesve-damn it. Ugh. Gods it''s chilly up here.
The sun is getting low by the time I enter through the city''s southwestern gates. The sentries on duty stare at me as I walk by, some in recognition, others for less child-friendly reasons. I inherited my mother''s good looks, and half-elves are rare enough for all kinds of salacious rumours to spawn from the attention-starved degenerate masses. To say nothing of the inherent novelty of being able to bed one of elven blood. When Yemesvel was young, she was, with one short-lived exception, regarded as an adorably precocious child. In the last year, however, that has started to change as I mature. Putting my feelings about being treated as a trophy aside, from a pragmatic point of view It''s incredibly inconvenient. The bright red hair got me in enough trouble when I was younger, but for a thief to draw so much attention to themselves is problematic with the skills I''ve learned up to now. A pickpocket is just another face In the crowd, after all. People won''t remember the full picture but details like ''pretty half-elf'' and ''striking red hair'' will. And I''m the only one who fits both descriptors, as far as I know. Wearing a hood mitigates it a little, I''ll grant you, but that just changes me to ''suspicious cloaked woman'' instead, which makes the approach harder in a city where it''s not the normal fashion. All the literature depicting thieves with cloaks are damn liars and frauds, I tell you. Not that I realised that before receiving Yemesvel memories, but that doesn''t make me feel any less betrayed. Waiting for a break in the crowd of people trying to make it home from a day''s hard labour, I slip through and into a side street branching off from the main road. Checking behind me for any tails, I sink into the shadows next to a stack of crates and wait for the sun to completely vanish. Thankfully, I don''t have to wait long. Standing up, I glance around again, hearing little - or at the very least nothing close-by of interest, brush the dust and some lingering pie crumbs and scale the crates. Pulling myself onto the flat roof of the adjacent building, I take a long drag of the stale city air at night. Smiling in spite of myself, I limber up and break into a sprint across the rooftop, then leap across the divide into the open window of a taller building opposite legs extended forward and landing in a squat. "Heya," calls a young male voice from a dark corner next to the window, "Password?" "Sod your passwords, Friedrik. Yemesvel ain interested," I snap, rolling my eyes. Fredrik sighs, "It wouldn''t kill you to play along just once, Yem. We use them for a reason." I demonstrate what I think of his dumb passwords by giving him the universally recognised one-finger salute and walking off to a ladder resting against the wall. I''m stopped from climbing it by a tap on my shoulder, "Ah, ah, ah. Boss wants to see you." I growl turning around reluctantly, "What''s he want now? If he tries to grab Yemesvel''s-" "Nothing like that. He''s still pissing blood y''know?" Fredrik waves his hands, professing innocence. My mouth twists into a smirk from a scowl, "Oh? How would you kn-" "Because he complains to anyone he thinks will listen, and since I can''t leave the room most days, I have to sit and suffer," He retorts, cutting me off before I finish the question, "Frankly, he should be wearing a codpiece around you, but that''s his fault for taking a joke too far. He''s got a job for you." I sigh, "Alright, but if you hear him screaming for help, do me a favour and ignore it, k?" "Just so long as he can still do his job, Yen," He warns. I smile brightly, "I''m sure the whores on Vebuk Street will miss his business, but I don''t think he needs ''It'' to find us all work." Friedrik flinches, hands twitching toward his groin. I head downstairs, smug.
Downstairs, in the office of the Drag Street Runts'' front business, Dragon''s Hoard, a pawn shop that specialises in fencing and ''finding'' valuable items, a slightly chubby-faced man with greasy blonde hair sits behind a desk covered in assorted jewellery and a single ceramic bottle of mystery liquor that smells like boot polish. "Hey Boss, how''re the kids?" I announce with a grin, shutting the door gently behind me. He winces, reaching for the bottle and taking a swig, then belching acrid air back out, "Got a request while you were out ''sightseeing'' as you called it. When I heard it I immediately thought of you." "That''s sweet of you, Boss," I say, all smiles, inwardly suspicious. He coughs, putting down his ''Flask of Courage +2'' and presenting a businessman-like demeanour, "A..customer from the Thynnwirk Clait came in to request that a rival customer, the Head of the Dwast Clait have their efforts to impress a visiting representative from House Flom be for nought." I frown, "Politic people, boss? You sure that''s a good idea? You know what happened when the Jasper Vandals on East Roadtook ''ammers to that pervy Gurn merchant''s stone garden sluts." "They''re called sculptures, Yem," he clears a space on the desk then takes out some parchment and a stick of charcoal, "And I have been given a substantial upfront payment, as well as the offer to have the person who succeeds be employed and trained as a Spy if they do well enough. The Advanced Class, not just to be an ear against a nobleman''s bedchambers. Which will suit me just fine if it gets you out of my hair forever." Now that catches my attention. Advanced classes are hardly common, and a class like Spy isn''t exactly easy to luck into. You need to attain a level of subtlety and stealth Yemesvel completely lacks. If they''re going this far, then they''re looking to make a larger statement than I thought. There''s also a chance they''re using the promise of training to lure me someplace quiet to meet a businessman''s knife, but I find it more likely that the Runts will be silenced instead if I agree to become their pet Spy. "So why Yemesvel?" I frown, suspicious. "I''m not an idiot, girl. You''ve been chafing under the Runts'' membership for years, and I''ll grudgingly admit you''re too talented for our usual smash''n grabs. But if that was all it was, I''d have given it to Ricko. And ya can''t say he wouldn''t do a better job than you, don''t try''n tell me otherwise." It wounds Yemesvel''s pride to hear it, but the young boy would certainly flourish under a skilled Spy mentor, and his small size is great for burglaries. "I''m sending you for two reasons. One, I''m a petty bastard, and even if you''re caught mid-way I''ll be paid a percentage of the final cut for you slipping past their vaunted security in the first place," He laughs, jowls shaking. Slicking back his disgusting hair after a few strands fall down his fat face. "Second, because the specific way they want it done just screams ''Yemesvel''. Head Fillip has gathered a small collection of delicacies from far afield and had them prepared by a Master grade Chef to demonstrate his Clait''s wealth and their value as a business partner. You''re to ensure that this feast is ruined before the representative and her delegation has a chance to sample it." I lick my lips, trying to not drool, "Yemesvel is going to eat all of it."
Quest Accepted!
A Dragon''s Appetite
Personal Quest Difficulty: Modest/Extremely Hard
The Thynnwirk Clait, one of the city''s powerful merchant families, has caught wind of one of their rival Claits'' ambitions and hashired theDrag Street Runts to discretely sabotage a party being thrown for a representative from House Flomand his retinue. Objective/s: Infiltrate the Dwast Clait''s manor 0/1 Sabotage the Feast of Rarities 0/1Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! Escape 0/1 Optional: Leave no evidence 0/1 Optional: Betray the Thynnwirk Clait and inform the Dwast Clait of their plans 0/1 ??? ??? ???
Rewards: Dependant on choices and performance
"I had a feeling that would interest you. The customer implied you should make a mess of it, but having a few crumbs be all that remains will be a powerful statement all the same," he laughs sadistically. I fiddle with my ponytail, hiding my anxiety about how weirdly perfect this whole situation is. I have basically no reason to refuse the job, on the surface. If it''s for real, I stand to gain a great deal. But that''s what makes me so nervous. I can feel the shadows behind the theatre curtain arranging props for a grand performance - this is such a classic set-up from the novels that helped inspire Yemesvel''s character. The secondary difficulty rating of Extremely Hard and all those question marks are evidence enough of that. So, I don''t know if this is a story I want to be an actor in. Even if nothing happens, Thynnwirk Clait will put a leash on my neck and use me for all I''m worth until I become a liability or fuck up a job. I don''t want to give up my freedom for a gilded dog collar I''d have to die to remove. Another, more immediate problem, is what will happen if I refuse the job. I already know enough to make me worth silencing and this fat toad knows it. I''m cornered, and there''s only one way out. Do the job, then disappear from the city without anyone else realising who crashed the party. Thynnwirk may be insulted that I refused to submit to them, but if the job gets done, I have to hope they won''t expend too much effort in pursuing me as long as I don''t do anything to implicate them or myself. A few years of laying low, and they''ll likely forget I ever existed. "Well? I don''t got all night, girl," the Boss prompts impatiently, tapping his pudgy fingers on the desk surface. "Alright. I''ll get it done. How much time do I have to prepare?" I ask, grimly serious. The boss is taken aback by my unexpected change in attitude, "G-good to see you''re taking our customer''s needs to heart. The feast is scheduled to take place just before sundown. You''ll have to find out the exact schedule on your own, but a sympathetic individual in the manor will leave the ale cellar door unlocked and unguarded, should you require it. It goes without saying, but don''t fuck this up for me. I stand to gain a great deal more coin if this goes well." I nod, leaving the office behind.
Night well underway, I sway back and forth in a rickety old rocking chair in the dorm room in the third-floor attic space. A wind blows through cracks and holes in the rotting wooden ceiling; thin bedrolls, dirty linen and discarded trash litter the floor. I stare absently at my status screen, stewing in my anxiety.
Name: Yemesvel Age: 15
Race: Half-Elf (Human) Class: Thief
Level: 4
Statistics
Strength 10 Intellect 14
Dexterity 12 Willpower 9
Agility 15 Reflexes 12
Constitution 8 Focus 13
Perception 12 Magic Affinity 10
Charisma 11 Stamina 9
Professions
Burglar Expert Level 1
Pickpocket Apprentice Level 8
Chef Apprentice Level 5
Tailor Novice Level 3
Traits
Racial:
Blessed Birth (Half-Elf)(Human) Few are the unions between elves and the race below, but fewer still are those fortunate enough to bear fruit. A Half-Elf born of a Human will often inherit the best of both parents'' qualities, thanks to the adaptable nature of humanity. Gain +2 to the highest stat of each parent. Elf: Agility +2 Human: Focus +2
Memorable Beauty (Half-Elf)(Elf) Though legends of the beauty of elves may be exaggerated,your very existence gives credence to the tales. Gain increased Charisma and Fame when interacting with those who find you attractive. Scales in proportion to depth of attraction, modified by base charisma. No upper limit.
Personal:
Deft Hands Your fingers are exceptionally nimble. When performing delicate actions with your hands and fingers, receive 50% more from your dexterity. Dependant on Focus. Bonus reduced to 10% in combat.
Gourmet To eat is to love, to love food is to live. Through your deep understanding and passion for the culinary arts, you are able to discern subtle differences in the meals you eat and have a chance to identify poison defiling the sanctity of the dish by sight and smell alone. Effectiveness dependant on Focus, Perception and level of Chef Profession.
Acrobat You have truly mastered the limits of your body''s ability to move. Agility +1 Dexterity +1
Appraise Item(Thief) A Thief steals for personal gain and candiscern thetreasure from the trash. Able to approximate the monetary value of an item. Appraisal success and accuracy dependent on experiences,class level, related held skills/traits/class/professions, and the item in question. Accuracy and Success also dependant on time spent studying the item.
Quick and Quiet(Thief) Stealth and Speed are the Thief''s bread and butter. When attempting stealth, you are 30% more efficient and effective.
Active Skills
Fade Away Through study of stealth, you have learned to hide your presence. After locating suitable cover, concentrate for 25 seconds. Whilst under the effects of Fade Away, become 20% harder to detect by mundane senses. Activation time reduced by Focus Cannot be seen attempting.
Spells
N/A
Weapon Proficiencies
Straight Daggers Apprentice Level 5
Curved Daggers Apprentice Level 1
Throwing Knives Novice Level 6
Hand-to-Hand Novice Level 7
Titles
Blessed Child Successfully conceived by an unlikely union Grants Trait:Blessed Birth
Sneak-Thief Steal an item and escape without being noticed or caught.
Gourmet Eat a dish prepared by aMaster Grade or Higher Chef, and be inspired by the experience Grants Trait: Gourmet
Senior Runt Attain the rank of Senior in the Drag Street Runts Grants Access to better Jobs
Heister Successfully complete a burglary without being caught Increased Infamy if discovered Unlocked Profession: Burglar
Accomplished Heister Successfully complete 50 burglaries without being caught Greatly Increased Infamy if discovered Profession: Burglar level increased by 1 (Does not advance Grade, gains applied after Grade increase if applicable)
Expert Heister Successfully complete 100 heists without being caught, and stealing an exceptionally valuable item as part of a Very Hard or higher rated quest. Massively Increased Infamy if discovered Profession: Burglar advanced to next Grade.
Flowering Beauty Gain theadmiration of more than 100 people for your looks before reaching maturity. Increased Fame in: Redault
A pair of urchins crawl up the ladder. Looking around they shout in glee, "Aunt Yemmie!" Scampering over the rubbish. The smaller urchin, a Munbas girl named Ten with a lion''s brush-like tail and a series of bandages over her arms and hands, reaches me first, "Auntie, Auntie! Do you have any sweets?!" The larger, a human boy, arrives a second later, tugging on my trousers, face beaming with pride, "Aunt Yemmie, I got you a present!" Wordlessly, I pull out a sticky currant filled bun wrapped in a clean cloth and pass it to the girl, before leaning forward and flicking the boy on the forehead. "Ow!" "Silly boy, you''ll make Dazzy jealous like that," I scold him quietly, glancing at the greedy little girl wandering off, trying her best to fit the whole bun in her mouth and failing. The boy, Ricko, turns bright red, "B-b-but..I don''t like her like that!" His crush on me is precious, but It''s plainly obvious that he''s not being honest with me or himself. Children can be so adorable. Yemesvel is more or less the closest the youngest two members of the Runts have to a mother figure. She, by which I should say we, can''t help but want to dote on and feed the hungry scamps. Alexis because of her pride as a chef, and Yemesvel because she knows what it''s like to truly starve, thanks to the death of our mother. Perhaps the hardest thing for me about this job is the muddy fates of Ricko and Dazzy. With me gone, There''s going to be nobody left who cares enough to look after them. They''ll still be fed, but without me passing them extra snacks they won''t get enough to grow healthily. Ricko will be able to endure just fine, but the sickly Dazzy will struggle. I want desperately to take them with me, but I know I can''t drag them into this whole mess. Even so... "Dazzy, come here. I''ve got something important to tell you both" I command, moving from the creaky chair to kneel on the floor, putting face at eye-level with them. Dazzy skips over with a big smile, a single currant stuck to her cheek, "Ok!" Ricko looks at me, worried, "Auntie?" I look at them both, "I need you to do something very, very important for me, ok?" Dazzy tilts her head, the embodiment confused naivete, "Something important?" I nod, "Yemesvel has a job tomorrow night. When you wake up in the morning and go out on your sprees, you need to grab some money and food, and leave the city to go to some other town. The further away, the better. You can''t ever come back, you might never see me again, and above all, you cannot tell anyone where you''re going or why. Especially not me." Ricko gapes, "But, Auntie why?!" "The Boss has gone political." Both their adorable young faces turn hard, belying their age and usual temperament. They may be kids, but children in this business age far faster than others. They know the significance of the statement. "Izzit really that bad?" Dazzy asks. "Dunno how far up the chain this goes. Not taking any chances. Gut feeling," I reply gravely. They think for a minute, gears turning in their tiny skulls, look at each other long and silently, then nod. Once to each other, once to me. "Good," I smile softly, "Look after each other, ya hear? After tonight, you''re all the two of you have that you can rely on. Now come here,Yemesvel wants one last hug to remember you by.Yemesvel might not see you for a long, long time." I gather them up in my arms and squeeze tight, warm tears soaking through my clothes. After enjoying the moment for who knows how long I pull back and grin impishly at them both, cackling. "Next time I see you there had better be grandkids." ""AUNTIE!"" Chapter 10: Whats Yours From night to a few hours before dawn, I lay awake in the cold, breezy attic on my thin, grass-stuffed bedroll. An occupational hazard of the burgling business is the infrequent bouts of insomnia. The stress I''m feeling, and the looming heist probably has something to do with my restlessness as well, however. I may be a veteran of the trade, but that''s only made me better at handling the pre-heist jitters, not that they''re gone entirely, or that it''s miraculously removed my ability to freak out about the house of cards I''m balancing atop of. Ever since I put the kids to bed I''ve been thinking hard about every possible way that this could end catastrophically for me. As it turns out, I''m quite imaginative when it comes to creating potential self-fulfilling prophecies of doom. I want to get up, go outside and go for a walk, but I''m still sluggish from the climb up to the vantage point I ate my lunch at yesterday, and I really need to get at least some sleep so I don''t just pass out from exhaustion in the middle of vaulting the Dwast manor walls. Now there''s another doom scenario for the pile, with multiple points of progression, like being chewed on by whatever animal they might have patrolling the grounds, or drowning in a little garden pond, too tired to move my head above water. Gods, why does Yemesv- "I swear I''m going to punch the Yemesvel out of me at this rate," I mutter under my breath. Why do I do this to myself? God, if my sister were here she''d tell me to stop being a whiny little brat. I miss her, actually. Never thought I''d say that about the foul-mouthed old glacier. I swear, when she went off to the Police Academy they subjected her to an experimental procedure that sucked all the smiles and humour out of her. Never got along with her after that, but imagine my surprise when the world''s pre-eminent power couple the Jennings use this game to lure me into a reconciliation with her as an apology for stealing my recipe book for their project. Or at least, they tried. But she was too busy perving on that weird guy with the pancakes from thetop of the stairs to come talk to me. She should be glad I never said anything to him about it, he''d have choked, and that would be a shameful waste of good food. I mean, it''d suck for him, but I''m a certified first aider, so he''d be fine. Probably. He was really shovelling them down... I should stop avoiding the thing that''s really bothering me. Which is how do I convince myself to stop worrying so much about the heist and the political intrigue that''s snared me in its much-storied web of lies and deceit for long enough that I can get some fucking shut-eye? The one thing I keep coming back to is how perfect it all is for me on the surface. I desperately want to go fish the Boss out of whatever brothel he''s wallowing in and grill his flabby ass over a brazier until he squeals like a pig, but if I''m right and this is a trap, then I''d only be tipping whoever is pulling the strings that I''m wise to their game. And if it''s me that''s the target of their scheme, they''ll come back with a more subtle plan. I growl. This is so frustrating. My intuition is screaming at me to get as far away from here as possible, but I just don''t have enough information to know if skipping town at all is a good idea. "You know what? Sod It - Old Human Philosophy. Yemesvel has already accepted the Job, Yemesvel is just going to get on with it and see what happens. There''s no point in thinking about it to a point where Yemesvel loses valuable sleepy-time."
I wake up sometime around midday, and head out into the street, leaving through the front door, since it''s business hours and running across the rooftops in broad daylight is just going to attract the attention of the city guard and gawkers. The guard can be bribed for the most part, although I don''t exactly have much coin on me, maybe enough to convince them to give me a headstart rather than to leave me along altogether. No benefits to putting on a tumbler''s stage performance for the crowd though. I already have a hard enough time moving around without that being added to my reputation. I avoid the narrow side streets as I make my way through the procession of Coal Bax-drawn wagons and pedestrians. The ground on the wider main road is muddy, despite it not having rained in days, and I''d prefer not to think too hard about the reasons why that could be. I count it a simple mercy that I''m wearing water-proofed leather footwear. When night comes, I can just wipe the muck off with a wet rag. Not leaving muddy footprints wherever I go in the heist is kind of important. I''m not taking this route because I''m worried about running to other unsavoury types. I can handle myself in a back alley brawl just fine. Redault is pretty much the definition of a sprawling metropolis. In the outer districts, buildings are continuously being built, torn down and rebuilt to accommodate the fluctuating yet ever massive population of slum dwellers, merchants of all stripes and thieves. As such, what space does exist is probably occupied by several other people and their luggage. If you want to get anywhere in a city like this, you either take to the rooftops, which are for the most part flat to simplify construction, or you join the masses and the wagons in the wider main roads that lead from the gate to several crossroads and any one of the city''s marketplaces. These markets are the lifeblood of the city, and each one is controlled by one of the local Claits: Family run mercantile companies that employ and control the majority of the city. Their influence is so widespread that the actual ruler of Redault, Duchne Eisber, has to consult the heads of the Claits before making any decisions. Even though it is well within her rights to have the lot of the corrupt bastards hung from their bootstraps and bled like a rabbit - and according to rumour she''d love nothing better - the Claits own almost every single man and woman of power and despise interference in their businesses. I think the closest real-world comparison would be Venice - if the merchant families were less subtle about their greed-fuelled brutality and didn''t care as much about their public image. Pretty much the only reason the kingdom tolerates it is that nobody wants to admit how much money these scumbags garner them. If Redault was to be purged, the nation''s economy would collapse on the spot. Which leaves Redault to continue to fester. I feel like I should quote Star Wars but that would be overstating things, and I''ve already arrived at my first destination of the day, the Thynnwirk-controlled Market of Mysteries. So-called because of the large open stage in the middle of the much larger plaza where washed-up low-level mages with no power or influence to their names put on performances of prestidigitation for the public. In essence, busking for coin by using crappy illusion magic and the like. They''re a pathetic lot, all-in-all. They have a certain amount of popularity in a way, but it''s plainly obvious they resent the depths they''ve sunk to in order to feed themselves. They could probably qualify as adventurers just by virtue of having magic, but they''re far too cowardly for that kind of life. Ironically, they often end up murdering their more popular rivals, which really just makes them even worse. Bards have far more dignity, by comparison, although there are many who claim the title that are little more than wandering drunks and philanderers looking for easy company. Real Bards can demand the attention of a room just be clearing their throat to prepare for a performance. A pity I have no musical talent, or I''d consider disguising myself as one once the Job is over. I''m here to speak to one of my few contacts. I''d hardly call him a friend, but the Runts know him to be fairly reliable with the information he provides. I can''t guarantee he''ll tell me anything useful, nor that the Thynnwirk Spies won''t catch wind of it, assuming they''ve not been tailing me since I left the Hoard, but if anyone has information on the Dwast and isn''t afraid to spread it around, it''ll be an information broker in Thynnwirk territory. The Dwast-controlled market, The Bolt Bazaar, is a couple of streets over, and the rivalry between these two Claits is only the worse for the proximity of their business interests. The Dwast have a near-monopoly on pottery and metalwork, thus the name, but both Claits have invested heavily in the local mining industry, so you can probably imagine how muchit bothers the Thynnwirk Clait that the Dwast own so many of the smiths and metalwork shops. Rather than one of the many stalls that segment the plaza into makeshift streets, I push through the throng of people behind a skewered meat stall where an inconspicuous travel supplies store sits. Honestly, I''m not entirely sure how the shops in the buildings that form the edge of the Market even survive with how hard the peddlers make it for people to get to their doors, but in this case I''d be more inclined to believe that Jokam does most of his business in selling information with the store itself serving as a convenient front for all the ''travellers'' that come through to pass along rumours. Pushing the metal braced wood door open, a dull tinkling bell rings from the back of a counter in opposite end of the small shop floor. Lining the wall are a few tables with examples of what Jokam theoretically sells. Bundles of rope, a large waterskin made from Glorram hide, and some boxes of firesticks - charcoaled twigs with a minor enchantment that causes them to burst into flame briefly after being snapped. All the staples of a financially sound vagabond. "Jokam!" I call out, getting impatient, "Yemesvel knows you''re back there, get your nose out of your skom bag." An irate Gurn stomps out of the back room and slams his palms on the counter, "I don''t have any fuckin'' skom. I''ll never touch that powdered death." I''ll admit the skom remark is fairly racist since it''s a bit of a stereotype that the local Gurn members of the underworld are all hopelessly addicted to it but frankly, Yemesvel never really gave a shit since the first time she met Jokam he called her a ''long-eared mongrel''. So whether Jokam does or does not use skom is really not my concern. Yemesvel just brings it up because she knows it bothers him and makes him eager to prove the stereotype wrong. Case in point, he rushed out here to see me immediately instead of prevaricating like he normally would since he hates my guts. As Gurn go, Jokam is pretty short at around 6ft tall, about a head taller than me, and lacks the muscle definition of those who live on Lirt, so Yemesvel strongly suspects that she isn''t the only one with mixed blood in the room, even if the bald bastard would sooner admit he''s projecting his insecurities with how the local Gurn gangs hold racial purity sacred. If he is a Half, then he''s fortunate he doesn''t look it, else his store would have been fire-bombed years ago, even with the Thynnwirk behind him. He breathes sharply through clenched teeth, glaring, "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, dear customer?" "If you don''t already know, your owners either don''t trust you very much, or you haven''t been doing your job very well." Jokam straightens up, rubbing a sweaty palm over his beard, looking around, "The invitation to the Feast?" I perk an eyebrow at his nervousness, "Yeah. You expecting company?" He flinches, his arm drops a bit, hesitating, before resuming his former posture, then nodding slightly, "Would you be so kind as to throw the latch down on the door?" I shrug, turning around and pulling down the latch, securing the entrance. During the motion, I focus my hearing for any oddities in the room. A breath that shouldn''t be taken. Hearing nothing, I turn back around. "What kind of guests? Anyone Yemsevel knows?" I ask, casually. "Just being cautious," He grunts, relaxing again, "Whoevermight have been listening, they can''tlisten anymore. And that''s all you need to know, brat." I roll my eyes, "Let''s just get this over with,Yemesvel has places to be." "Far be it from me to keep a customer waiting, even you. What do you want?" He folds his arms and leans onto the counter. "I need a time. When is the Feast?" "The chefs have been working since last night. They''ll arrange the dishes for the fourth bell after Noon, and the guests will be escorted in at the fifth. That''s not a guarantee, however. It depends on how long it takes for the Head to gain the representative''s interest." That leaves me with less time than I thought I''d have. I''ll have to head straight to the manor after this and hide on the premises in advance. If I was to infiltrate any closer to the presentation of the Feast I''d waste too much time trying to get past the guards even with an entrance prepared in advance for me. Without a chance to learn the patrol patterns and the like I just have to already be inside if I''m going to get anything done.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. "Where will the Feast be held in the building, and what kind of staff presence will be there for it?" Jokam scratches at an elbow, thoughtful, "The main dining hall on the second floor, I''d imagine. Once the Feast is in the room there''ll prob''ly be guards on the doors but I doubt there''ll be anyone inside." "Any open windows in that room?" "Don''t know if they open or not, but there are a few tall ones along the length of the wall. I don''t know much about the layout of the place." That could make getting back out complicated. If thesecond floor isn''t too high up I can maybe jump out the window in a pinch, but even if I land without breaking my neck or legs it''s going to be noisy and it''s going to hurt like hell. I need something more reliable and quiet, but I don''t have the time to arrange for a distraction nor anyone I can discuss my exit strategy with if I''m going to safely disappear. I think my best option right now is to infiltrate the dining hall before the serving staff deliver the Feast of Rarities and the guards take their positions at the doors. Then, when the guests arrive and see the Feast already sampled, and the alarm is raised or they just leave, I can slip out. "Alright. That''s all I need to know. Talk to your owner about the payment, you ain''t getting any extra from me for doing their dirty work," I tell him, promptly turning to leave. Indignant, he shouts after me, but I''m already melting back into the crowd.
An hour later, at the second bell, I''m stood on a rooftop eating a vegetable wrap a few buildings away from the Dwast Clait manor. Like the rest of the city, it''s pretty packed in amongst its neighbours, but they''ve spent a lot of money buying out their immediate neighbours so they can convert the buildings into a high-walled garden. From here I can see the trapdoor for the cellar that''s supposedlyunlocked on the right side of the fancy building, hidden amongst some hedges. The grounds are quiet, and the only visible guards are by the main gate and front door. The lack of security presence by the right side of the building suggests to me the insider is one of the guards. It''s about time to head in, but I should give my equipment a check before I start the infiltration.
Steel Stiletto
Quality: Common Weapon Type: Straight Dagger
Damage: 12-23 Damage Type: Stab
Enchantment: N/A Requirements: 11 DEX
Integrity: 87% Durability: Great
Abilities: Passive: Weak Armour Piercing
A long, thin blade, perfect for sliding between chainmail and deep penetration. Made of decent quality steel, it retains it''s point even when puncturing bone.
Guttersnipe''s Throwing Knives(x12)
Quality: Poor Weapon Type: Throwing Knives, Straight Daggers
Damage: 7-9 Damage Type: Stab
Enchantment: N/A Requirements: 8 DEX
Integrity: 53% Durability: Awful
Cheap throwing knives created by a rank amateur. Their balance is awful and hard to compensate for, but an expert might still find success. If nothing else, they''re still reasonably sharp...
Quilted Senior Runt''s Hooded Cloak and Shirt
Quality: Common, Magical Armour Type: Light
Armour Value: 14
Enchantment: Meagre Durability Requirements: 11 DEX
Integrity: 65% Durability: Good
Abilities: Camouflage, Minor Impact Absorption Magical Affinity: 3
This tight-fitting shirt and cloak combo is designed to allow thewearer to move quickly while making their movements harder to notice, while also muffling the sound made by impacts. Awarded to members of the Drag Street Runts who achieve the rank of Senior.
Iron-Tipped Klennock Grappling Hook
Quality: Uncommon Rope: Slate Spider Silk
Enchantment: N/A Requirements: 9 STR
Integrity: 70% Durability: Great
Though carved from wood, the durability of the Klennockis assisted by the iron tips. The result is a grappling hook that is light and durable.
Cat Burglar''s Toolkit
Quality: Uncommon Contents: Small Crowbar, Lockpicks, Pouch of Chalk Dust, Stick of Charcoal, Parchment Scraps, Spool of Wool String, Polished Steel Mirror, Phial of Adhesive.
A toolkit meant to be affixed to a belt which is equipped with just about anything an enterprising thief might need.
Mostly I just want to make sure that I still have everything in my toolkit. If I dropped something I don''t want to have to replace it. Checks done, and lunch eaten, I put everything back in its place and start doing some warm-up stretches, while also psyching myself up. Yemesvel has done tougher infiltrations before. I haven''t, but I''m Yemesvel now, right? I''m Yemesvel. I''m Yemsvel. Yemesvel can do all sorts of acrobatic bullshit. Like a ninja. Ok, not a ninja. More like a gymnast that does parkour every now and again. I bounce in place, tug my thin leather gloves tighter, and exhale. Time to go. The wall of the garden is 8 feet tall, rimmed with spiked metal to discourage less determined trespassers, and the height difference is about 10 feet from the top of the wall to the edge of the building at the edge of the row with a 5ft gap horizontally. From the wall to the manor is about 15 feet on this side. My rope is about 12 feet long, so I can use the edge of the building as a grapple point, rappel down, and jump the gap after building up some momentum by swinging back and forth on the descent. If i''m lucky I''ll be able to dislodge the grappling hook when I land on the wall and use it to get down safely. If not, I can probably drop down, but it''ll seriously hurt with my shitty Constitution and I might not stick the landing. Route set and visualised, I unhook the grappling hook from my belt again, and start running. My first obstacle is the gap between this first building and the next one, a little lower down. Nothing special, so I just take running jump across it, mindful of anyone below who might be looking up for some random reason. I also have to bear in mind that it''s still daytime, so my shadow is certainly visible from below. Legs forward, feet angled; I land and roll over my right shoulder, andlurch with the momentum back into a run, concentrating on controlling my breathing to distract my mind from the danger. The threat of missing a jump isn''t the danger, at least not directly. Any schmuck can run and jump. The first difficulty is what happens when you stop and all that forward momentum rebounds back on you or carries you over an edge. Yemesvel learned a fair bit from the Senior Runt who held her current position before they retired, but Alexis didn''t.So I have to trust in Yemesvel''s instincts to get through this - thinking about it too much may ruin my focus. I sprint across the remaining buildings, drop the hook, angle it into place and throw myself over the edge, gripping the rope for dear life, gravity carries me down and I feel the rope shudder and go taut, the hook firmly in place. The rope follows a crescent motion, I swing my legs back and forth to change the angle I swing, dropping further and further down the rope with each repetition and kicking off the side of the building with most of my strength once I reach the end. Rather than let go of the rope, near the apex of the jump, I whip my arm, sending a wave along the now slackened rope to free the hook, then pull it back. Landing on the stone wall takes a bit of the wind out of me, and the lack of space means I can''t roll to mitigate the impact. My knees and ankles scream, but I made it without breaking my legs. It doesn''t look like anybody noticed me, so I use the rope to shimmy down the wall and enter the Dwast Clait manor grounds.
Quest Updated!
Infiltrate the Dwast Clait''s manor 1/1
That. Was. AWESOME. I pull down the neckerchief I''m using for a facemask to breathe unobstructed. A little sore, perhaps, but I feel great otherwise. Is this what it''s like to be Spiderman? Or wait, is Catwoman more appropriate? Yeah. Oh, wait, Spiderman had a Catwoman clone too. I forget what she''s called, but she really liked to show off her cleavage, which considering all the acrobatic shit she did is just asking for a nip-slip. Small mercy that bras are a thing in Eden, come to think of it. Mine aren''t all that big, but even so. Ow. Done catching my breath and massaging my leg joints, I leave the rope behind the bushes here on account of how heavy and bulky it is, then run out to the cellar''s trapdoor.
The cellar is dank and smells of stale alcohol. Descending the stone ramp after pulling the door shut behind me, I almost whistle, impressed at how large the space under the manor really is. I remember going on a wine tasting trip a couple years ago with some friends from the production staff on my old cooking show and being in awe of the size of the barrels they had wine fermenting in, and here I find barrels of similar scale. I can''t help but wonder how they got them down here when the trapdoor was only big enough to roll down a few kegs of ale I see stacked on a shelf to my right, though faintly, as the room is quite dark, but for the small slivers of light that reach the floor from the seam in the trapdoor.Along the opposite wall is row after row of wine bottles. If I end up using the cellar to escape, I might take a few on the way out as a small bonus. No time to waste, though. It''s still more than an hour before they start to arrange the Feast, but I don''t know when they''re going to come down here to pick out some vintages. The staircase into the manor is between the two large fermenting barrels, and I can see a small amount of light leaking through a gap at the bottom of the door at the top of the spiral. Crouching down and leaning to peek through, I see a well-lit corridor. I wait a few seconds, ready to drop down over the railing if someone approaches. Confident that nobody is coming, I move closer to the door and lightly twist the door handle, pleased to find that it''s unlocked. Next, I take out the small slab of polished steel and use it to check around the slightly ajar door. To the left is a long corridor lined with paintings, while to the right is another door. Thinking back to my observations of the Manor''s exterior, this should place me next to the main lobby on the ground floor. The Dining Hall is on the second floor, at the back of the building. Getting to the second floor could be problematic, but I have to stay positive and trust in Yemesvel''s experience. It''s not impossible. Pocketing the mirror, I creep out of the cellar, carefully shut the door, and press myself into the corneradjacent to the lobby door. Now that I''m relatively exposed, I''ll have to move quickly. Looking through the keyhole, I pick out a single maid carrying a tray under her shoulder move down the ostentatious, central marble staircase. She yawns a little as she walks, heels clicking on the stone floor, then enters the door opposite this one. I wait 10 seconds, then open the door, shut it behind me andsneak across the lobby, ignoring the impressive decor, and creep up the wide staircase. A manor like this won''t have more than a dozen servants, and most of them should be occupied with the preparations in the kitchens on the ground floor, so the hope is that I have the run of the second floor and that any of the Dwast Clait who are home will stay in their rooms and offices. At the top of the stairs is a long corridor, directly in front of me, past an elaborately gilded stone archway with fantasticsmall sculptures of magical beasts locked in battle adorning it. The corridor stretches back past an intersection with another hallway, but beyond that is a set of double doors flanked by empty suits of plate armour - my destination. Along the length of it is a thick green carpet, so I break into another sprint, using the extra padding to help mask my footsteps. I pause briefly before the branching corridors, use my mirror again to check around the corner, then run to the end.
The dining hall is enormous. In the centre is a long table carved out of some sort of dark red stone reminiscent of amber, and inlaid with a silver floral pattern. The light from the 4 tall windows shines through, making the table almost glow as it drinks in the slowly descending sun''s radiance. A metre above the table hangs a 3 tier chandelier made entirely of some variety of purple gemstone, reflecting and diffracting a purple sheen across the walls. I suspect that each carved stone is enchanted to give light, and my appraisal ability can''t even come close to comprehending just how expensive it must have been. I almost start drooling as I fantasise about what stealing and fencing it would get me in terms of cash. "Focus, Yemesvel. Alexis. Whatever," I mutter. Shifting my gaze, I note the presence of a number of rafters a little higher up. Unfortunately, I didn''t bring the grappling hook inside with me, or else I''d be able to hide up there. Instead, I head over to a corner of the room on my left, where a tall statue of a naked dwarf with great muscles swinging a discus stands atop a plinth. "Pardon me, sir, but Yemsevel requires your aid in remaining unseen," I tell the sculpture politely, squeezing into the corner behind it and activating Fade Away. I can wait here until the Feast is set. Unless one of the servants looks back here, it''ll be next to impossible for any ordinary person to notice me. Now, I wait. Chapter 11: Reckless Disregard My decision to tow the Alpha''s head back to the Village may be ever so slightly...optimistic. The head is, through size alone, rather difficult to manage. I''m making do by tugging on its fur, but my arms still aren''t in great condition from the Reckless Strike and the bite on my shoulder, so making progress has been difficult. And painful, of course. I''m not about to stop fighting the way I want, but I really do need to exercise better control of my mind and body. I''m alive right now because of two things: Forest Walker and Ignore Pain. I wasn''t exaggerating when I said that a Dirolft can take down a Mercenary by itself. But I''d be lying if I said that I''m too much better than one. Their primary method of attack being to lunge and bite is predictable, given their bodies, but they''re fast and strong, and with my perception and reflexes being what they are normally, I might not have been able to react in time to the first Dirolft, and I definitely would have died to the last two Dirolft if I hadn''t immediately given up on trying to use the Pouch of Pungent Powders. It was a stupid idea with the time I had, and I should have been punished severely for it. Small stat buffs like that can make the difference in a fight, I''ve learned. I''m curious to see how absurd people get at high levels if their stats to continue to grow at a steady pace. I''m not even sure what constitutes a high level, really. All that Nealan knows is that you need a Class to start levelling, and your first Class is usually acquired through either specific training by someone familiar with that Class, completing special Quests, or else it comes to you naturally, representing who and what you are at the time you''re offered it. There''s a whole branch of philosophy dedicated to understanding the mechanism, but I think only the Testers realise the truth behind it. The AI Curator is supposedly watching our every move and rewards us based on our feats, though I don''t know the in-universe Lorebehind it, I''d have to ask one of the writing staff or maybe a God if that''s ever an option. If Nealan stayed home instead of running off to join the Loranics, he probably would have become eligible to learn the Woodsman Class from Da. As a specialised resource producer, a Woodsman would be great at navigating forests and harvesting lumber, but only mediocre at best in a fight, buoyed by higher than average strength and good spatial awareness in the forests they''ve familiarised themselves with. Anything nastier than a regular Dirolft or trained for combat would destroy me in that case. That I even managed against a single Dirolft with no Class, and piss-poor training would be laughed off as a ridiculous flight of fancy if I wasn''t dragging the Alpha''s head back with me, and in anywhere other than Klennock Village I''d be asked which Adventurer I stole it from. At least there they might give me the benefit of the doubt since they''ve known me all Nealan''s life, and know him to be an honest, hard-working sort. Stewing in introspection, I almost don''t notice the surroundings get lighter, signalling the approach of the forest''s edge. I take a ragged breath to calm the thrumming heat needling the joints and muscles of my arms. Grunting, I pull the handle of fur a little more forcefully and move at a brisker pace towards open ground. Sat waiting on one of the many stumps is my Da, staring right at me as I leave the treeline. He smiles softly at me, before turning to abject horror. "Son! Behind you!" He screams, scrambling to his feet, and running my way. I glance back, only seeing the severed Alpha''s skull. Confusion lasts only a moment as I realise that''s what spooked him. Honestly, I shouldn''t be all that surprised, and the concern is touching, but it''s pretty obviously dead, right? Maybe Da needs glasses now that he''s old. My nonchalance seems to derail the burst of fatherly concern, and his sprinting falters awkwardly as he nears, slowing down to a standstill, mouth gaping in shock, clearly incapable of processing the scene of his son dragging home an Alpha Dirolft''s head as a trophy. After what seems like forever, he regains his lost composure, then looks at me in askance. "Howdy," I say, grinning, removing his Axe from my belt and offering it to him, "Got yer axe. Be more careful with it, yeah?" Disbelieving,Da walks over and takes the axe, never taking his eyes off me. In his eyes I see questions, but they fall away to concern swiftly. He smiles, "Best you go get your mother to have a look atcher shoulder. We''ll talk inside. Leave that...head...out here. Don''t wanna give her a fright like you did me, do ya?"
Quest Updated!
Return the Axe to Walther or Yvette Forrester 1/1
Mercifully, the bite to my shoulder wasn''t anything serious. The Dirolft''s many sharp teeth left several dozen punctures in my flesh, but whereas Da tore his leg free in order to escape, I just forced the jaws of the dead creature open. Thusly, the injury should heal pretty quickly now that my Mam has disinfected and bandaged it. All going well, it won''t even leave a scar, which I admit to feeling a sliver of disappointment. It wouldn''t leave a visible, cool scar like on my arms, but it would definitely serve as a decent reminder of my inexperience. As for my arms, Mam just gave me some Hylju leaf to chew on. The juice contained in an intact leaf tastes a little like a cross between aniseed and mint, and numbs the worst of the lingering jointpain for a couple hours. I didn''t break anything, merely gave my bones a nasty shock that will go away by tomorrow or the day after so long as I don''t do anything strenuous. Which is fine, but unless specifically prepared by a better-equipped apothecary than my Mam, Hylju leaf extract is pretty toxic after the first dose, starting with bleeding gums and liver pain before you start shitting blood by the bucket. Not a pleasant way to go, nor a very dignified one, either. But Mam knows her plants, and she hates seeing me in pain, so she decided it was worth it to get me through the worst of the initial discomfort. I just have to not need any more doses for at least a week so my body can break down the poison. Ministrations complete, I spit the mashed up leaf into a wooden bowl that we''ll have to burn out back later. If we throw it out into the grass or bury it; The toxins, now that they''ve been activated by the heat and saliva in my mouth, will bleed into the soil and choke out the plants nearby. Not too big a deal for us, but there''s no need to be negligent. One of the philosophies impressed into Nealan by his parents was a respect for nature, which is not hard to understand given their respective callings in life. Taking care of the land around your home is an obvious expectation, and those who pay no heed to the swamp developing beneath their feet will find their home sinking into it, to paraphrase a lecture Mam gave me when I-when Nealan was a child. And speaking of which, Mam looks about ready to give me a lecture right now, so I should probably stop zoning out and start explaining what happened. Da takes a seat at the kitchen table, opposite me, then prods my shin with his new walking stick, "So what happened to you for you to end up chewed on as if you were a flank o'' mutton like yer old man, huh?" Mam repeats the question wordlessly with a twitch of her eyebrow, nailing me to my chair with her gaze. I swallow my bitter tasting saliva and recount the tale of how I thought fighting an Alpha Dirolft and it''s pack was a good idea, and how through sheer dumb luck, was vindicated. When I''m finished Da looks contemplative, but respectful. Mam, on the other hand, slaps me across the head without warning the moment I look towards him, "Foolish boy! That was reckless - no, it was suicidal! An Alpha Dirolft is an even match for even a party of low-rank Adventurers, and two dozen Soldiers would still fail to wound it. Truly, you must be blessed to come away so clean after damn near killing yourself a second time. Do you not remember the day the Monster Flood occurred? Didyou learn nothing from that near-death?!"Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. My face burns with shame in spite of myself. I realise that my behaviour is by the standards of normal folk, insane. True, most would look back on that day with trepidation and refuse to engage a monster in combat again for as long as they lived. But Nealan broke in a different way, or perhaps he always was and simply awakened to a deviant mentality - Battle Hunger. I''m not ashamed of my decision to kill the pack. It worked out just fine, and, the unpleasant reality of my brutality aside, was an immensely enjoyable experience I''d go through again in a heartbeat. I''m not sure how much of Cyril is tied up in there, but I''ve no choice but to accept it. Rather, I''m ashamed about my disregard for how Mam and Da would feel about it since I told them I was onlygoing to retrieve the axe, and nothing else. It was thoughtless of me. I get that. And it hurts me to see them hurt by my recklessness. Mam chews her lip, holding back tears, "Well? Answer me!" "I''m sorry I wasn''t honest with you," I tell her, raising my head, "I wasn''t thinking with my head. I know it was stupid - that I should have waited for an Adventurer party to deal with it - but I wanted to prove to myself I could be like them. That I can be one of them. My dream outpaced my common sense." "Arrogance is a deadly thing, lad," Da chimes in, "But I think this time, the lesson ought to ''ave struck ''ome. Just ''cos you can swing an axe around don''t make you a Knight. Even them Adventurers you admire are as mortal as the rest of us, I reckon. You got a life, just one, and neither me or your mother wanna see you squander it." I feel like he''s being a bit disingenuous, given his outburst before I went out, but Mam''s nerves are probably shot to tatters by the day''s events, so he''s probably keeping back some of his opinions for her benefit. Still, I nod along in understanding, "I know, Da. I get it now, I do." "You bloody better, or else the next time you drag your bleeding carcass ''cross my door you can die for all I fuckin'' care!" Mam yells, stomping out the kitchen. A moment later, I hear the door to my parents'' bedroom slam shut, the shockwave of sound leaving silence it''s wake. After a pause, Da breaks the lull with a deep sigh, rubbing a hand over his tired face, then standing. "Yer Mam''d sooner cut her arm off and eat it in front of a starvin'' cannibal than see you suffer, y''know. She just needs some time to calm down. I''ve not seen her so out of sorts since her family died to bandits." I don''t respond. It''s hard to articulate my feelings. He stares out the kitchen window at the forest, hands resting on the top of his walking stick. "But if today''s taught me something, It''s that I ain''t getting any younger. I don''t think this leg''ll bother me for more''n a few months, but I started learning carpentry a year ago. Injured or not, I ain''t gonna be able to keep logging in the woods for much longer. And to top it off, I damn near lost your Grampa''s hatchet. Your birthright. I''m hardly fit to call myself his apprentice, nevermind his successor or the husband of his daughter with behaviour like that." Da raises a hand, wrinkled, loose skin, thick with callouses, clenches into a fist. Self-loathing emanates from his back. "Ah, but listen to an old man ramble on. You don''t regret it, even a little. Going after the pack, I mean. You get that from me I guess. I''m just happy to be alive, the details don''t even diminish that," He continues, sighing again, "We should go get yer trophy over to the Alderman. He''ll wanna see it." Turning around. Da walks up to me again, deliberating whether or not to say something else. He looks at me, really looks. "Before that though, I gotta ask you something. It''s real important, so I don''t want you to answer lightly, yeah?" He eventually says. I nod again, still tongue-tied by how serious he''s being. "Stay in Klennock. I''ll hand off the hatchet to you, and I''ll hand over the reigns of the loggin'' business to you, too. It''s yours by right, anyway. I were only ever keepin'' it safe for the day you came of age and took over anyhow. It''ll be a load off my mind, and yer Mam''ll be ecstatic to have you back home for good."
Quest Complete!
The Life and Pride of a Lumberjack
Personal Quest Difficulty: Very Hard
Not only have you retrieved your birthright, but you have defeated a foe that most would shy away from, and in so doing, avenged your father''s injury and dishonour.
Rewards: Greatly Increased Fame in Klennock Village. Able to inherit the Forrester''s birthrights. Able toinherit the Class:Woodsman Title Gained: Huntsman
Huntsman Slay a strong beast and take a trophy as proof of your kill.
The Woodsman, Walther Maddox-Forrester, is offering to give you the Class: Woodsman Do you accept his offer?
"I know it goes a bit against what I said earlier, but I don''t think I''d ever fergive myself if I never made the offer," Da adds on. I lean back and stare at the ceiling, considering his offer. In truth, a small part of me is tempted to take him up on it. There''s nothing stopping me spending a few years at home before heading out into the world once my parents inevitably pass away. Morbid, I know. If Nealan was the only one hearing this offer, he might well have been persuaded. But, as much as I want that hatchet, it''s not worth it if it means giving up so many years of my life waiting for them to die. That''s...just disgusting to me. To both of us when it comes down to it. I''m aware that I''m not exactly sound of mind at the moment, but I''d have to be an idiot or a real sick piece of shit to do that to them and myself. I don''t want them to die. I don''t want to resent them for holding me back. I absolutely do not want to torture myself over it all. "Sorry, Da. I can''t. But...I figure you already knew what I''d say. I don''t want to be a burden on you both, and I don''t wanna sit here twistin'' my mind around thinking about how you''re a burden to my own wants," I tell him, looking him straight in the eyes, "That''s probably a bit more blunt than is proper but that''s how it is. I want to see the world, ''fore I settle down fer good. Probably punch out a dragon just to tell me grandkids by the fire. Share the same wonder with ''em I crave now." Da smiles sadly, eyes moistening, "Aye, that''s a good dream to hold on to. Gods above, me son''s growin'' up like a weed. Look atcher, talkin'' all fancy now, as well." He laughs, choking a bit, "Just remember, it''s a standing offer, ya hear? You ever feel like shaggin'' demons and fist-fightin'' giants ain''t for you, just come home. Yer always welcome - always our son. Got that?!" I stand and grasp his arm, pulling him in for a hug, "Yeah, Da. I got that." Releasing the embrace, he claps me on the shoulders, "Now get outta here. Take your trophy off to the village ''fore it gets dark. I''ll go try''n calm yer Mam down."
With the aid of a wheelbarrow we keep around for hauling smaller logs and other assorted rubbish, I take the Alpha''s severed head to the village gate, arriving just as the sun begins to descend toward the horizon, bathing the surrounding buildings in a soft amber glow. Lonn is still on duty, and he gapes at me as I approach, almost dropping his spear in surprise. "Wh-wha...WHAT IN THE NAME OF GARFNI IS THAT?!" He yells, pointing his spear unsteadily at the Dirolft head, arm aquiver. Expecting at least this much from the easily spooked sentry, I suppress the urge to sigh and roll my eyes, "Alpha Dirolft head. Killed it and it''s pack in the woods about an hour ago? Maybe a little longer. Taking it to show the Alderman, know where he is?" Lonn regards me with complete awe, "I-That''s...That''s an ALPHA''S HEAD?! AND YOU KILLED IT?!" "Simmer down, Lonn. You''ll draw a crowd, and I don''t wanna stand around here all night so folks can gawk at me," I admonish him, firmly. I wouldn''t mind bragging a little in The Woodsman later, but I need to talk to the Alderman about this thing''s owner and what that means for my parents and the village. Business before boasting. Lonn doesn''t seem to be listening, and he continues to stand frozen in place, staring at the Dirolft''s grisly visage, completely transfixed as though he were facing down the still-living beast. I snap my fingers, "Oi. Answer the bloody question, Lonn. Where. Is. The. Alderman?" Lonn scrunches his eyes shut and shakes his head vigorously, "He''s uhh...He''s at home, I reckon. Just saw him leave Mrs Lantry''s shop a couple minutes ago with a sack o'' flour." "Great. Now kindly pick yer jaw up off the floor and stop blockin'' the road, I''m busy."
From a street corner, adisgusting, white-haired old man, dressed in filthy rags, lacking footwear and stinking to high heavens of raw sewage, observes quietly as a figure leaps across a building and uses a rope to swing their way into the grounds of the Dwast Clait manor in most daring and reckless fashion. "Somewhat unorthodox, but the results can''t be argued with, I suppose," He mutters, scratching at his balding head vigorously. Uncaring of his surroundings, he belches loudly, "Oof, that ale is coming back strong. That''s what I get for buying the extra yeasty shite. Well, better let Fillip know he has aguest." Chapter 12: Persephone I leave the wheelbarrow a few paces behind me and knock on the wooden door to the Alderman''s home. The Alderman was originally the assistant to the actual Mayor, but he died prior the Monster Flood and nobody really bothered to question him taking over the role, given that nobody else was qualified, oreven willing to do it. Klennock Village''s politics don''t really go much higher or complex than overcharging that one guy you don''t like for two-timing on your sister by a couple extra coins. The locals hold grudges, sure, but they aren''t really all that power-hungry or violent. Growing up on the frontier really diminishes the scope of peoples'' ambitions. I realise, by that logic, you''d think folks would call him the Mayor instead; But it''s all we''ve ever known him as and it just sort of stuck. Not that he ever seemed to mind. I don''t think I actually know his name either, he''s just ''The Alderman'' to me and probably several others. The door opens, and a middle-aged man, with a neatly trimmed, faded blonde beard, and bald scalp stands in the opening, filling it with his large frame. I don''t mean that he''s fat, though maybe a little pudge has crept in since I last saw him. He''s probably the only man in town with a more imposing appearance than me. The Alderman squints at me, then spreads his arms wide with an even wider smile, "Neal! Good to see ya, lad! Heard you were back in Klennock. Gods, how long has it been? Two years?" Accustomed to the forceful bluster, I respond easily, "About three, actually." "Is it now?" The Alderman folds his thick arms, thinking, "So it is. Three years last month, now you mention it. So, to what do I owe the pleasure, eh?" I step back and gesture toward the barrow, and The Alderman leans out the door. Confusion takes him for a few seconds as he tries to understand what it is he''s looking at, but once he does, he straightens up, completely serious. "When yer mother told me that Walther was attacked by a Dirolftpack, I put a bird outcalling in a favour for an Adventurer crew to come down and deal with it. I wasn''t expecting you to come here barely a couple hours later with the head of it''s Alpha," He says, staring me down, "What happened?" "Da lost his axe when he were attacked, so I went to get it. Killed the Dirolfts while I was at it," I explain, meeting his hard gaze, "Took the Alpha''s head back with me to prove I did it." The Alderman pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing his eyes and chuckling, "You make it sound so simple. Anyone else told me that story I''d dunk ''em in a barrel of water to sober the blithering bastard up, because what else could yer story be but drunken babble?" I shrug and smile. I already went over this earlier. The Alderman leaves the doorway and walks over to the head to study it from all angles, whistling in admiration, "Ain''t he a brute? Hate to have to stare this fucker down in the woods at night, no joking about that." Then he stops, squinting at the tag on its ear, "What have we here? A Beast Tamer''s Ownership Tag?" Frowning he leans over and rips the tag off the ear with a sharp tug, holding it up to the dwindling sunlight. "Any idea who owns it?" I ask, impatient. The Alderman scowls, "Not a clue. I can tell that whoever owned it is probably still alive because the Ownership Tag hasn''t disappeared into thin air yet, but a pack of Dirolft isn''t something you just lose out here, and I''d have heard about it sooner if it were an honest mistake, I reckon. Since that hasn''t happened and I don''t know of any Beast Tamers operating in the area, never mind one with a companion like this, I get the impression they were left there deliberately by someone lookin'' to make some mischief." He pockets the tag then heaves a great sigh, "Get inside lad, reckon we need to have a longer chat."
The door to the dining hall opens, snapping me out of my reverie. I''m not sure how much time has passed; Yemesvel kind of dozed off for a bit there. Lack of sleep catching up with me, no doubt. "I swear upon my Grandmother''s good name, any of you sots drops a plate I''ll have you take it''s fuckin'' place. And that''ll be a kindness compared to what the Head will do to you and your families when he hears about it - and he will hear about it," growls one moustached man in a dark brown brown smock and apron. The man stands to the side of the door, fists on his hips, leering at a procession of servants and other chefs as they carry in a vast assortment of dishes, both familiar and truly outlandish. From piles of exotic fruits that Yemesvel hasn''t even heard of - much less seen - to a whole roast monster carried on a platter by two people resembling a giant boar with 3 eyes, and crowned with jagged bone - the perfectly browned skin shining with some manner of glaze. Every servant that enters the room brings a bevvy of new treats, and my mouth is already watering from the sight alone. The smells of fragrant spice, sweet delicacies and savoury meat are enough to make me want to just forget everything I''m doing, run out to devour it all immediately and damn the consequences.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. "Come on, hurry it up, we don''t have all day, our guest is waiting, and the longer they wait, the less the Head will be amused," The man I presume to be the Head Chef snaps, stomping over to the table to fuss over the arrangement of the dishes. I don''t have the best vantage point from which to observe the gaggle of servants, and moving around too much risks revealing my hiding place and presence. What I do see is grim determination and fatigue. They''ve probably been working on this without any sleep since early this morning, maybe even since yesterday. Some of the women work with shaky hands, the product of stress and restlessness, the men move stiffly, trying not to give away their own weakness in front of them. Such typical male bravado raises an eyebrow from me. Way to go against the stereotypes, guys and gals. The Head Chef, in contrast, seems completely fine. Indeed, if it wasn''t for his intermittent blustering at his staff, you''d hardly think that he was under any pressure at all. From his ranting, I discern he did actually work on the dishes as well, but his fortitude is obviously of a higher calibre than the others to look so unphased at the end of it. Eventually, the serving staff file out of the room, leaving a single man, the Head Chef, alone in the room. He looks at the splendidarray of scrumptiousness blankly. There is no pride and no longing in that heavy gaze. After a minute, he turns and leaves silently, shutting the doors behind him. Patient and cautious, I wait until I''m satisfied that nobody else is likely to enter the room. I stand, breaking cover and sauntering over to the table. From h''ordervesand salads to desserts, I doubt I''ve ever seen a spread this impressive in my life. Yemesvel certainly hasn''t. Being honest with myself, I doubt I can actually make good on my offhand pledge to eat the entirety of the Feast. The salads and desserts would be one thing, but the main courses and that glazed monster roast are each one enough to account for a family of 4 at a rather optimistic minimum. That''s not to say I''m not going to sample any of the Chef''s work, far from it. It just means I have to be wary my appetite doesn''t outpace my ability to keep it all down and still escape with the job completed. Yeah. Nothing stopping me making sure that the Chef''s skills are up to my standards at all. Maybe I can leave him a note with a review of his cooking. I doubt he gets much in the way of good critique anymore. In the distance, faintly, I hear the sound of the fourth afternoon bell. Guess that''s my cue to start eating. But where to start? The desserts, a collection of cakes, somesort of yoghurt sundae things and more, as tempting as they might be, should be saved for last, naturally. As delicious as they no doubt are, that sort of reckless eating is childish and ruins the palate. No, one should give a meal such as this proper courtesy. I decide to start with a fruit salad. Arranged into a beautiful spire of berries and fruits with thinly sliced smoked meats wrapped around it in a spiral wreath, my target for my first dish is striking and obvious. It''s further adorned by a delicately carved fruit reminiscent of a pomegranate. The only difference being the yellow coloured seeds to the normal dark red. The pomegranate(?) half is cut to form a bowl for a small mound of it''s seeds. I move to take a handful of the salad but stop partway. Something feels very, very wrong. The feeling of unease I felt after accepting the quest returns stronger than ever. My arm slackens, falling back to my side as I stare dumbfounded into the distance. Slowly, I turn around, suspecting that maybe someone is in the room. But there''s nothing there. The door is still shut. The room silent. I look back at the feast. Then my eyes settle once again on the fruit salad, and something clicks. I recognise that look on the Head Chef''s face. I''ve seen it over and over again on other people, and in my own reflection. The look of a Chef who knows he''s made a dish he''s not proud of. For something this amazing, I initially wrote it off as perfectionism without even thinking about it. I''ve seen that too. That was a mistake. Me being here is a mistake. I know why he looked like that, and it wasn''t the quality of his cooking. The pomegranate reminded me of an old story. And I realise now, that this entire Feast is poisoned. I can smell it. Faint, but thanks to the Gourmet title I can parse it from the delicious aroma wafting over me. I can''t tell what kind it is, but it''s there. He ruined his own masterpiece of culinary genius with fucking poison. Why? Is this why I''m here? To stop the guest being poisoned? No, that doesn''t make sense. Why would Dwast Clait go to this length to poison such an important business associate? Moreover, if Thynnwirk Clait knew about it, why would they care that an ally of the Dwast Clait was poisoned? If anything, they''d want to make sure it happened if they didn''t set the poison up themselves, or use me as a scapegoat. I remember my misgivings about the request. Perfect. Too perfect. "..when I heard it I immediately thought of you." "Which will suit me just fine if it gets you out of my hair forever." "I''m a petty bastard" I grind my teeth, "That fat fuck sold Yemesvel out after all."
Quest Updated!
The Quest, ''A Dragon''s Appetite'' has changed into the Quest, ''A Dragon''s Sacrifice''.
Quest Accepted!
A Dragon''sSacrifice
Personal Quest Difficulty: Extremely Hard
For reasons unknown, your employer in the Drag Street Runts has sent you to destroy a poisoned feast, hoping that you would be unable to resist the temptation of sampling the Rarities. Escape is your only option. Objective/s: Escape 0/1
Rewards: ???
I look at the screens, then summarise my feelings in one word, "Motherfucker." Chapter 13: Conspiracy I follow the old bear inside, shutting the door behind me. The Alderman''s home is probably one of the larger houses in Klennock Village, but you''d never be able to tell from the inside through all the clutter and knick-knackery. The living room alone has no fewer than 10 stuffed animal trophies, and it''s hard to navigate the furniture-packed room to anywhere but an old wicker armchair near the brick fireplace. From somewhere behind a stack of old books, The Alderman fishes out a short stool and places it across from the chair, motioning for me to take a seat, then pointing a finger at the dry stack of logs in the fireplace. "Inu Loog Mol," He commands, a fire arising from the wood after a moment. "Didn''t know you were a Spellchanter," I remark, trying to fit myself on the too-small stool. "I''m not, really. That weak cantrip is the extent of my talent, and it took me almost a decade to get to a point where I could start using even that," The Alderman grunts, regret evident in his expression. "Lessexpensive than a firesnap stick, though." "True, but a firesnap stick doesn''t bottom out my mana reserves when I use it." The Alderman relaxes into his chair with a deep sigh, the wicker crackling and squeaking under his weight. After a moment collecting his thoughts, he leans forward, elbows on knees and hands clasped, "But I didn''t invite you in to talk about me. Suppose for the sake of politeness, I should ask how you''ve been. I know we never talked much before you left with that money-obsessed bastard of a captain, but even so, you look like hell, Neal." I shift on the uncomfortable stool, probably looking reluctant to speak when really I''m just trying my best not to fall off it, "Just tired mostly. Haven''t had a good night''s sleep since I left Neri Village down south last week. Dirolft chewed on my shoulder for a bit too, and my arms ache something fierce from the backlash of the martial skill I used to down the Alpha. Mam already gave me a thorough seeing to though. Verbally and medically, like." The Alderman looks curious, "Backlash from a martial skill? What Class d''you have?" "I don''t," I respond simply. "You..took down a pack of Dirolft and an Alpha...without a Class..." "Yeah." The Alderman sits up, massaging his forehead, disbelieving, "Just taking down an Alpha on your own at your age is a miracle in and of itself, and you mean to tell me you not only have a Martial Skill with no Class, but you took down them all, by yourself, without a Class?" I shrug.My blase attitude to this is probably not helping matters, but I swear that''s just fatigue. I really amfeeling physically and emotionally drained right now. But my desire for sleep comes second to keeping my family - and by extension the village - safe. "I want to believe you, Neal, really I do, but you''re not making it easy. You know how absurd that sounds? That''s the sort of feats Bards sing about in bars where the patrons are too drunk to question the content of their prose." "Still did it," I smile, feeling maybe more than a little smug. "Why don''t you just tell me the whole thing, start to finish?" The Alderman says, giving up.
The story, from start to finish, has The Alderman enraptured. He doesn''t say a word throughout, though he obviously has trouble stopping himself when I explain my decision to go after the Alpha on my own. After I''m done recounting the tale of my reckless stupidity, the room falls silent, but for the crackle of the gentle fire. The Alderman, contemplative, takes the tag from his pocket again, and holds it up, staring at it. What seems like hours later, he clenches his fist around the small sliver of metal, takes a deep breath, then groans. "From what you''ve said so far, the pack wasn''t very large. But with most of the local beasts dead in the Flood, the Dirolft had ample room to grow into a serious threat. This is the third crisis that''s come to Klennock in my lifetime. No matter how I look at it, someone is trying very hard to get rid of us without acting directly upon that desire. You may have headed off this one, but until the Beast Tamer andtheir owners are dealt with I reckon it''s gonna keep happening," He explains. I tend to agree with his assessment. To a point, at least. The original bandit attack seems unrelated if you ask me. It''s been too long between that incident and the Flood, but barely a few years have passed since then and now another by-proxy monster attack in the works has shown up to threaten Klennock Village and my family? That''s a harder coincidence to swallow. I tell him as much. "I suppose that makes sense. But that don''t change a damn thing. Some bastard is trying to kill us and make it look like an accident of nature, and that''s that," The Alderman scowls. "So, what do we do?" I ask, not really expecting much. He takes a moment to think, "You said you''re going out to be an Adventurer right?" I frown, "Yeah? What about it?" The Alderman scratches at his beard, "I was thinking. The Adventurers I called down to deal with the pack can probably keep us safe for a couple months, or at least until the money runs out. My uh...friend...won''t send anyone down that can''t be trusted, I wouldn''t think. But whoever is targeting Klennock isn''t going to just give up ''cos their pet got killed early. If anything, you cutting off that Alpha''s noggin is just gonna piss them off even more than they prolly already are." He licks his lips, then continues, "So I was thinking. I can''t leave the Village, and I ain''t exactly the young and tough hot-blooded brat I was ''fore I settled down here. Why don''t you treat getting to the bottom of this as your first Adventurer job? I''ll send another letter with you and you can speak to my...friend. She''ll probably help out once she finds out how serious this is. Won''t be too happy about it though."This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. I can''t help but raise an eyebrow, "You talking about an old lover?" The Alderman looks away, guilt all over his face. So obvious. He coughs, "She''s a manager for the Adventure Company in Mhin. Knowing her, I reckon she''ll take a liking to you, hopefully give you a hand getting started, even if it''s only because I''m making it a Quest. I''m asking because I feel like I can trust ya." I stand up, ignoring the circular imprint of discomfort left by the small stool on my ass, look at The Alderman, then offer my hand, "No reason not to look into it. I accept your Quest." The Alderman chucklesthenstands up quickly with a slap of his knees, and grasps my hand, shaking it very vigorously. I wince. "Oh, sorry. Forgot you sprained yer arms," he apologises, laughing heartily to offset his sheepishness.
Quest Accepted!
Hero of Hearth and Home
Personal Quest/Regional Quest Difficulty: Extremely Hard/Nigh Impossible
Twice, your life has been drastically changed by theattacks of monsters in your hometown. Having found evidence that these events may be part of a larger conspiracy, you have promised to find and resolve the source of the disturbances, for the sake of your own self-satisfaction and the safety of your family. Whatever the outcome, this will have drastic consequences for Klennock Village. Objective/s: Reach the town of Mhin0/1 Meet Alderman Daurn''s Contact 0/1 Gain the support of Alderman Daurn''s Contact 0/1 Become an Adventurer 0/1 Obtain a Class 0/1 Discover the truth behind the Monster Flood 0/1 Resolve the cause of the attacks 0/1 Optional: Find the Owner of the Dirolft Alpha (Level 8) 0/1
Rewards: Greatly Increased Regional Fame Moderately Increased Continent Fame Maximum Fame in KlennockVillage ??? ??? Additional Rewards May Be Available
Failure: Destruction of Klennock Village ??? ???
What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck. I don''t know what to do. I need to escape, yeah sure, great. How? I don''t know. I can''t jump through the windows. The drop would probably break my legs. The noise would tell them exactly where I am if they don''t know already. Am I even alone in the room? I don''t know. I don''t know and it''s driving Yemesvel up the wall. I look this way and that, panicked. No other entrance I can use. Just the double doors which are almost certainly guarded at this point. Do I fight my way out? No. I''m not a fighter. Fuck. FUCK! Pacing back and forth I chew on my glove. Think. Come on, calm down, just for a minute, and THINK! Do they know I''m in the manor? Probably. Doubt they know where I am specifically. They can only assume I''m here, right? There''s no guarantee either way. Hide. Got to hide. Where? Wish I had brought the grapple. No easy way to find me in the rafters. Can''t stay in the room though, they''re going to search for me. The dining hall is the obvious place for me to be. Or at the very least, close by. I look over at my original hiding place. Then around the room again, eyes darting here and there with barely enough time to process what I''m looking at. No other spots strike me as particularly effective. The room is open, and open is exposed. Cursing repeatedly, my gaze locks on to the naked dwarf statue. I deflate a little. I''m not confident this will be all that effective once they start actively searching for me. Time to improvise. They hired me to vandalise the Feast of Rarities, expecting me to be unable to resist eating some, right? Why not make them think I just did the job and left? A bluff, in other words. I suck air into my lungs, and set to work. I scatter the food, crushing fruit and messily carving chunks out of the meat. The soups I pour over the whole lot, and the roast boar-thing is ripped to pieces by my stiletto. Then I channel Yemesvel''s unbridled childishness and start carving dicks into the table with the tip of the dagger, finishing it off with a message in terribleHommish: Yemmsvl hud layt lunch so wan t hungre byyyeeee After a moment''s thought, I add another dick, giggling quietly. Something about this is strangely gratifying. I jog back to the statue, crouch down behind it then start concentrating on fading away. Have to trust in my luck and skills. If I can stay hidden here long enough, maybe I can make a break for it, and lose any pursuers in the city. I hope.
Elsewhere in the Dwast Clait''s manor, a man sits behind the desk of an expansive office. Along the left wall, in a lattice similar in fashion to an iron wine rack, are rows upon rows of scrolls. Some slots home to multiple. In the corner, behind the man - a small man, lean like a rake, with thinning white hair and a wrinkly face scrunched up like he''d sucked on one too many lemons - Is a short bookcase. He turns to return the ledger on his desk to that shelf, and a brief rapping of three knocks comes from the only door into the dim, candlelit room. The man pauses mid-motion. After a moment''s consideration, he pushes the book back into its place, then resumes a more dignified posture, arms crossed. "Who is it?" He asks, irritated by the interruption of his work. The meeting with his guest is rapidly approaching, and he needs to be absolutely certain that he has the correct statistics memorised. A single number out of place could have serious effects on the profit margin for the upcoming venture. "Hajo," Is the blunt response. The man, Head of the Dwast Clait and one of if not the most powerful figures in Redault, rolls his eyes, feeling utterly unsurprised. The Spy has never been able to understand when he did not want to be disturbed. But there would be no point in retaining his services if Hajo was routinely ignored. "Enter." The door opens, and a filthy, rag-wearing beggar walks in with an incongruous air of dignity. He stinks, not of sewage but of Lavender soap. Evidently whatever tidings he''s bringing not urgent enough to distract the man from his vanity, though Yprus is secretly glad Hajo didn''t bring that fugue of alchemically-induced stink with him into the office. It''s a greasy, sticky smell, that sticks to the room and the paper for weeks. Yprus stares down the Spy, expecting prompt answers for the intrusion. Hajo doesn''t show any signs of being bothered by his employer, however, and speaks in a casual tone, "Figured I''d let you know that a ''guest'' has arrived, according to schedule." Yprus places his palms on the desk, half-standing up, "You''re certain it''s the right one?" Hajo looks at his employer, offended by the insinuation he made a mistake, "Followed her from Drag Street. It''s definitely the right one. Never even realised I was there, naturally." Yprus smiles a thin smile, eyes narrowing, "Excellent. Shall we go offer our guest our hospitality?" Chapter 14: Commodities Breathe deeply - steady the shaking. I need to maintain my focus if Fade Away is going to do anything for me. If I let my concentration slip even a little that could be the end of me. Abruptly, the doors to the hall open, and 2 men walk in, followed by three lightly-armoured guards wielding steel polearms. Both men are relatively old as humans go. They make an odd pair, with the shorter of them dressed smartly in the latest local fashions, while the other, proud as a peacock is dressed in filthy rags that wouldn''t be out of place on a tramp in the dirtiest, most squalid slum. I bite my lower lip, clenching my eyes shut and praying to whatever gods might be watching that they buy the bluff. "Hajo," someone growls, "It would appear the snare has failed. Find the girl. NOW!" I peek an eye open, and the beggar chuckles, "That part of the plan was ridiculous from the start. And I told you as much, Fillip." "My nameisn''t Fillip to you, Hajo, it''s ''Boss''. Now don''t make me repeat myself," The short-arsedbaldy snaps back. "Oh, I heard you. I just think this is hilarious. How much has this scheme of yours cost you now, compared to the much more reasonable and straightforward approach I suggested?" Beggar guy - Hajo -smirks. Fillip apparently does not share in Hajo''s good humour, and faster than I could ever have expected from the thin old man, jabs the taller guy in the stomach, making him crumple to his knees, where Fillip grabs onto his skull with both hands. I can''t see the expression on Fillip''s face, but from the way Hajo completely stiffens up, I can imagine it''s quite scary. If nothing else I can feel the intensity of Fillip''s bloodlust and it''s making my hair stand on end. "Without the correct leverage, the profits I stand to gain from the deal are substantially lowered," Fillip says, quietly yet harsh, "And if I lose those profits, I will personally tear out your heart with my bare hands and crush it in front of you. I may be retired and ageing, but I am still very, very dangerous. That cheap swill you insist on drinking must have rotted your memory for you to forget that. So..." The beggar chokes back a scream of pain as the other man squeezes his head, "FIND. THE. GIRL." Hajo coughs, "R-r-right." Fillip lets go of the beggar abruptly, retrieves a handkerchief from a pocket inside his pastel purple waistcoat and wipes his hands with it, staring daggers at his subordinate. Hajo, meanwhile, stands up unsteadily, one hand clutching his stomach. Taking a deep breath, his posture relaxes again, and he turns around to regard the vandalised Feast. "The door was never openedafter the table was set. Correct?" He asks the guards behind him. "Aye, sir." "Yessir." "Aye." Hajo nods, "Then she''s still in the room. The windows aren''tdamaged and there''s no other exit she could take but the door. There wouldn''t be enough time to do all this extra embellishment and sneak out with the serving staff. Even I''d struggle to pull that off." Shit. Shit, shit,shit. I fucked up. I didn''t think about how the theoretical escapee supposedly pulled off their escape. I just assumed they''d take it at face value and question it later. I was naive. Now what? Make a run for it? I doubt I can make it to the door with those guards there. Can I distract them? Maybe, but how? They''re already on guard now, a second bluff won''t be as effective. I close my eyes. Think, Yemesvel, come on. What can I do to get out of this? If I make a noise in the rafters maybe I can trick them into thinking I''m up there. That would be the smart place to hide right? Not easy for them to get to, either. While they''relooking up there I can make for the door. While I''m thinking about what I can use to make that noise, my nose twitches at a strong smell of lavender. Confused, I open my eyes to see, entirely too close, the face of the beggar, smiling at me. "Greetings!" Shocked, I can barely muster a resistance as the stronger Hajo drags me out from behind the statue by the scruff of my neck. "Here she is!" He calls out happily, throwing me one handed to the floor in front of the guards. Two of them level their polearms at me before I can recover, while the third pulls out a pair of manacles, a length of rope and a sack. Realising that I''m well and truly screwed, I don''t bother offering any resistance as my arms are wrenched around my back and manacled, with the sack pulled over my head and tied on tightly at the neck. Someone I can only assume is the head of the Dwast Clait, Fillip, sighs in relief, "Good." I''m grabbed by the arms on either side by two guards and dragged to my feet, where someone leans into whisper into my ear, "Now, I''d much prefer to present you in pristine condition, so behave yourself and keep your mouth shut. You''re not worth much to me dead or crippled, but if that''s what it takes to keep you in line, then so be it." A third pair of hands removes my belt, then pats me down for any hidden weaponry and removing a few hidden throwing knives. "Now, let us go begin the negotiations. You two, bring her to the guest parlour, and as for you, tell the kitchens to bring up the refreshments. Hajo, for the sake of the gracious gods, change into some real clothes. Then inform our visitors the meeting is ready to start." With that, I''m dragged off into the darkness.
Half an hour later, Yprus takes a seat at the head of a fair-sized table. The room is one of three guest parlours available on the second floor of the Dwast Clait''s Manor, and out of every room in the building, it is by far the most lavishly furnished, serving as a demonstration of wealth and good taste, meant to impress and relax visitors in to potentially lowering their guards in negotiations. Paintings of stunning vistas, vibrantly coloured Ironsilk drapery and the subtle scent of burning floral incense pervading the room - along with the beautifully carved Klennockwood furniture - are all meticulously arranged for this purpose, and lit by the soft glow of enchanted crystal lamps bracketed to the walls between each of the paintings. Yprus stares at his trembling right hand. It has truly been many years since he last needed to strike someone personally. Though time had done only little to diminish his skills, the consequences of that disuse effect even those with combat Classes. Perhaps it would be wise to recommence his old training exercises before he loses his touch completely. Musing on the matter is interrupted, however, when Hajo opens the door. Now dressed more appropriately in the uniform of the serving staff, a cool blue tailor-fitted jacket and leggings, with a ruffled red cravat.The ensemble is a little hard on the eyes, perhaps. Alas, keeping in with the latest fashions is an important factor to consider when presenting yourself to potential clients and business partners.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. If nothing else, seeing Hajo dressed the harlequin is a small source of amusement. Hajo stands to one side, hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed in supplication. A procession of humans in long white robes with bronze plates sewn into patterns around the hem enter, headed by a sharp-faced woman with tightly braided blonde hair. They arrange themselves into a wedge formation at the end of the table, and the woman performs an elaboratesweeping gesture with her hands, bowing slightly. The men behind her follow suit in perfect sync. "Blessings of the Saints upon our endeavours, here today," intones the woman, holding the ritualistic pose. "May we attain the same success," the men respond. The grace and piety drain from the woman, and she assumes a more relaxed posture, smiling thinly at Yprus, "My word, I was starting to worry you''d take all evening before remembering to call me. I assume you are Yprus Fillip?" Steepling his fingers, Yprus responds evenly as his guests take their seats, "Correct. I will be representing Dwast Clait as it''s Dost in this meeting. My man over there is Hajo, he will be joining us as my secretary. If you desire any of the refreshments you see prepared for our pleasure, please ask him, and he will oblige. We have two blends of tea, Julpberry & Watergrass from the Yolsa Teahouse Association on the central continent, and a blend created by my brother using our own personal gardens. It is slightly acidic, and it leaves you wanting to drink more. Rest assured it is neither poisonous, nor addictive. At least, the ingredients aren''t; but it''s quickly become a favourite of mine." He ends off with a small joke, smiling - with care taken not to appear artificial. The guestssettle into their cushioned chairs but remain silent, each looking to the woman. "The Yolsa''s Masters are well-regarded, to be certain, but I must confess a curiosity in this blend you claim is a match for theirs. What is it made from?" She asks, deliberately ignoring the stares. "I admit to not being entirely privy to the recipe. Jilm is rather protective of it. Should you try some and take a liking to it, perhaps you can negotiate a separate deal with him for the purchase of a box." "Perhaps we will. I shall have a cup, in that case," The woman smiles, turning to regard her entourage, "Any of you wish for the same?" Two out of the five men agree to try the tea. Hajo moves over to the silver tea set and begins to brew the tea, a new scent wafting over the room, reminiscent of red wine without the headiness. Yprus takes a deep draft of the smell, and places his hands on the table, "But to continue with the introductions; I know you to be the currentLantessaof House Flom, Ulrissa Flom, but your associates have yet to introduce themselves formally." Naturally, Yprus is already fully informed of their identities and personalities, but there''s no reason to admit to knowing that. Better to play the gracious, courteous host, if there is hope for them to do the same. This too, is a way of enticing negotiating partners into being more open; by playing on their sense of propriety. The first man to speak, is an older man, with a neatly trimmed white goatee, and a hoarse voice, "I am Haldon Flom. I am here as escort to my niece, and empowered with the same power to negotiate. I have elected to allow her to take the lead, for the sake of gaining experience." Second to speak up is a younger man barely out of his teens - black hair tied into a looping ponytail away from a boyishly handsome face. "I am Galt Matherson, recently appointed as milady Lantessa''sPrime Blade - or bodyguard, to use the local vernacular. The others here hold similar positions as my subordinates. We will not be participating in the negotiations, for the most part." Yprus nods, "A pleasure to make your acquaintances. You have been invited here today to finalise the agreement proposed by the Lantark prior to his sudden and unfortunate illness. I''m sure I do not need to stress the importance of it for both parties." "Quite so," agrees the Lantessa. "Then shall we begin by confirming the contents of the agreement so far?" Yprus offers. Reminding and repeating reinforce ideas and encourage their adherence, after all. Ulrissa laughs delicately behind a dainty hand, "By all means." "Very well. Through my branch offices in the Santocracy''s capital, Verent, Dwast Clait was contacted with the offer to negotiate a deal concerning the Klennock Woods which lay near the border of our two nations. If we assist you in your reclamation of this territory, we of the Dwast and Thynnwirk Claits will be allowed preferential treatment when negotiating trade Tariffs for the region''s produce. Correct?" "Just so." "Good, good. Oh, how is the tea? To your liking, I hope?" Yprus asks, deliberately derailing the conversation. Muddying the flow and returning to a previously established point of companionship to prepare for the next stage of the negotiations. "It is quite excellent," admits Haldon, perhaps the most important person to convince. His niece, though shrewd, is far less experienced, and her authority - even as the heir - is second to his. No, she is not a cause for concern in Yprus'' eyes. "I''m sure my brother will be pleased to hear such praise," Yprus beams, "But, onto the matter we are here to discuss today. Simply put, we of Dwast Clait wish to be given exclusive, and permanent access to the logging operation in Klennock." Lantessa Ulrissa''s fingers tighten around the handle of her teacup, "That''s absurd. For what reason would we give up that which we aim to acquire?" Unphased, Yprus meets her glare with a smile, "Milady, you misunderstand. We do not seek to take away your birthright. Rather, we wish toadd Thynnwirk Clait''s share to our own." Ulrissa maintains her frown, but relaxes her grip, taking a slow sip of the brew, "My apologies for speaking in haste. However, I must repeat my question. On what grounds do you make this...request?" Yprus raises three fingers, "The first, and simplest reason is that we desire greater profit from the deal. Thynnwirk Clait''s contributions to the endeavour have been rather lacklustre. It is only fair then, that we of Dwast Clait, bearing the brunt of the legwork gain greater credit, no?" The Lantessa remains silent, as does her entourage, so Yprus continues, "Second, is that the asset we loaned youto be the foundation of your acquisition as a token of our good faith, was destroyed earlier today." Shock appears on the guests'' faces, and Galt can''t resist the urge to speak up, interrupting his mistress before she has a chance to speak, "Already?! The beast was released into the Woods only yesterday! There shouldn''t be any Adventurers nearby, either!" "Galt, be silent. Never steal the words of your charge," commands Haldon, glaring at the far younger man, who has the presence of mind to at least appear self-conscious, and shrink back from his senior. "Ill-manners aside, Galt has the right of it," Ulrissa cuts in, supporting her Prime Blade, "Such a creature would not be easily bested. Is it known how it was slain, and by whom?" "Unfortunately, I only just received word of the commodity''s destruction. Thus, information has yet to arise as to the circumstances. My employee''s talents are in the raising and care of such valuable commodities for sale and loan, not in deepening their personal bond, as is typical of Beast Tamers." "I see..." Ulrissa murmurs into her cup, placing it back onto the saucer. "As such, compensation for the mishandling of goods is but a simple courtesy. One we are prepared to overlook as part of the additional rights, as well as a renewed interest in seeing your acquisition succeed." Stroking his goatee, Haldon speaks, "In other words, you''ll commit more resources?" "Milord, we of Dwast Clait will do everything we can to protect our ventures and ensure a profitable outcome for all involved." Haldon grunts, "And the third point?" Yprus chuckles, grinning wide enough to show teeth, clapping his hands twice. The door to the room opens again and two guards, polearms now absent, enter the room with a third person who has a sack tied over their head. "What is the meaning of this?" Ulrissa demands. "Why, honoured guest, this is the commodity we have acquired to serve as the linchpin of our argument," Yprus laughs harder, "Through much expense, I might add." The Flom delegation continues to stare at him, waiting for a proper explanation. "Please do not worry yourselves. I am quite aware of one of your other motivation for this venture. Perhaps the one of most interest to your country," Yprus continues, his smile taking on the qualities of a predator at play. "What other motive do you speak of?" The Lantessa asks, painted lips twisting. "Access to the mountains of course. And, by extension, a trade route with the Elves that doesn''t require going through our government as proxies and losing a hefty percentage in handling fees and such." The Lantessa flinches, her inexperience showing. "Now, we of Redault have our own ways of accessing the commodities on offer by the Elven people. But direct access to them that cuts us out of our share, and gains youa slice of extremely lucrative land to boot? I see little of the profits available being handed to us with the agreement as it stands, do you not? Rather, by the exhaustive research and calculations I''ve made, we actually would see a 31% decrease in annual revenue on average. Simply unacceptable." Yprus leans onto the table, resting his chin on his hands, smug, "But I''m willing to be quite generous. In the interests of creating a closely knit relationship, going forward you see. So, if you are willing to give us the logging rights, we will also be willing to sell you this commodity in such a case for a substantive sum, whether in goods, cash, or further concessions should you lack either." "That''s asking a lot. What makes you confident we''ll agree to buy this stranger?" Haldon interjects. "Patience, my good man," Yprus chuckles, snapping his fingers. One of the guards nods, then removes the sack, revealing a young, beautiful half-elven girl with pale skin and vivacious red hair staring defiantly at the gathered people in spite of the manacles and twisted linen gag. "A half-elf..? No, that hair...wait..." Ulrissa mutters, before her eyes snap wide, exclaiming, "A High Elf''s bastard?!" Surprise spreads throughout the room, even to the girl in question. The only ones not affected by this revelation, of course, being Yprus and Hajo. Chapter 15: Lives - Bought, Given, and Sold The delegation murmurs in hushed tones to one another about the obviously ridiculous fraud presented to them. "According to our investigations, that seems to be the most likely scenario. Though I admit it is curious that you would immediately label her as illegitimate,to say nothing of correctly identifying themost telling feature of a High Elf," responds a smug Yprus, "It would seem you have a greater knowledge of Elven culture than a woman in your position should possess, and I must confess a further, deeper curiosity as to how you came to hold such knowledge." The Lantessa grunts in consternation, glancing fervently at her uncle for support, unable to articulate a response of her own, realising she''s revealed too much. He sighs at his still-green niece''s indiscretion and adjusts his sitting posture, ready to retort. Before he can intervene, however, Yprus continues to speak, "I can, however, make an educated guess; given your country''s desire to bypass the taxes on Elven trade imposed by my own as a service fee for acting as a proxy.You must have some form of contact within their grand and lofty domain, yes? Perhaps a merchant or craftsman looking for a little extra investment with no thought to the greater ramifications of the deal. Or, maybe even a member of the High Spire itself? I have yet to put much effort into discovering this individual, but doubtless, their identity is a matter of some import, and should their greater involvement be made known, you would lose what little faith you''ve been afforded." "Your point being?" The roughvoice of Haldon questions, his arms folded, and his face, stony. Yprus gives the man an easy smile, "Do not mistake this for some base attempt at extortion. Oh, no. Did I not already explain? Dwast Clait wishes for nothing but a profitable, safe venture for all participants. The girl would be an excellent negotiation tool when correctly utilised, with the potential to increase the profits you, and by extension,we stand to gain. A commodity whichwe are willing to sell for a substantial sum." He pauses to drink some tea, "We are also aware that the sum we are looking to gain in exchange is a bit beyond your...current means. But I am a generous man when it comes to my more profitable clients. A large share in your soon-to-be-acquired Elven trade route and some other small concessions will suffice for a temporary loan of this second commodity, at the very least." Incredulous, Ulrissafrowns, "A temporary loan?" "Yes. Unless you have funds I am not aware of sufficient to purchase this rare commodity outright. But I doubt we would be having this conversation if your family - or even your country, for that matter - had that kind of financial leeway. The truth at the heart of this matter is that you of House Flom need us of Dwast Clait far more than we need you. And it is by my bottomless generosity and kindness you are able to pursue this scheme of yours. Not to mention, that your...competence and viability as a partner are in question, given that the commodity we loaned you at your bequest was destroyed almost immediately after it was given to you." The Flom delegation''s mood plummets, and not a single one of them is without a strained frown. They realise now, that they are completely at this man''s mercy. Whatever strategy they had for the negotiations going in has completely fallen apart, andseveral of their secrets have been laid bare. Yprus places his teacup back down and claps his hands together, a wide yet thin smile on his face, "I believe you understand the situation. I must iterate, once again, since it cannot be overstated; We of Dwast Clait will do everything we can to ensure mutual success. But should you fail to hold up to the expectations you''ve created in us, then I - As a responsible merchant - will be left with no choice but to cut our losses." Off to the side, Hajo can''t help but smirk, as his fingertips play behind his back with the pommel of a hidden knife inside the cuff of his sleeve.
While the people at the table begin deliberating over this business deal of theirs in earnest, the guards that brought me in shoving me in a corner out of the way, where I kneel on the floor quietly, trying to make sense of the situation. But that''s proving to be a rather difficult ask for my poor brain. It''s like..I try and think but it just stalls and peters out. The stress is getting to me. But under these circumstances, it''s impossible to calm myself down - and Yemesvel was never the picture of grace under fire. Back in reality, sure, it was part of the job back when I was still working restaurants instead of showing up on tv every now and again to promote a recipe book, or yell at some C-list celebrity washouts that can''t even roast a chicken without sucking all the moisture out of the meat. But now, I''m just a teenager in way over her head. Thecontradiction in mentality is only adding to the unwanted emotional baggage weighing down my thought process. Funny how I can''t think about my situation except to complain about how I can''t think about my situation. Yeah, great prioritising there, Yemesvel, that''s really going to help. Come on, girl. Just start from the top.What''s happening right now? Well, I''m choking on a rag while a bunch of rich assholes talk about buying Yemesvel in exchange for some forest or whatever. Because apparently, asking for a cool hair colour means I''m supposed to be the illegitimate offspring of a High Elf. Nice of the Avatar Creation Team to mention THAT little detail when Yemesvel was making the character. It probably wouldn''t have made a difference to my decision, but still. Yemesvel doesn''t really know anything about her father. About all Yemesvel knows is that her mother was an Adventurer who met him on a job. He probably doesn''t even know Yemsevel exists. But that''s not going to stop those bastards drinking tea over there from treating me like a bargaining chip. I''m doing the third person thing again. I sigh through my nostrils. I need to focus on the present, though, so we''ll just table the identity crisis for now. Forgetting my sense of optimism, since today has shown just how little Naszik of Many Dice is smiling on my fortune; There''s no point in trying to escape right now. With all the people in the room, I''d never manage to even open the door before I get caught. My best chance is going to be if and when these foreign nobles decide to assume ''ownership'' over me. When they take me out of the building I''ll be able to create an opportunity to escape. That''s the hope at least.I don''t really know how smart or swift they are, but they''re going to be far easier to get away from whilst moving through the city. If I do make the attempt, though, I''ll need to be confident I can pull it off. If I get caught, they''ll either step up their vigilance or in a worst case scenario, break my legs to stop me from running.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. And if they decide that the price for even a single hair on my head is too much to stomach, well... I don''t know. I''ll figure something out I guess. Assuming they don''t just, as the Dost put it, "cut their losses". Mm. Mocking his raspy voice is less cathartic when it''s only in my head. Whatever. My eyelids are starting to feel heavy, all of a sudden. The lack of sleep from last night and all this built-up stress have exhausted me to my bones. I think I''ll just take a nap until they''ve decided what to do with me...
Meanwhile At the South East Gate, known locally as the Bastard''s Gate, a pair of children eye the sentries at the checkpoint with worry and suspicion. The younger, a girl with bandaged arms looks over at the ragged boy holding onto her shoulder, worry spreading across her whole face. "D''you think they''ll let us out? We''s only kids," she asks, biting her lip. The boy, putting on a brave face, puffs his chest out and tightens his grip in a manner he thinks is reassuring, "No problem! Those lardfaced bastards don''t give two shakes about some urchin brats. We just have to pick a moment where they gonna care even less." "Ow! Stop squeezing my arm...You know it''s sens..senstuv," The girl complains, swatting with her other hand at his. The boy flinches back, arms raised, "S-s-sorry Dazzy...I forgot..." The girl, Dazzy, puffs out her cheeks, pouting. The boy clasps his palms together, dropping to one knee in the muddy alley, "PleaseQueen Dazzy, find it in yer big, big heart to forgive me." "I''ll think about it, Sir Ricko. Hey, look, there''s a merchant caravan coming. What''re they doing at the Bastid Gate?" Dazzy points over Ricko''s shoulder at a short train of canvas-roofed carriages pulled by stocky horses. Though the last cart is filled with crates and sacks, the other two are filled with men and women in a hodge-podge of chain, leather and plate. Ricko''s eyes widen, "Those''re Adventurers, Daz! C''mon, we can follow them out if we''re careful!" Scrabbling to his feet, Ricko grabs her hand and pulls her along behind him as he runs around to the rear of the caravan. It''s passengers in the back barely register their presence as they stare off into space, occasionally responding to a query or joke from a compatriot. Keeping their heads down, the children follow a few paces behind the rear carriage, keeping pace with the cart horses pulling it forward across the muddy road. "Ho there!" A pudgy guard calls out from ahead, "Who''re you lot and where''re you going at this time o'' day? It''s almost time to close the gates, y''know?" The procession slows to a halt, and a short-haired middle-aged man dressed in athickly woven blue cloak over a set of polished silvery scale mail that gleams in the fading sun hops off the driver''s seat of the middle carriage. The guard starts back at the movement, before re-assuming his previous posture of attempted intimidation. The brown-haired man gives the guard an easy smile, suffused with complete certainty of self, "But as the gates are still open, I don''t see what business it is of yours should my crew and I wish to leave the city. Or do you have some reason for stopping us?" The man folds his arms across his trout-like chest, impatience leaking through. The guard coughs sheepishly, "A-aye. We''ve received word to search for someone who might be looking to skip town in a hurry." The man nods slowly, "I see. And you suspect they might be hiding amongst my number?" Another guard with thinning hair anddark, puffy bags drooping beneath his eyes approaches the Adventurer with a greasy smile, "Yeah. Got a lot of folk with you, don''t you? Could be one of them." The man laughs soundlessly, "Oh, I sincerely doubt we have who you''re looking for. In fact, this sounds an awful lot like an excuse to ''search'' our provisions cart for ''fugitive'' rations and artefacts." His arms fall slowly down to his waist, where his hand fingers the pommel ofthe wide yet stubby shortsword belted to his leg. "So you best shape your story up unless you want to admit your purloining and let us pass," He adds. In the back, Dazzy shrinks away, slipping her tiny hand into Ricko''s and clinging onto him. He barely registers this, however, finding himself completely frozen with a mixture of fear and awe. The little boy''s eyes as wide as can be, he bites his lip, a strange new feeling welling up from within - admiration. To their credit, the guards stand their ground against the obvious threat, and the greasy one finds the stones to pompously thrust his chest out and respond, "We ain''t lookin'' for black pay from your like. See, someone real high up the chain''s lookin'' for this thievin'' half-elf bint. So if you try and start a fight wi'' us now, they''ll assume you have ''er with you." He grins, completely cocksure, "And if that happens, there ain''t nowhere in Herod that you can hide from the Claits." The Adventurer scoffs, unimpressed, "Well, by all means, look all you like. Ain''t a single Half-Elf among us." He spread his arms widely, welcoming the challenge. One by one, the Adventurers present themselves for a brief physical and magical tool aided inspection, until inevitably, the guards come to the two urchins stood at the back. The first guard grunts, "What, you''re takin'' children with you as well? Hoping to bait out a monster with them or something?" Ricko and Dazzy quiver at the thought of being fed to some eldritch beast with more teeth than a whole family. They''d not really planned this far ahead, expecting to follow the caravan out unchallenged. The Adventurer leader clomps down the muddy road and regards the pair silently for a few moments before opening his mouth, still staring at them, "Not bait. I ain''t a savage. I know a guy who lives out in the plains who''s looking for an apprentice. Think I might introduce them to him, see if he agrees to take them on." Ricko and Dazzy do their best to hold in their surprise at the man''s declaration. "Really now? Didn''t know your kind delivered kids as well," the guard replies doubtfully. The Adventurer directs his stare at the guard instead, "I do believe that is none of your concern. Now, you''ve wasted altogether too much of our time. Do be sure to tell your owners that Shortsilver Alsten was mostimpressed by their dedication in hunting down this so-called thief." The two guards stumble back in silent horror. But Alsten ignores them, and gestures to the children, "Come. You will sit with me."
Underneath the darkening sky, the only sounds upon the sparsely vegetated hill are the carriages are attempting to crest are their rhythmic creaking and the snorts of tired horses. Conversation, such as it was for the assembled group, had long since died off after leaving the city, replaced with a cautious quiet. Unable to find a good way to start a conversation, Ricko and Dazzy had likewise kept their peace, despite a number of questions ringing through their minds, but it is at this moment, that Alsten chooses to finally speak. "I suppose if one were to consider the rushed nature of our egress, this could be seen as a kidnapping," he muses, fumbling with the reins, "And to be fair, it might as well be. I was able to infer your shared desire to leave the city, from the...shape...of the fear in your eyes, I suppose you could call it." Alsten sighs, "That''s not a very good explanation, I realise. But my position and Class require that I understand people, so I apologise if I was somehow mistaken." "N-no! We- Yeah, we did want to leave!" Ricko stammers, looking this way and that to avoid the gaze of both Alsten and Dazzy. Alsten nods, "Good. Because I was quite serious when I said I was thinking of introducing you to an acquaintance of mine. It would pain me to have to force you to accompany us there, so just consider your agreeing to meet himas being payment for allowing you to leave the city with us." Dazzy frowns, "Why?" Again, Alsten sighs, "The old man isn''t getting younger. And after he injured his leg pulling me out of a pit of monstrous insects, I feel compelled to honour the debt by providing his life with new meaning. Particularly after catching a glimpse of your potentials." Ricko perks up, "Our potential?" "I am in possession of a Trait that allows me to better assess the ''potential strength'' of those I observe. It has aided me well in forming a competent cohort," Alsten explains briefly, "I deemed you to both be capable of growing into capable individuals." "Really?" Dazzy asks sceptically, hugging her bandaged arms to her frail form. The man cracks a small genuine smile, "Yes." Chapter 16: Bragging Rights AldermanDaurn flashes a wide, toothy grin, "Lets put the serious talk behind us for now though. Today should be a joyous occasion worthy of raucous celebration! Today should not be solely devoted to such dour circumspection." "Whaddaya mean?" I ask, eyebrow raised. Kind of suspecting where this is going but seeking confirmation anyway. Also, ''circumspection''? I didn''t expect a word that obscure to come from this bear-man''s mouth. I can barely remember what it means through the memory filter. Something about hesitation, I think. It''s fuzzy. "Lad, it''s been years since you were back home, and not only that, but you come back with the most impressive hunting trophy I''ve seen since I retired from the Company! What better excuse for apitcher of The Woodsman''s dark ale?" Daurn laughs. Oh. I''d forgotten how much of a drunkard the Alderman was. Probably owing to his robust physique and large build, he can quite merrily down an entire keg of beer like he''s drinking a glass of lemonade, a habit which ultimately accounts for a majority of the bar''s business when traders and travellers are sparse. He has a preference for a specific type of ale he makes the poor family brew especially for him using a ''secret'' mixture of burnt hops and barley that turn the resulting ale a dark hue, and frankly, it tastes like a cross betweencarbonised sugar and dirt. Nobody in their right mind goes for another glug of the stuff but him. I decline firmly, "I''ll pass on the ale. Me Mam''s already at her wit''s end without me coming home sloshed." I really could do without being on the receiving end of yet another lecture about my behaviour. I''ve had enough for one day, thank you very much. Daurntuts, "Don''t be a wet blanket, lad. You gotta at least say hello to them before you leave. Brag a little! It''ll make you feel better, trust me." My face remains impassive. "And it''ll make Lizzle''sday," he adds with a sly wink. Confronted with the jolly man''s beaming face and the weight of his almost fatherly demeanour, I feel my resistance to his suggestion withering away, "Alright, fine. But I''ll not linger, or I won''t hear the end of it." "Excellent. First round is on me, lad!" Still not going to drink any of that swill, even if it''s free.
The Woodsman isbubbling with idle chatter amongst the gathered patrons, most of whom I vaguely recognise through the flickering amber glow from the fireplace. I see the Miller and his son Lonn, sat over at the bar, the carpenter is playing a round of Martyr''s Dice with the Innkeeper''s wife, the tanner and afew farmers I don''t know that well. Thanks to the acres and acres of Klennock trees, the nearby fields aren''t very fertile, so we rely on traders for a lot of our grains. Which means by extension, that the farmhands have a lot of free time because of how little land they have to look after. Unless their habits have changed, they usually turn up sometime before sundown and don''t leave until the Innkeep kicks them out. It takes a moment, but everyone in the room, including Lizzle behind the bar counter, turns to look at us. "Evening, all! Good to see you all hale and heartythrough another day. Lizzle, girl, help an old man out and get me a mug of the usual,would you? And a round of whatever the boy here wants on me, as well." The Alderman takes it in stride, calling out an ostentatious greeting as he approaches the bar, turning this way and that to regard the patrons, who whisper amongst themselves, casting glances my direction. Before I can reintroduce myself, however, Lonn greets me first, still a little nervous, perhaps, but the alcohol seems to have calmed his nerves. "G-good evening, Nealan! All''s well I hope?" Following this, the whispers elevate to muttering. "That''s young Nelly? A lot taller than I remember." "Oh, that''s why he seemed so familiar..." And so on. I raise my arm for a limp wave, wincing a little at the twinge of pain from my shoulder, "Hey everyone. Long time no see."
I trade pleasantries as well as a few stories back and forth with the patrons, before taking a seatat the bar two stools to the left of the Alderman. Lizzle approaches with a soft smile and slightly rosy cheeks, which I''m not sure if it''s just a natural flush from the cosy warmth in the room or a blush. Evidence would suggest the latter, I''d say. "So you came after all?" She asks, slinging the bar cloth in her hand over her shoulder. There''s a subtle anticipation in her words. Definitely blushing, then. Fantastic... I hide the source of my grimace by complaining about a related topic, "Alderman wouldn''t take no for an answer." Lizzle smirks, "Uncle Daurn has a way of dragging people along with him. For better or worse." The man in question laughs into the bottom of his ale, "The boy needs to learn to loosen up. Always too serious by half," He pauses to swallow a mouthful of that shite, "Not that he doesn''t have a reason to be, but he looked like his frown was going to pierce through his chin." Lizzle giggles into her hand, "Sounds like you''ve not changed much since you left." I can only grunt in response. Something about that strikes home a little too deeply for my liking. But they mean well by it, so chewing them would be proving their point about my apparent lack of maturity. Honestly, today has been a hell of a day for self-reflection, so why would I think that people would stop giving me shit over it now? The nosy barmaid tuts, "See, there you go again. Young Master Grump, heir to the Grump family fortune." Daurn breaks down into drunken laughter, slapping the table and drawing stares from the others. I do my best to ignore him and Lizzle does the same, regarding me with a fondness that is altogether unsettling. "Like he said," I wave to the Alderman, "I''ve got good reason to be." Curious, she leans on the counter smiling brightly in a completely obvious attempt to flirt, "What reason would that be, eh?" I meet her clumsy questioning with stoic silence. More or less my default state of being come to think of it. I should probably work on my people skills. Luckily, the Alderman steps in to bail me out, "Never you mind, girl. It''s between me and ''im until I say otherwise."Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. Lizzle shrinks back in surprise at the harsh reprimand before settling into a pout only achievable by a truly spoiled brat. She doesn''t say anything out loud but her glare says, ''Don''t embarrass me in front of him or else''. Ultimately, the Alderman feels forced to concede some ground to Lizzle''s provocation. With a suppressed belch he places the mug on the table and whispers low, "Walther was attacked by monsters in the woods this morning." Her eyes widen, accompanying a sharp intake of breath, "Is he alright?" I nod slowly, "Hurt his leg pretty bad but he got away just fine. Mam reckons he''ll be walking proper by year''s end." "That''s a relief. Still, the local beasts aren''t normally that aggressive are they? What happened?" Daurn taps the side of his nose, "That''s all you''re getting out of us, girl. Even that much''ll be all over the village before sunrise tomorrow now. Get me another mug, I''m empty." Lizzle snorts, "Get it yourself, you stingy old ogre. You know where the keg is." The Alderman eyes me for a moment, "Is that an invitation?" She waves dismissively, left eye twitching in irritation, "Just go. Don''t make a mess or Dad''ll have your gizzards." Laughing again, he winks and shuffles off behind the counter and into the kitchen in search of booze. Leaving me relatively alone with a blushing Lizzle. Traitor. "So, can I get you...anything?" Lizzle asks, turning up the charm a few notches, a heavy implication hanging over the offer even a Japanese romantic comedy protagonist could figure out. I consider my response carefully. I don''t have any intention of following through on her invitation. She''s not my type for one thing, but for another, I have no desire to stay in Klennock for very long, and entering into a one night stand just isn''t something I''m comfortable with doing, doubly-so when it''s with someone I''ve - Nealan has - known for most of his life. Because of that, I can''t just reject her thoughtlessly. Or, well, I could, but I''d just feel guilty about it later. I can do this without being a jackass about it, can''t I? I mean, I hope so. I only ever went on a few dates in college with a girl from my boxing club before she got pissed at me quitting and dumped my ass for not talking to her about how much trouble I was having juggling practice with studying. Called me out for not trusting her enough to help. I''d say it was a bit of an overreaction, but in light of recent events maybe not. Whatever. Focus up. I''ve been staring like a gormless idiot at this girl''s face forlike 10 seconds now. "Appreciate the offer, but I''m not thirsty or anything. I came because the Alderman dragged me, but I really need to get home. It''s been a long day and I really want to get some sleep. Recommend you find someone else to join you for a nightcap." Her disappointment is palpable, "I see..." Assuming she got the hint, I decide it''s probably best to take my leave before this gets any more awkward than it already is. The patrons don''t seem to have noticed anything, too absorbed in their own little bubbles, barely acknowledging me as I walk past and exit the building into the cool night air.
As Nealan leaves, the hubbub dies down. As one, the people regard the silently crying barmaid, and her mother abandons the dice to comfort her daughter. They understood what happened, since neither Lizzle or Nealan was particularly subtle or quiet, and were overcome with sympathy. Nursing a fresh mug of ale, the Alderman leans against the door. Sighing, he takes a swig and offers his silent pity to the heartbroken girl. Another, longer draft of the foul tasting brew brings back less than pleasant memories, suffused with regret.
The way back home is eerily quiet. But that suits me just fine. It gives me a chance to relax a little before I get home and talk with Nealan''s - my - mother. Still getting used to thinking of myself and Nealan as being one and the same. It''s getting easier as the hours pass, but as should be expected, I''m still having to force myself to think that way, and the disconnect still exists. Less pronounced than before my freak-out earlier, but adjusting is going remarkably well. I''ll probably get over it in a month or so. Leaving Klennock Village will help. I won''t have to try so hard to be Nealan among strangers. As my home comes into view, I notice a shadowed figure sat on a stump outside the front of the house, smoking on a pipe. The dim embers flaring up with each draft of smoke being the only light source, identifying them at this distance is difficult, but it''s almost certainly my father, taking a moment to himself. Whether because of his Class or because that''s just how he is, he prefers to handle stress by picking a quiet spot and idling away the time. The pipe is new though. Mam was never comfortable with the practice, said it was a waste of good herbs. Wonder if she knows he''s doing it. Not my place to judge either way, so long as it isn''t the harder stuff like cannabis from Earth. "Hey, Da," I approach him, my voice snapping him out of his reverie, "Nice evening, ain''t it?" "That it is, son. A bit too cold for my liking, though. What''d the Alderman have to say about the pack?" Da seems lucid so it''s probably not serious enough to bring up the smoking. I used to smoke near the end of high school, but my boxing coach was pretty strict about it so I ended up quitting in college. Worst week of my life I swear. "Best I tell you and Mam both. Don''t wanna repeat myself, yeah? I got some important to say on top of that too." "Alright. Sounds reasonable," he agrees, tapping out the contents of his pipe on the side of the stump and struggling to his feet. "Need a hand?" I ask out of concern. He grunts, leaning heavily onto his walking stick, "No, lad, I''ve just been still too long. Go on in and say hi to yer Mam, I''ll be there in a minute." I frown, but if that''s what he wants then so be it. I leave him breathing heavily as he tries to stay steady and enter the house, where I find Mam at the stove stirring a pot of what smells like Shellian Broth. Somewhat analogous to a lightly seasoned meat and root vegetable broth. "Hi Mam, figured you two would have eaten by now," I say, taking a seat at the table and fiddling with my bootstraps. Not planning on leaving the house again. "I didn''t start cooking until a few minutes ago, so we''ll all be eating together," Mam says, still staring at the pot''s contents, "How was the Alderman?" "Still fond of that awful ale." Mam makes a displeased noise, "I pity poor Kelsa for having to make it for him. Goes against her pride as a brewer making it, it does. You better not have had any." My mouth twists into a frown, "Tried it once on a dare with Jacovy, never again." "Jacovy is the tanner''s boy, isn''t he? I remember having to treat him after he burned his hands on the boiling vat." "Yeah. Tasted awful. Damn near turned away from beer forever. Didn''t realise until later that the Alderman is just weird." Da laughs as he enters, "Man doesn''t choose his likes, son. Now, whyn''t you get to talking about what he said about the Dirolft pack since we''re all together."
I briefly explain our shared suspicion that someone is trying to destroy Klennock Village through monster proxies over the evening meal, answering questions and concerns the best I can, before it comes to the markedly more difficult part. "...So with that all said and done, I''m going to be leaving either tomorrow or the day after, depending on the weather." Mam slams her hand on the table, incensed, "What?! You can''t be serious!" Yeah, she''s taking that tidbit about as well as I could have expected. Da, on the other hand, is far less surprised after our conversation this afternoon, understandably. Instead of feigning shock, he pats Mam on the shoulder, signalling her to hold her embittered surprise until I''ve finished talking. Thanks, Da. Ok, deep breath. "Someone needs to get to the truth of whatever the hell is going on. There ain''t another soul who can do it that won''t run the village a bill a mile long or give up part-way because they got bribed or lost interest. Fact of the matter is, I''m the only one capable and motivated to see it through. The Alderman can''t leave the village, and Lonn''s too wet behind the ears. Don''t know about the rest of the village, but since I''m the only one who has a reason to go gallivanting off into the sunset to the Adventurer Company, it''s gotta be me." I think I repeated myself in there, but whatever. Mam takes in what I say with a frown, and time passes slowly in silence. The tension is high, but when she sighs deeply in acceptance, that tension seems to deflate almost immediately. Only for tears to start welling up in her eyes once more. "You''ve only just comehome, Nelly. Why...why do you have to leave again so soon..?" "Yvette..." Da cautions. Mam, however, isn''t having it, "Don''t ''Yvette'' me, Walther! I almost lost you both today, and now Daurn is sending my boy away from me again on a fool''s errand chasing shadows that might not even exist?! Why?!" I stand up, staring back at my furious mother. Gotta stand my ground if this is ever going to go anywhere. I know it''s unfair Mam, but.. "I''m leaving because I don''t want you to die. And that''s the honest truth."
Not long after, I head to my room utterly exhausted, in mind and body. I don''t think I''ve ever had to endure this much stress all at once before. The crunchfor that last paper comes close in sheer desperation, but that was out of an obligation to make good on my exorbitant tuition fee. This, this right here is far more personal than that. And I technically only met them today. I lie in bed, undressed and ready for sleep. Heavy eyelids are all too happy to capitulate to the embrace of slumber. Then, I wake up. I think. "Hello, Mr Lancaster," calls a familiar voice through the empty white void. Chapter 17: Interview I look around. But there''s nothingness for as far as I can see in every direction. It''s pretty eery how I''m just standing on empty space. The voice is definitely familiar, though, and it doesn''t take long for the owner of it to chime in again. "Just give us a moment to load in the video feed, yeah? Don''t want to leave you talking to empty air." Stephen Jennings'' voice rings out from all directions before the man himself seemingly blinks into existence about twelve paces in front of me. He''s significantly better groomed than when I saw him this morning - now dressed in a no-doubt reprehensively expensive black tuxedo and bow-tie, with shoes to match. "Ok. We''re all good, now right?" He says looking off to the left at someone invisible. The motion is a little jarring as the colour of his head seems to blur a little as it turns and the movement of his lips doesn''t quite sync up, "We are? Great." Curious, I observe the small minute movements of his body, such as the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, and notice a similar phenomenon. But looking at myself, still in Nealan''s body evidently, there is no such discrepancy. Maybe picking up on that, or just reading my mind, Steve clears his throat and explains, "I''m not actually on the system with you. We have this like, cage lined with high-speed cameras set up in a spare conference room I''m stood in the middle of. It''s entirely unnecessary, but I figure it''ll be more comfortable and/or polite if we can actually, y''know, see each other. Just borrowed it from the mocap guys in the Avatar Creation team, since they''re not using it at the moment." "I''m assuming this isn''t a dream, then, and you''re actually talking to me from reality?" "Yepperoo," He affirms, shooting me the double finger guns again as I cringe inwardly at how dorky it makes him look. "So, what''s happening with my body right now? Nealan''s, that is." I mean, there''s no guarantee that another attack won''t come while I''m sleeping. It''d really suck for Nealan to die like that, but I''m assuming that Steve - or at least his staff since I don''t have the greatest confidence in his judgment - have taken all this into account. Steve rubs his hands, smiling lopsidedly, "Weeell...Nothing, really. We''ve ''paused'' the game and pulled your consciousness into a separate space so we can talk. Speaking of which, I should probably explain what this is all about, yeah?" He licks his lips, "So, as this is at it''s core, still a test, we''re more or less obligated to check in with you every now and again to get your feedback. There''s only so much we have access to on our end after all, so hearing it from you directly is more or less a necessity. We''re trying to keep a hands-off approach to this as much as possible because it muddies the data if we continuously break your immersion, and there''s this annoying bug that happens if we pause and unpause the simulation too often that makes shit start ignoring collision etc. Normally, one of your supervisors would be doing this, but I have a flight in like, three hours to San Francisco for the opening night to ''Across the River'', then I''ve got to get back to my day job. So, I wanted to get a word in with you all before I leave since it''s been a while." Sounds reasonable, I suppose. But he mentioned something that''s bothering me. "What do you mean, ''it''s been a while''? We only met this morning." "Ah." Steve snaps his fingers and starts wagging it with a slightly constipated expression, "That''s not strictly correct." He scratches the back of his neck in embarrassment, "It''s actually been about a week and a half since the medical staff put you under. Getting your Avatar assets ready, editing the files, then connecting and transferring you into the system takes time even with cutting-edge tech, yeah? Doesn''t matter how much money I throw at it, can''t change facts." I blink several times in surprise. Its been a week and a half? I didn''t even realise it. Feels strange to have lost all that time without even noticing anything. "Although a couple of you took a little longer than anticipated because there was a memory retrieval problem for the first few transfers. Nothing serious, yeah? The program accidentally skipped over a step and they had to re-do it from scratch. But that''s the risk you take with experimental technology, hence the waivers you signed." His blase attitude to almost giving me a lobotomy irks me, "Nothing serious sounds like a comical understatement from where I''m standing. That''s my memories you''re glossing over!" Steve just waves me off, "It''s fine, it''s fine. The memories are still stored in your physical brain, according to the neurologist I chewed out over it. It''s just the data copy that was incomplete. It''ll still be there when you go back, probably. Depends how important it was, I guess." Still fuming, I take a step forward, but think better of shouting at him. Breathing deeply, my anger is forcibly suppressed. It''s not his fault, even if he''s being way too casual about it. The responsibility lies with the ones who performed the transfer, not Steve. He claps his hands together decisively, "Anyway, we''re getting seriously off-track here and I''ve got places to be, so, how about we get started?" Reluctantly, I nod in agreement, "Fine. Shoot." Steve reaches out on his left and gets handed a tablet by a disembodied arm, "Alright, I''ve got a list to get through, here. First up, of course, is what you think of it so far."You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. I think about it for a moment before answering, "It feels no different from reality. Completely natural. Almost unnaturally so, ironically. The...new memories and personality quirks are taking a bit of getting used to though." Steve nods along, "Sure. No surprise there. You''re adjusting faster than most of the test subjects we''ve had, though. Probably because Nealan isn''t all that different from you yourself, psychologically speaking. It''s more or less whythe team insist on you all making your own characters for testing instead of plugging you into a bunch of preset models. Characters born from you are easier to relate to. Also, since your brain and nerves by extension are ''ghosting'' onto your Avatars, you''re feeling it as though you were really there. It helps prevent a lot of the feeling of disconnect. Or so I''m told, I''ve never actually been hooked up myself, so I''m just taking the technicians'' word for it." I tilt my head, "That''s odd. Figured from that speech you gave over breakfast you''d want to be first in line to try it out." Steve shrugs, "Wish I could, but I just don''t have the time for it. I''ve got a business to run and a public image to maintain. If I suddenly vanish or claim a serious illness the media will swarm all over it, and eventually some nosy bastard is going to find some tidbit they''re not supposed to find and it''ll be this whole mess. So I''ve gotta make do with watching the highlights the technicians send me and Sharon in their reports." Steve suddenly breaks out laughing, "Oh yeah, that reminds me. You''ve been a busy guy, ain''tcha? I mean, I used to know some guys who traded stocks for a living, but you, Mr Lancaster, they have nothing on you and your complete disregard for your own life. I mean, the psych eval said you''d probably want to try and fight the Dirolft Pack, but we figured you''d wait until you got some backup. You should have seen the look on Matthew''s face when I told him you''d attacked and killed them immediately after being told about them, he waslivid!It was absolutely priceless!" I feel my face flush with shame, "Yeah. It was really pretty dumb of me. Still, it was a lot easier than I was expecting considering their reputation. I mean, they''re supposed to be able to give an Adventurer party a run for their money, aren''t they?" Steve shrugs, "Well, yeah. But, uhh...hmm. Not sure if I should explain it or not..." He taps the tablet on his wrist, contemplating what to do for about a minute before a muffled voice says something to him that makes Steve pause, "Really? Is it ok? Alright." Clearing his throat, Steve launches into a brief explanation that goes a little like this: A regular Dirolft isn''t really that much more dangerous than a feral wolf from Earth. They''re more aggressive and faster, certainly, but they don''t have much more durability than a regular wolf. Thus, a solid hit is really all you need to kill it.It''s essentially the same for the Alpha, which is for all intents and purposes a scaled up Dirolft. The danger lies in their nature as pack animals. Ordinarily, an Alpha Dirolft would be backed-up by dozens of regular Dirolft, allowing the Alpha to pick their fights and provide a large intimidating threat to draw aggression away from it''s pack. In my case, the pack was far diminished compared to what it would normally have been. Add in some dumb-luck in avoiding the patrols of the pack, interrupting the Alpha during an afternoon nap and my slightly above average striking power and voila, a recipe for unintentional sequence breaking because I went in dick first like a moron. It was, quite literally, Dumb Luck. Feeling embarrassed, I scratch at my chin, "I feel like I should apologise..." "Nah, don''t worry about it. Matthew justwrote the outline for the scenario, the details are out of his hands now. It''s up to you what you make of it all at this point, all he gets to do is watch. Besides, it''s not the first time something like this has happened, and it won''t be the last. Not to be rude, but you''re not all that unusual compared to some subjects we''ve had. Buuut I can''t really talk about them for legal and spoiler reasons." Again, I just shrug. Not like I''m surprised or anything. "Moving on. Like I mentioned earlier we''ll be checking in with you periodically to get your feedback and share any news from outside you''re interested in. The next one they''re looking to do is going to be in about a month from now by your calendar. They''ll be very rare after that. Mostly when something important happens. That''s the plan at least, so unless you have any questions, I''ll let you get back to sleep." He looks at me expectantly, but I can''t really think of anything specific to ask him that he''d actually answer. Asking about the quest I''m on is probably a complete no-go, after all. I also never really paid any attention to the news, so I figure if something is important enough to warrant my attention they''ll just tell me without having to ask about it. So with that in mind, I shake my head, "Nah. I''m just...really tapped out." "Fair enough. It was nice to have a longer chat with you, yeah? I''ll probably see if I can squeeze a chance to drop by again in the future. Enjoy yourself in there alright? I''ll be watching what you all get up to with interest." As if on reflex, he moves to offer a handshake, before realising he can''t and awkwardly raising his arm to wave goodbye. He probably thinks he saved it. Not even close. And then, nothing.
After a while, they wake me up and force me to go to a different room on the floor below. It''s oddly small, but is almost reminiscent of the one I was given back at the Think Tank in reality. A single bed placed against the wall with patterned sheets and a table with four wooden chairs. No window, and no lightsource means that other than a sliver from the gaps around the door the room is pitch dark. Thankfully, my profession has trained my night vision somewhat, so adjusting is simple. My hands are still bound behind my back, and the guards inform me that my new ''owners'' will come to collect me in the morning. Wonderful news, I''m so excited to be sold into slavery as blackmail material against a father I''ve never met. I''d make a joke about art mimicking life, but I''ve honestly just had enough. This isn''t really the life I wanted. I can''t help but feel that I''ve traded one bag of worthless crap for an even more fetid bag of shit. Sure, I wanted adventure, an escape from the boring nothing that my life was turning into as my already minimal fame dwindles. I didn''t want to be a slave for fuck''s sakes. I didn''t want to talk like a fucking idiot with this weird aversion to personal pronouns that I didn''t make for the character. But here I am, a prisoner in some asshole merchant''s manor waiting to be carted off to who the hell knows where. I can''t... I can''t fucking handle this. Yemesvel can''t handle it. This isn''t how it was supposed to go. It''s only the first day. If this is what I''m supposed to expect from Eden then what manner of utter horse dick am I going to be expected to swallow in a year''s time? Or five years? And to top it off, I''m stuck with it until Yemesvel dies. Not that I''m eager to let that happen, but... Where the hell has my composure gone? A week ago, I could stare down my 219lb wrestling nut of a producer until he stops bitching me out about not taking on another tv serial. I endured some of the absolute worst head chefs and kitchens you can find in a proffessional space. Now look at me, piggybacking a teenager''s body in a video game on the verge of tears. I''m a gods-be-damned mess. And I''m just, so....tired. I approach the bed and flounce on top of it, passing out again almost immediately. When I open my eyes again, the dingy little cell is gone, and so is everything else, as I stand in an empty, white void. "Hello there Ms McDonnell, long time no see..." Chapter 18: Future Unclear "A thronging crowd has gathered in front of the New Victoria Theatre to catch a glimpse of the various celebrities and notables invited to the first screening of the latest film headlined by famed former-Korean actor Hwan-Joon Choi, ''Across the River''. Hello, and welcome to The Filmfest, live at the scene with me, Rebecca Gantry as your host for the event!" The reporter, Rebecca, stands off to the side of the red carpet leading from the busy sidewalk into the main entrance of the theatre building, a recently rebuilt modern interpretation of the previous historic landmark which burned down a few years prior. The screening was to christen its return. And whether out of a love for the theatre''s heritage or because of the people involved in the new production, the crowd turnout was truly massive, the street packed on both sides from the corner of Mission and 18th to the corner of Mission and 14th - all people trying to catch a glimpse of the invited guests as they arrived at the carpet. "Many of the people gathered here today are doing so in hopes of catching a glimpse of Acadamy darling Mr Choi, but reports from the director, Leon Kinsey indicate that he will not be in attendance for reasons we can only speculate. Indeed, the star has been absent from the public eye for several weeks now, and even I find myself curious about his absence from the event..."
Straight from the airport lobby into a limousine with tinted bulletproof windows and puncture-proof tires, the Jennings sit on a faux-leather sofa with New Wave pop music playing quietly through the cabin. Sharon Jennings does her best to ignore the bumpy road as she taps away at a laptop keyboard, humming along to the music. For the event, she''s been badgered by her assistant and husband into wearing a red-white patterned halterneck dress and tying her hair into a low bun. Additional accessorising was vehemently rejected, but a compromise of a single jewelled silver bangle was eventually added to her left wrist. Though it currently sits wedged into a cup holder due to the discomfort of wearing it while typing. Stephen, similarly finds himself preoccupied with a 13" tablet displaying a video with an accompanying written report. He has been watching it on repeat since they boarded his private plane, a fact which hasn''t entirely escaped his wife''s notice, though she remains more concerned with her own work - more than her concern for his present discomfort. But his limit has been reached. Steve throws the tablet aside carelessly, pinching at the bridge of his nose and leaning back into his seat, exhaling coarsely, "..Damn it..." Mid-sentence, Sharon''s fingers pause, claw-like over the keys, and with tired eyesnarrowed at her husband, "Finally ready to talk to me about what''s eating you up?" Sighing, Steve''s head lolls forward and he scratches the nape of his neck, "You know why. The progress of some of the subjects is going a bit faster than we thought they would be able to manage. And it''s fine if they go off the rails, it''s great even, but if Mr Macklemore keeps going the way it looks like he''s gonna go, it''s going to move the schedule up way faster than we or the other subjects can handle. It''s not gonna happen all at once, but it''s going to get exponentially worse if he''s not reigned in or distracted, yeah?" Sharon pulls her arms back from the laptop and rests them in her lap, "Didn''t you try bringing it up with him in your one-on-one?" "You know I can''t. That''s the problem. I''ve got Matthew and his team breathing down my neck to come up with a decision of whether to pull the plug on his testing contract orlet them intervene before it gets out of control. Which has the technicians and analysts yelling at me not to let the writing guys anywhere near an active, ongoing test cycle." Frustrated, he throws his hands up in the air and sinks low into the couch, reaching for a bottle of water, "Honestly, I''m tempted to say screw it and let it happen since Matthew and Kirsty should have known better, but..." Steve gives his wife a meaningful, sad look. She returns it impassively, for several seconds before sighing, closing her laptop and setting it aside. "It''s sweet of you to worry about it for my sake, Steve. But you''re worrying too much about it. This is exactly the sort of scenario Project: Eden was made for. Tell Matthew and his book club to have a little faith in the potential of Mr Macklemore and the others. If they don''t have any hope for the growth of these subjects, then I have to question why they even agreed to work with us." Steve smiles slightly, placing a hand on his wife''s thigh, "Well if nothing else, you managed to convince me when I was at my lowest. If that doesn''t prove the validity of your dream, I don''t know what does. I just want to see how things turn out before we''re dead and burned, yeah? It''d be a crying shame for us both to miss its official birth. It''s taken us half our lives to get this far, and we don''t have the time to start from scratch if one subject gets it in his head to ruin it." He takes her hand into his and squeezes, "I know you want to trust them, but I can''t ignore a potential problem just because it''s in its early stages. I wouldn''t have the wealth I do now if I didn''t know how to handle risks when investing."This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Sharon laughs softly, "I didn''t marry you for your money, and it''s unfair of you to bring it up." The couple shares a loving kiss, before being interrupted by their driver on the intercom, "Heads up, we''re approaching the theatre now, ETA 2 minutes."
"Ok, I''m getting a report from my colleagues further up the road that...that Stephen Jennings'' limousine has been spotted approaching the venue! In fact, here it comes now." Rebecca turns in anticipation as the all-black limo slows to a halt in front of the aisle. A member of the event''s security approaches the driver, exchanges a few words then opens the passenger door to allow it''s occupants to exit. The crowd''s enthusiasm raises to a bass-y roar, which Stephen acknowledges with a smile and wave before assisting his wife in leaving the vehicle to prevent any potential embarrassment. Seeing an excellent opportunity to further her career, the reporter suppresses the urge to smirk and calls out to the power couple, "Excuse me, Mr and Mrs Jennings? I''m from The Filmfest, could I trouble you for a quick couple of questions?" Pausing mid-step with his wife''s arm in his, he turns to regard her, then gives Rebecca a slight nod. She grins, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her eyes and beginning the interview, "Hi, thanks for your consideration! Now, I''m sure our viewers back home are dying to know what brings you out here tonight. According to rumour, you''re acquainted with Mr Choi, but with his absence, it''s odd to see you both in attendance." Stephen is the one to respond to the question, smiling wide with practised ease, "Wherever he is now, the film heperformed in for everyone the world over to watch still remains, and it would be a crying shame not to see it when we already have our invitations, yeah? Besides, one man alone does not make a movie - and the other cast members and the film crew deserve just as much support and attention." Rebecca nods along, "Just so, just so. Have you any other comments to add?" Sharon shakes her head after a moment''s consideration, but Stephen merely chuckles at his wife''s apparent shyness, "Works of art like this are part of what makes our life worth living. I came here expecting a large crowd but I''ve gotta say it''s kind of staggering just how much passion is packed into a couple city blocks. I sincerely wish that whatever the reason for their excitement, they don''t ever lose that spark." "Inspiring words to be sure...Thanks for your time, and enjoy your evening!" As the Jennings walk onward, the reporter inwardly salivates over the bonus her boss is going to give her for landing an - admittedly brief - interview with Stephen and Sharon Jennings. Maybe it''s time to start looking into booking a trip in that new airship cruiseliner all the celebrities are going nuts for.
Back in the Think Tank, however, the voices raised aren''t out of adoration and respect, but of rage and indignation. Three people have gathered in the office of one of the project''s Lead Technicians, Jamie Melnyk, a middle-aged woman with greying short blonde hair and a physique that is completely at odds with her profession. The other two present and the source of most of the shouting are a female Senior Security Officer and the Head of the Writing Team, Matthew Tildon. The incensed old man bites back at what he views as an outrageous demand, "ABSOLUTELY OUT OF THE QUESTION! Stephen may have agreed toconsider allowing you to enter the simulation, but that is not in and of itself, permission! Moreover, the storyline would be utterly ruined by such heavy-handed interference. No. No, I won''t stand for it!" The security officer, Jillian McDonnell, is not in any mood to back down, however, clenching her fist and stomping a single foot forward, "So you expect me to just watch my sister suffer as she''s sold into slavery with no way out?! Oh suuuure, maybe after your beloved ''storyline'' concludes in however many years she''ll be freed. Or more likely have her throat slit when her usefulness as a hostage dries up because nobody in whatever that place is called cares about it. With your ''storyline'' as is, she''ll be dead in what, a week? You''ve stacked the odds so high against her it''s beyond unfair!" "That doesn''t mean you can just plug yourself in all willy-nilly and break down the door to her room like an action hero just because you don''t have any faith in her ability to take care of herself!" This last comment rankles Jillian, and for a moment her hand twitches towards her shockstick''s holster. The temptation is fleeting, however, and years of discipline and training kick in almost immediately, "Lexi can handle herself against a couple street thugs no problem, but this is clearly well above what a rookie should have to be facing and you fucking know it!" Instead of Matthew, Jamie speaks up, cutting him off before he has a chance to retort, "Though I understand your concern, and honestly, I kind of agree that it''s a bit much for the first day; I still think you should have a bit more faith in Matthew and your sister." Her voice and demeanour are calm, a stark contrast to the cold fury of Jillian and the red-faced Matthew. Neither one seems willing to listen to the would-be mediator - however, she is not finished speaking, "That''s ultimately irrelevant though. I can''t sign off on letting you into the game, for a number of reasons. The main one being one that Matthew mentioned - Lack of explicit permission. If Steve or Sharon sent me and the other Leads a message saying to let you in then sure we''d look into a way to do it. But without that, it''d be risking our jobs, the integrity of the system and the safety of the test subjects. It goes without saying that this includes your sister as well." Jillian folds her arms, scowling, "I hear you, and what you''re saying is reasonable. But also fuck you, that''s my fucking sister that this idiot and his crew has thrown to the goddamn wolves as a motherfucking sacrificialplot device. Ya think that Mr Jennings is gonna be happier when I point out to him how badly you''ve fucked her over? Because I doubt he''s seen all the footage yet, and something tells me he ain''t gonna be impressed." Worry flashes across Matthew''s face, but Jamie is unfazed, "Then, by all means, try and convince him and Sharon. But until I hear an order from either of them, the answer is still no, no matter how many times you yell the F word at me. Now if you''d be so kind as to take yourargument somewhere else, I still have actual work to do." Chapter 19: Responsible Stars hide from thecity below, leaving the sky a blanket of murky black, only punctuated by the misty countenance of the moon shining down - itself obscured by the clouds above. The city, though lacking the usual thrum of activity in its twilight, is by no means silent nor pitch dark. Redault is, after all, home to innumerable unscrupulous groups, and individuals of low moral standards for whom sunset replaces sunrise. Mercifully, from the tall, vaulted window of the guest bedroom provided to the Lantessa, the worst of them cannot be heard. No brothel mistress, publican or drunken street tough would dream of rousing the anger of a Clait by disturbing their rest at this hour no matter how brave, stupid or inebriated. Fear of the Claits is old and deeply ingrained in the city''s population regardless of social class and profession. The Duchne may be the King''s representative and the one given the right to rule this squalid hive - but the true power of rule has been in the hands of the Claits for decades before she was even born. This difference in power is best demonstrated by the bawdy songs sung by bards that depict the Duchne as a two brass Nonne strumpet who has to present her ''commodities'' to a Clait enforcer every time she wishes to do so much as leave her estate. Such ditties would never feature a prominent member of a Clait in a negative light. Ulrissacan''t help but shudder at the thought of being reduced to such measures to retain her position. The very notion of it is utterly sickening, but with things as they stand, a very real and present danger. The planned massacre of that village of inbreds was bothersome enough to agree to without her pride and dignity being at stake. She is keenly aware that the Dost has as much sway over her own actions now as he does the Duchne. At least for the duration of their...''business partnership'', as the Dost put it. Likely beyond the acquisition of her birthright if he has any say in the matter, too. The terms for the new deal were already decided upon through a mixture of desperatenegotiation and high-handed decrees from Yprus. The only thing left now was to agree to it or pay a different price altogether, and watch as her venerable Ancestors'' achievements go to waste. To say nothing of the further reaching consequences of failure to secure a trade route with the elves. Ulrissaitched to sic her beloved Prime Blade upon the decrepit old vulture and wash her hands of his smug filth. An 11th level Swordsman is more than excessive a solution for a single impertinent merchant family. The guards were no doubt competent, but against the might of an expert Advanced Class holder, such menial opposition means little with so few. Even now, she wishes for the comfort of his brightly charming smile. But such a thing would be wildly inappropriate at this time of night, and her Uncle would definitely disapprove of such impropriety. It stung to be still considered a pure and innocent child to be protected and patronised, but with no achievements worthy of her title, how could her family expect anything more from her? In the end, just as the Dost so arrogantly declared, her family needed Dwast Clait far more than the Clait needed her family. By no means an ideal situation to be in, but what was she to do? Ulrissahad no part in any of this scheme before now, and thus the responsibility for any leaks or mistakes was on her father and uncle. Their subordinatestoo, by extension. But now, at the end of it all, the decision to take the wretched old man''s deal in spite of it fell to her. Which meant those mistakes would also become hers. Along with any punishment her elders saw fit to hand down, regardless of whether she was truly at fault. Yet, again, what could she do but accept this Djinnit''sDeal, and ownership of that filthy mongrel with dyed hair they presumably stole away from some low-class brothel? Nothing.
Across the country, in the master bedroom of a small wood-built cabin, Walther sits on the edge of the two-person bed struggling to take off his trousers without hurting his leg. The pain medication given to him earlier has started to fade away, revealingthe sharp edge of burning agony. The brief sprint towards his son in the late afternoon didn''t do him any favours in this regard, and if not for the durability of Ironsilk, he might have burst a few of his stitches. As it stood, the sharp thread just opened a few of the punctured areas a little further. The room is fairly claustrophobic despite the title. With most of the space dominated by the bed with little room to move around it. The only other piece of furniture is a tall chest of drawers carved from Oak. Though Klennockwood would certainly be more plentiful as a resource given the adjacent forest''s abundance of it, as a material it is difficult to acquire and harder still to work into items and furnishings. The hardness and lustre of the finished product does, however, make it a desirable material for high-end carpenters and the wealthy, so any collected timber is usually reserved for sale instead of use. Albeit at a fraction of its true value. With the rates as they are, providing for his family was becoming increasingly difficult. Changes in market value and other variables beyond the simple Woodsman''s understanding have lowered the price he has been able to sell 4 trees worth of lumber from 1 Quartz Nonne, to a paltry 3 Iron and 12 BronzeNonne in the past 20 years. The simple truth being that the merchants at the other end of the chain were becoming less willing to pay a fair price for the valuable Klennockwood every year for the sake of their own profits. Whether because of greed or a change in the market price of the lumber, it was difficult to say. In a twisted way, his son''s decision to leave home early was a relief. Supporting two on a bootstrap budget is naturally easier than supporting three on the same income. Without training in a different trade, he couldn''t be relied upon for stable additional funds. Maybe the folks in the village would pay for odd-jobs, but that''s no way to make a living.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. Walther grimaces. It''s shameful to think of your own kin as a burden, especially a good lad like Nealan, but as the man of the house and the one bringing the dragon''s share of Nonne, the responsibility of managing finances falls to him, and even the unpleasant business of encouraging his son to find path of his own, is necessary for the family''s survival. Whether Nealan stayed to increase the yield of lumber or left to pursue his dreams of adventure, the family would live on. The boy didn''t want to feel his folks were a burden to him, either, ironically. Walther almost choked up hearing that. Fruit doesn''t fall far from the tree, as the saying goes. The door opens slowly and quietly, just enough to allow Yvette, now wearing an old linen nightgown to slip through and shut it behind her noiselessly. Seeing the consternation on her husband face, she frowns. "How is he?" Walther asks. Yvette laughs briefly, "Fast asleep. Like he ain''t aged a day since he was born. Now, what''s eating you, you old fool?" Walther smirks, self-deprecating, "A dirolft was this afternoon now you mention it." She swats his head half-heartedly, "Don''t give me that, my patience is wafer-thin. It''s about him leaving tomorrow, isn''t it?" "Yeah and no," Walther sighs, finally managing to tug his trousers off with a pained grunt, "Just fomenting over some unpleasant truths. Makes me question whether I''m doing right by the family, thinking that way, it does." Yvette bites her lip, "It''s about the money isn''t it?" Ashamed, her husband glances away, "Aye. I don''t know if I can get the delivery after the next one like this. Thank Tula for my fastidiousness that I already sent the next batch of logs over to old Woody, so we''re...probably fine for a few months. Problem is, I don''t know if Nealan leaving helps or hurts us. We could use the hand but unless the price of Klennockwood goes up we might not be able to feed another mouth. And it sickens me to admit that about our boy." Sitting on the bed next to her husband, Yvette sighs, only to smile up at him, "He really does take after you, doesn''t he? Always feel like it''s your responsibility to do everything all the time, no need for others to budge in. A stubborn old fool and his reckless brat of a son." She brushes her fingertips over his wounded leg, the smile turning lopsided, "Idiots, both of you." Standing up, Yvette walks around to the opposite side of the bed and slides beneath the thin blanket, "I dearly want him to stay, even if it''s a few days longer, but I doubt he''d listen to me. I understand, though. Family is all we have, and you both want to protect it, however you may." Sinking further into the bed, Yvette''s exasperated sigh turns into a yawn, "Always too serious for your own good, you two." Walther grimaces, lifting his injured leg with his hands onto the bed and entering beneath the covers alongside her. Shifting a little to a position that''s more comfortable, and rubbing his tired old eyes, "You''re taking this a lot calmer than I thought you would after everything this afternoon." "Mm. Too tiredto keep it up. And the more time passes the less reason I find to stay vexed. Though that doesn''t mean I''m not going to give Daurn a piece of my mind the next time I see him, I can assure you of that. He doesn''t get to order my boy around to deal with problems best left to the militia without my say-so," She grumbles into the sheets. Walther laughs, snaking an arm over to brush his wife''s hair out her face, "Now that sounds more like the woman I gave my vows to. Your moping face may be adorable, but your fury is a raw beauty no bard can do justice." As if demonstrating his point, she kicks his leg out of embarrassment, realising it''s wounded a fraction of a second too late. Walther sucks a sharp breath in through clenched teeth, "Oi, oi, be gentle. It''s still tender, y''know?" Unwilling to admit fault despite the guilty tone of voice, Yvette huffs, turning her back to him, "Sleep it off." Shaking his head ruefully, Walther closes his eyes, "I plan to. Still...I hope everything works out for our boy. If what he and Daurn suspect is the truth, he''s going to be in more danger than he''s ever known. You don''t go huntin'' for a Lancefly hive and expect t''come away unstung when you stick your arm in it''s hidey-hole." For several minutes, his wife remains silent. Rolling onto her back once more, she cocks her head while staring at the ceiling, "I worry too. Almost as much for what it will mean for us and the village if it is. He''s still so young." "Aye. In the end, all we can do is pray to Tula for his safe return." "Y''don''t pray to Tula for such matters you old fool. It''s Tumal, her brother. Why do you always get them mixed up?" "...Go to sleep, m''love." "Fool."
Scraps of linen scatter as a man jolts awake, screaming in pain and abject horror, both hands clutching fiercely to his burn disfigured face, eyes bulging between fingers. The night is still young, but thesickeningly oily smell of damp, rotting rubbish permeates the ruined smalltown hovel, making a return to slumber a challenging prospect when nothing but nightmarish memories await him. Sleep first came with the aid of cheap hooch, but the clay container lies discarded and empty. In his socks he has but a few small coins left, which won''t cover the cost of a refill, even if the landlord of The Jester''s Jollies were feeling charitable enough to give him a second round at the discounted price he bought the first in exchange for hauling away and dumping some rotten mead into the town''s moat. For the paupers and the disgraced, even being able to live in this squalid ruin is a luxury in the Santocracy of Suld. With no achievements to your family''s name or recent deeds to your own, you were considered no better than a parasite upon the wealth of the successful, and a phage upon the efforts of the earnestly industrious. Such unfortunate souls are expected to quietly disappear into the dead of night and never return to the land of the living. To even leave your corpse behind is considered an insult to the pride of the town''s caretakers hard work. To not only waste your life, but the time of the successful after your death? Utterly disgraceful. Reprehensibly arrogant. Such thoughts swirl the ugly man''s mind, torturing him in their unceasing, cacophonous babble. Self-loathing pervades every fibre of his being as he hunches over, grabbing at the filthy, torn rags that formed his makeshift blanket. But in short order, the hatred dissipates, and in his eyes is left the smouldering embers of ambition. "By my name, by my pride, I swear I will achieve deeds meritorious. By those deeds, I will claim the happiness, wealth and respect I deserve. The very things those bastards claimed through abuse of old power, I will make anew for my sake, through my own sweat and blood." Deformed, filthy, freezing and emotionally broken, the man swears thus to the gods, to the decaying corpses of rats, and the world. Chapter 20: Preparing To Go Stirring in my bed, my hands fumble toward my bedside table for my phone, only to swat at empty air. Confused, I crack open an eye to see a familiar room. But not the one my sleep-addled mind was expecting. Right. This is Nealan''s bedroom. My bedroom. Then, pain. Specifically from my bitten shoulder and aching joints, which take umbrage at being tasked with moving. Clenching my teeth and moving through the discomfort I get out of bed and massage my wrists. If this is the result of using Reckless Strike then I really am just going to have to save it for emergencies. Feels like I''ve wrenched my hands out of place. Regret. Soooo much regret, fucking ow. Come on man. Suck it in. Deep breaths. Half-stumbling, I move over to my old wardrobe and pick out a fresh shirt and socks. The trousers I wore yesterday are still perfectly fine, though the shirt I was wearing is in need of a needle and thread to patch up the holes that dirolft left in it. There''s something decidedly surreal about waking up in someone else''s room. I remember staying in my cousin''sroom over spring break when I was a teenager and it just felt and smelled alien. If you told teenage me that in about a decade''s time he''d be waking up in a room that is and isn''t his in a body that belongs to a fictional character he created that is inside of a virtual reality he''d be sceptical at best. I''m just not going to think too hard about it. I am Nealan, this is my room, there''s no reason for any of it to feel strange. Repeating that over and over again like a mantra, I pull on and fasten my boots. Straps tightened, I pick up and throw the bag I packed with fresh clothes last night before bed over my shoulder, ready to start my day.
Entering the living room, my parents are both already present, even though it is just after sunrise. Da is refining his walking stick by the fire while Mam sits in her rocking chair, staring at me as I enter the room. I smile at her, rubbing a nugget of rheum from my eye. "Mornin'' Mam. Mornin'' Da." Mam smiles back at me, "Good morning Nelly. How''d you sleep?" My cheektwitches out of irritation, "Slept alright, I guess. Makes a difference from the floor, but I''ll be damned if it doesn''t feel no different. My arms feel like an ungreased door hinge." "And let that be a lesson to you, young man. Idiocy has a price, and thegods''re all too eager t'' collect," Mam nags, "You''ll just have to live with it for a day or two. I already gave you the strongest pain reducer I had, and any more will kill ya." I sigh, "I know Mam, you and Da taught me all about it..." Da puts his knife down and turns to me, "When did you plan on leaving?" "As soon as I can. I want to be at the next village before sunset." Da nods, "The journey to Mhintakes about 4 days by foot. If I were you I''d go ask the Alderman for five days worth of provisions, just to be sure. It''s the least he can do after putting ya up to this." I nod in agreement. Though I can probably try and gather food along the journey, I''d rather guarantee I have enough food to last the trip. Hunting and foraging don''t guarantee food, and most of the region is hills and grassy plains. Finding anything to eat is going to be difficult unless you''re trained. Which I''m most definitely not. Forests are one thing, but plains aren''t my area. Heh. Puns. A smirk flashes across my face, but I suppress it, "No argument there. I need to ask him about some directions, anyway. While I''m at it I''ll see if I can convince him to outfit me for some equipment. I''d be a lot more comfortable travelling with something better than my knife and that rust-riddled mail. If Lonn is anything to go by I ain''t gonna hold my breath, though." Privately I feel a little regret that I can''t take Da''s hatchet with me. But it''s too late to complain about that now, and I know it''s not really an option. Still, looking into getting a decent set of equipment is going to be pretty high on my list of things to do, if I''m going to be going into the Adventurer life. I''m feeling extremely excited about that, now that I mention it. It''s not the same as when I heard about the Dirolft pack yesterday, though. IfI had to describe it, it''s more of a...patient anticipation? "That''s all well an'' good, but are you completely sure of this, Nelly?" Mam asks, still staring at me. Please stop, you''re making me uncomfortable. Exasperated, I roll my eyes, "Yes, Mam, I''m sure. Like I ain''t told you already." Mam''s mouth forms a thin line of displeasure, "Watch your tone, young man!" "Vette, it''s fine," Da says, moving closer to me, sighing as he rubs his worn features, "We''ve already said most of what needs saying already, no need to repeat it..." Mam harrumphs, "I know, and don''t call me Vette!" Da smiles, "Come on, get up and give our son a hug." Wait, what? No. I say no to hugging. Too late, however, as the stronger old man pulls me in for a tight one-armed hug before I can retreat, beckoning Mam with his walking stick. With her joining in, the pressure on my torso increases. Ow my back, ow my back, ow my back and shoulder... "We love you, son. So don''t go and get yerself killed like an idiot out there, ok?" "Make sure you come back in one piece, Nelly." Honestly, the emotional pain I would be feeling right now at this highly poignant moment is taking a backseat to actual, physical pain. I can''t actually speak because they''re holding me so tightly. After what must be an eternity of hugging my parents slowly release me. I take an exaggerated breath in, "FREEDOM!" Momentarily stunned by my somewhat uncharacteristic outburst, theybreak out in jovial laughter. Da clasps me on the shoulder, pulls up my left hand and places something warm and disc-like in my palm, closing my fingers around it. Inspecting the object, my eyes widen and my jaw slackens. Sputtering, I stare aghast at Da, "A-an Iron Nonne?!" Da smiles, "You won''t get far without money, son. You''ve managed to scrape together enough to getcherself in the Adventurer life, but it won''t do you no good if ya don''t have food in yer belly and a roof over your head. Least with this much you''ll be able to afford an inn with clean beds for a few nights if you''re frugal." I gulp, "C-can you even afford this?" "Honestly," Mam speaks up, "No. Least, not for long. But we aren''t giving it you just out the goodness of our hearts, you hear? We expect you to come back with at least two more of them by year''s end!"This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it She chuckles, pinching my cheek, "And if you come back with a wife in tow, all the better. We ain''t getting any younger and I want to see my grandkids ''fore I go!" I cough, embarrassed. Gods above, I haven''t felt like this since I left home for college. Admittedly, it wasn''t as...I don''t know...? What''s the phrase? Involved. I think by that point I''d already started to drift away from my real world parents. Though thinking about it now, I can''t really say that''s news, nor can I pinpoint exactly what started it. Maybe it''s the influence of Nealan, but the connection and love is truly something to behold. It''s honestly difficult to describe it, so I just won''t bother. But it''s nice. I may be a Cuckoo, but it''s just...pleasant.
After a quick breakfast consisting of some heavily salted smoked meat and a slightly stale bread roll with enough unmilled seeds left in to make a health nut scream in joy, I leave the lodge with a final wave goodbye to Mam and Da, headed in the direction of the village. Within short order, I arrive at the gate, which is currently guarded by a different militiaman from Lonn, and one I don''t immediately recognise. This one looks a little older than I am, if rather short, with a bushy black beard and a bit of a belly. He brandishes his shoddy spear at me, all self-importance, "Halt! Travellers aren''t-" Only for me to cut him off mid-sentence, "Tula give me patience...I''m a bloody local!" Irked, the fat man squints at me, "Don''t look like anybody I know. Don''t be trying to pull the wool over my eyes, now, I weren''t born yesterday!" I groan, "Nealan? Nealan Forrester? Walther and Yvette''s son? Ringin'' any bells in that big head? Come on, I had to explain it to Lonn yesterday as well. Am I really that forgettable?" He doesn''t seem to be particularly impressed, "Since when did the Woodsman have a son?" "Since like, 18 years ago!" "A likely story!" I''m rapidly losing patience with this idiot. Obviously, he''s a new arrival in the village, one that moved out here after I left. I suppose I could just give him my seax, but it''s the principle of the thing. This is my hometown, damn it! Grinding my teeth, I prepare to punch this moron''s smug grin inwards, but a voice calling out interrupts the conversation, "What''s going on h- Oh, hey Nealan!" Lonn arrives with a flushed face, lacking the crappy helmet. Great, maybe he can talk some sense into fatty lumpkins here. Fatty Lumpkins scowls at the beanpole, "You know this ban...guy?" "You were just about to call me a bandit weren''t you?" I growl. Urge to punch, rising. Ignoring me, he waits for Lonn''s nervous response, "I m-mean..yeah? He''s local and all..." Lonn''s eyes dart between his colleague and me, an anxious open half-smile twitching, "Is there a problem..?" After a pregnant pause, he grunts, "No. He can pass if you''re vouching for him. But if he causes trouble it''s on you, ya got that?" Lonn tilts his head, "...S-sure?" Ignoring the dimwitted buffoon, I address Lonn, "Great, that''s that waste of my time and patience over with. Lonn, wheres the Alderman?" "Um...I just passed him a couple minutes ago. He''ll be in The Woodsman, as usual, I think." I nod in approval, "Thank you. See this? This is how you treat a local. I reckon you should learn from yerfriend here." Fatty Lumpkins spits on the ground, "Sod off." "Gladly. Goodbye Lonn, I''m heading off to Mhin after I pick up some supplies, so you won''t be seeing me around for a while. Try not to freak out when I come back home again in a couple months, yeah? Because Tula give me patience, I ain''t a fuckin'' bandit, and I''d appreciate it if you mentioned that little fact to the other new militiamen so I don''t almost get stabbed by a twitchy sod a third fuckin'' time!" Not waiting for an answer, I push past Fatty and head off in search of a bear in human skin.
Once again, The Woodsman is fairly bereft of patrons, however, it is still more than when I came in looking for the Alderman yesterday. The man in question is sat at a table, knife and two-pronged fork in hand, eating a slice of pink meat in a thick yellowish gravy, and chatting with the village Carpenter whose name escapes me. Like the Alderman, I just know him by his nickname ''Woody''. He''s a balding old codger with a peglegand a scowl that could strip the bark off a log. He''s a pretty alright guy if you manage to run into him when he''s not in one of his foul moods. At the very least, he always treated Nealan right when he was a kid, probably owing to his friendship and partnership with Da and Mam. Behind the bar, is Lizzle''s mother, Adri, the woman from whom all alcohol in the village that won''t blind you flows.She gives me a complicated look as I shut the door behind me. I don''t know her all that well if I''m honest, but she never struck me as very mature. At times she''s more patron than proprietress. I''m not here to continue the events of last night, however, so I resolve to ignore her and call out to the Alderman, "Hey, you got a minute to talk?" "Neal..." The Alderman eyes me, swallowing a mouthful of food, "Take a seat." Nodding, I pull out a chair at his table and sit down, arms folded. After a few more bites of his breakfast, the Alderman places his utensils down, wipes his mouth and stares straight at me. "...You really need to learn how to talk to girls, lad." Oh boy. We''re doing this anyway. You''re not even related to her. Probably. I don''t want to go making any accusations here. She does have her father''s nose, after all. I sigh, "I''m really not here to talk about that..." Woody squints at us, "What''s this about, eh?" "I rejected a clumsy offer for a ''nightcap'' that Lizzle made me," I explain bluntly. Confused, Woody trains his squint on me alone, "Why''d you go an'' do that?" Both men stare at me expectantly, and I get a sense that Adri is also listening for my response. Yep, we''re really doing this. Alright. "Because I wasn''t interested in the least." Woody frowns, but nods in understanding. The Alderman, on the other hand, is less inclined to silence, "Maybe so, but you weren''t delicate about it at all. What were you thinking, announcing it to the whole crowd like that?" I roll my eyes, "I wasn''t any louder than she was herself, y''know? Maybe I coulda whispered, real quiet like, but what''d be the point?" The Alderman makes to refute me, but is interrupted by the hand of Adri on his shoulder, "It''s fine, Daurn, jes'' drop it. No point in messin'' with their private business after it''s already done with." I didn''t even notice her approach. Spooky, to be sure, but not as much as the flash of animosity when I look into her eyes. Look, I get it, I made your baby girl cry. Actually, where''s her father? Let''s make this a Greek chorus! I shake my head, "Can I just get what I came here for done?" This whole line of conversation is a waste of time. Lizzle will get over it, and find someone else to bat her eyelashes at. The Alderman shuts his eyes and shakes his head, "What''re you here for, then?" "I need supplies and a weapon for the trip. Plus directions to where I need to go and who I need to speak to since you didn''t tell me yesterday. Also, I reckon you should stay out of Mam''s reach for a while, ''cos she''s....vexed by the whole thing." The Alderman scratches his beard, thoughtfully, while the other two look at us in askance. He bows his head and sighs, "I s''pose it''s only fair. How many days worth are you wanting?" "Five or six in case I run into rough weather or something equally troublesome." He nods, "Aight. Adri, if ya''d be so kind as to fix him up with that? Put it on my tab. I''ll bring the money ''round later." The Brewmistress frowns, obviously wanting an explanation. Nonetheless, she turns around and heads toward the kitchen to comply with his order. As she does, Woody takes the opportunity to speak up, "What''s this about?" "He''s going to Mhin with a message for an old...friend...o'' mine," The Alderman explains carefully, "You''ll be wanting to speak to Jennett Pavm. She''ll be working at the Adventure Company on Hermias Street in the New District. That''s on the northeast side o'' town. Y''can''t miss it." He pauses to shove the last of his meal in his mouth, then adds, "As for a weapon...Sorry, can''t really help you there lad. Decent weapon-grade metal''s expensive to get ahold of this far from Redault." Woody nods, arms crossed and teeth clenched, "Aye. Right pain in the arse it is. I''m on my third chisel this year alone, lookin'' at gettin'' a fourth." I drum my fingers on the table. That''s a bit of a problem if I''m honest. But I suppose it can''t be helped. Klennock is heavily reliant on the woods and a couple of acres of poor quality farmland. We''re as far removed from the concept of mining ore as you can get. The village blacksmith is just a glorified handyman, really. Mending pots and shoeing the odd animal. He can make a tool if he tries, but his work won''t exactly inspire wonder in a Dwarf if you get my meaning. In fact, the helmets those two from the militiamen were wearing looked an awful lot like repurposed saucepans, come to think of it. No wonder they looked so daft. "Best hope I don''t stumble ''cross a band of Smearlings or something then," I say, disappointed. "Shouldn''t be an issue, if what I heard from the merchant crew that stopped by last month is anythin'' to go by," The Alderman grunts, "And I reckon you know to stay out of their way." Scowling, he snorts, "Scratch that. I''m tellin'' ya to stay away from any of that muck. You can go getchersel'' killedafter you''ve talked t''Jennett if it takes yer fancy." I nod in assent, ignoring the jab when a thought occurs, "You got anything that''ll prove you sent me?" He shakes his head, "Nothin'' small enough t''carry anyway. I''m outta ink ''till the winter caravan shows up too, or I''d give ya a letter." A scarcity of ink strikes me as a little odd, but back in reality you can get a dozen biros for less than a dollar, so my standards are a little skewed. I''d suggest making a substitute, but I wouldn''t know where to even begin with that. "Well, somethin'' is better than nought. There''s gotta be something." The Alderman''s face flushes red, "W-well...there might be...somethin''..." Chapter 21: The Boring Part Whenever I read one of my old collection of adventure-themednovels, one thing the authors tended to either leave out or only pay lip-service to was the sheer...monotony...that accompanies a long journey on foot with no means of entertainment. Cresting what feels like the hundredth small hill, I gaze out upon a seemingly endless sea of greens and yellows. Grass and whatever else growing for as far as the eye can see up to my waistline. The western portion of the country is a sparsely populated region, sure, but the lack of the large amount of company I had when I last left home puts the whole thing in perspective, I guess. Oh, the view is great, if you''re a nature or hiking enthusiast - something I''m decidedly not - but I''m starting to feel technology withdrawal. Gods above, it''s going decades before I touch a computer again - assuming I don''t die along the way. Didn''t really give it much thought at the time, but wow. A lifetime without video games and...other...things... That''s going to be rough. I need to think about picking up some new hobbies. I take a swig from the large waterskin generously donated by Adri after a lot more half-hearted passive-aggressive bullshit. The water is a little on the tepid side and tastes faintly of shoe leather. Hopefully, that doesn''t mean they gave me a rotten waterskin, because dying to poison because I rejected the juvenile lust of a teenage girl would be just the worst. I can stomach fighting a demonic dragon trying to destroy all existence and dying from my wounds after ripping its head off with my bare hands, but dying because of teenage relationship drama? Just, no. But paranoia isn''t going to keep me hydrated, so fuck it. Take another swig, cap it and carry on. After a while, I start passing the time by pondering why all this space is just...I don''t know,space. There''s villages, trading camps and hamlets here and there, of course. Except, I can''t help but find it odd how little effort has been put into fully utilisingall this land. How many acres of unsettled earth is out here? Gotta be hundreds, easy. There is, of course, the ever-presentrisk of monster and beast attacks, even out here, but nothing normally found out here is capable of posing a threat to the nation''s army, I wouldn''t think. Actually, there''s an interesting point. There''s very little in the way of an official government presence out here. Occasionally a tax collection party will ride out to the settlements, but as far as I know, the smaller settlements west of Mhinare just left to their own devices. The answer to these two riddles is more than likely the same, but I haven''t the slightest clue what it could be. Nealan was and to a fair extent still is a simple country boy. The only reason I''m thinking about all this is that Cyril naturally more inquisitive and sceptical than Nealan is himself. Another mystery for the growing pile, I guess... Hours later, as the afternoon sun hangs overhead, I still don''t find myself any closer to understanding the troubling lack of oversight from our supposed King, but in happier news, I do find myself a kilometer or so away from a small village.
Gilmy Villageis a village ofhorse breeders you can almost smell before you see it. Much closer to the Klennock Village I remember from before the Monster Flood, if a lot smaller. The fields surrounding the village are populated by dozens of horses and several larger buildings to serve as stables. After this, there won''t be another village in the direct path to Mhin, so this is to be my jumping off point, where I can enjoy a night with a roof over my head one last time before I reach my destination. Unless the price of a bed and a meal turns out to be too expensive at the very least. As with Klennock Village being the largest consistent supplier of Klennockwood in the kingdom, Gilmy is the same for well-bred horses. Whether you''re a merchant looking for something to pull your cart or a knight looking for a warhorse to ride into battle, chances are the beast has passed through Gilmy at some point, or else can trace its lineage to one of the village''s studs. I don''t know how it compares to other pedigrees, but the merchants that pass through here to change their horses on the way to Klennock Village love to lavish praise on the horses from here. Sufficed to say, I won''t be riding one. Even if I had the money - easily over a Quartz Nonne if I was to estimate - I wouldn''t know how to actually ride the thing with any skill. I''ll keep my money in my boot, and my feet on the ground, thank you very much. At least, for now. Depending on how things work out, I may end up coming back here later on for a horse of my own. Because no way in hell am I going to just walk across the continent on grand adventures when there are better options. I''ll run out of patience before I run out of boot leather. Joining and walking alonga beaten dirt path leading out from the village centre, I spot a young woman sitting atop a fence, looking out across the field of horses and workers with a sort of dazed expression. I suppose I could call out to her, but that whole mess with Lizzle is still fresh in my mind, so I decide against it. I''m not interested in getting involved with anyone right now. I just want to take a load off my feet. I pass her by in relative silence, eliciting nary a peep from her. Looking back I note that she hasn''t actually...moved. I half expect her to start drooling, actually. Whatever, none of my business. "Hey!" A voice yells out, drawing my attention to a lean young man with tanned skin running across the field in our direction. I don''t get the impression he''s talking to me, though, so I ignore it and keep walking.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. "What are you doing, just spacin'' out over here, Iffmy? C''mon we''ve got work to do..."
The village itself is quiet, with most of the residents out in the fields and stables. The breeze is soft and chill, to accompany the comforting silence. It''s a nice place, not unlike Klennock, but without the fear of further tragedy hanging over it like a vague pall. Lowering my bag to the ground, I roll my stiff shoulder and look around the place for a sign that denotes the local Inn. Back in Klennock that would be a simple matter, as The Woodsman is close to the main gate and is one of the few buildings with more than a single story. In Gilmy, it seems as though they all have at least two floors above ground. Although several buildings have signs hanging from poles, thankfully only one gives the impression of what I''m looking for, as it depicts a knight holding a mug of ale high in place of a sword. There are words burned into the wood beneath it but, unfortunately, Nealan can''t actually read very well. I recognise the word ''Knight'' but not the other. If i''m to become an Adventurer, learning to read the local language is going to be a must. Add that to the growing to-do list.
Quest Accepted!
When In Eden...
Personal Quest Difficulty: Simple
The ability to read and write in fluent Hommish is usually not considered an important skill for the commonfolk outside of certain professions. But the life an Adventurer is anything but common, and requires a wide array of skills. Objective/s: Learn to read fluent Hommish 0/1 Learn to write fluent Hommish 0/1
Rewards: N/A The skills required to complete this quest are their own reward and may lead to further opportunities.
I guess setting goals like that for myself can be considered accepting a quest. Honestly, I''m kind of questioning why it''s even classed as a quest when I don''t get any rewards from it but I guess the ''further opportunities'' it mentions are a given. I suppose I should look for someone who can teach me in Mhin. I doubt I''m going to find what I need for that in Gilmy, after all. Hefting my belongings back over my shoulder, I stroll over to what I presume to be the Inn and walk through the off-centre open archway into a narrow hallway with a wide set of stairs leading up and doors to my immediate left and right. The left door opens out into a modest common area with about a dozen patrons in varying styles of dress chatting amongst their fellows. Though most are of a higher cut, withcolourful tunics and fancy caps, a couple of men and women look to be local workers, with dusty leather aprons, worn boots and filth-stained, undyed linen shirts. The fancy ones are likely merchants or servants of the nobility; either stopping by on their way to other locations or here to make a purchase for one of the village''s thoroughbreds. Behind the bar counter, a rack of barrels with polished brass spigots sits embedded into the wall, fussed over by a middle-aged man with a chubby face and a shiny bald head. Hearing me enter, he looks over at me with a jovial smile, beckoning me with a strangely clean hand. Seeing no reason not to oblige the invitation, I weave through the tables to the bar, setting the sack down once again, and giving him a nod, "Greetings." The Innkeep places his hands on the counter, smiling wider, "Greetings! M''names Jomsy, welcome to The Knight''s Solace!" So that''s what the other word was... "What can I get ya, young man? Pint? A meal? Soups still hot, and we got a leg of roast beef due out in an hour if ya fancy." I consider buying something hot to eat for my lunch. But with how upscale this place probably is, I''m not sure I can afford to splurge blindly. Perhaps noting my hesitation,Jomsy laughs, "Don''t worry lad, I don''t overcharge too much! The Tenders''d have my balls on a spit. It''s three Nonne for a bowl, andtwelve for a couple cuts of beef with some extra veg and a puddle o'' gravy. Ale''ll cost you aboutfour a pint, but that depends which of our brews you go for. We got a real smooth pale ale the workers like for three a pint. Though I''d appreciate it if you wouldn''t use their nickname for it. I charge double if ya do." I nod. His asking prices are more than generous, although my funds are still limited to about 400 Nonne, and I need most of that for when I get to Mhin. "How much for a room and a meal?" He rubs his chin, "Twenny a night. Ya get a bowl of soup and a bread roll at sundown, plus a bath if you pay five extra. You want breakfast makin'' too, that''ll be five again, but we''ll accommodate you if you want something specific." Twenty Nonne is a bit steep compared to the meal, but I don''t mind paying a premium just for one night. "I''ll take a room for one then. Oatcake and a black pudding for breakfast if that''s alright." The Innkeep nods, "I''ll tell the Chef. Think we have a nice sausage still left over from winter. Breakfast will be about a bell after dawn." Reaching into my bag I take a handful of coin, count it off, then hand it over, taking a small cast iron key in exchange. "Third door from the right upstairs, lad," The Innkeep says, "And if you''ve a mind to earn a bread roll you can come back down and do me a favour." I tilt my head, "A favour? What kind?" Again, Jomsy laughs, "Get your things squared away first." Sighing, I thank him and turn to leave.
The room is a fairly simple affair. The bed is covered in a green quilt with a thick hay stuffed mattress, a small table and a shuttered window. Not too different from my room back home, really. Dumping my bag on the bed, I lock the door again and head back to the bar, where Jomsy stands waiting, with a large ceramic stewpot sat on the countertop. "Thought you''d be interested," He smiles, "This pot here needs taking back to our neighbour. Borrowed it the other week after we broke one of ours. Replaced it courtesy of one of the patrons here, so it needs going back." I consider the offer, then squint at the Innkeep, "Bread roll ain''t stale is it?" Jomsy lets out a hearty chuckle, "No, it''s fresh this morning." I nod, "Alright. Throw in a pint and you got yerself a deal." "Don''t be greedy, lad," the smiling innkeep scolds. I shrug. Had to try.
Quest Accepted!
Our Daily Bread
Commissioned Quest Difficulty: Simple
The owner of The Knight''s Solace has asked you for a small favour in exchange for a meager meal. Objective/s: Deliver the Stewpot to it''s owner 0/1
Rewards: 1x Bread Roll Marginally Increased Fame in Gilmy Village Improved relationship with Jomsy, the Innkeeper
Don''t you just love FedEx quests? Whatever, I''m hungry. I''ll get over it when I''ve got a full stomach. Chapter 22: Gut Feeling Hefting the pot off the counter, I''m momentarily surprised by the weight. It feels like it''s rather full, in fact, and that alone near doubles the weight. I look to Jomsy in confusion, "What''s in it?" "A pipin'' hot batch of pork and haleic seed stew. Chef wanted to thank Maybell for lettin'' him borrow it. Speaking of, she lives just across the road, in the house with all the saddles on the fence. Mind you don''t drop it now!" Rolling my eyes, my waist follows a similar motion, turning around and heading for the door, keeping a firm grip on the integral handles. Though not scorching, the longer I maintain contact with the pot, the more the heat of it''s contents become apparent. Part of me is infinitely tempted to just take the pot to one side, eat it contents then present the stewpot''s owner with a cleaned pot. Tempting to be sure, but I''m almost certain that Jomsy is going to be paying attention to how long it takes me to get the job done, and I definitely don''t have the time to pull off such a scheme. Besides, it would only come back to bite me in the ass later, so why bother making life difficult for myself? Thankfully, the doors are still open so I''m spared some awkward manoeuvring to get back onto the street, however, my reflexes being what they are and further hampered by the heavy load in my arms, I crash sidelong into someone and stumble back. The pot is secure in my grip, but the jostle causes a small dribble of its delicious savoury contents to roll down the side after escaping the lid''s protection. Incensed, I growl at the idiot, "Oi! Watch where yer fuckin'' walkin''! I almost dropped this all over us!" Taking a closer look, I note that it''s that space-case from earlier. Pretty young thing with...admirable assets and a thousand-yard stare that betrays no emotion. It''s like she''s not even looking at me. "HEY! Are you sleep-walking or what?!" If my hands were free I''d try clicking my fingers in front of her face to see if she''d react. But after a good few seconds of glaring, the woman mumbles a truncated apology and keeps walking. As if completely disregarding my existence, the cheeky bitch. Though my blood is simmering with anger, I decide to stay on task. Still got a job to do, and given how little seems to be going on upstairs in that girl''s head, I doubt shouting at her is going to help any. Still, I''ve seen people who were dead to the world before, both in reality and in the aftermath of the Monster Flood. Something about her condition just seems ever so subtly off. Somehow. I can''t put a finger on why; Just call it a gut feeling. Displeasure forms a frown on my face. Do I really want to pry into this? I don''t want to contradict myself and poke my nose into her business for no good reason. Taking a few steps, I stop in the middle of the dirt road, groaning. Ok, fine! I can already tell this is going to be really fucking stupid, but when an obvious quest is going out of it''s way to give me a second chance to start on it, I guess it behooves me to find out what the fuck the problem is.
Quest Accepted!
There''s Something About Iffmy...
Urgent Local Quest Difficulty: Modest/Extremely Hard
One of the residents of Gilmy Village, a Tender named Iffmy, is acting strangely. Discover the reason why. Objective/s: Investigate the cause of Iffmy''s reticence 0/1 ??? ??? ???
Rewards: ???
Failure: ???
As this is your first Urgent Quest an explanation will be given. You have an extremely limited amount of time to complete an Urgent Quest before it automatically resolves itself. Though many quests will have time limits associated with certain objectives, the time limit tends to be longer and more susceptible to external influences. In time, these quests too will gain the Urgent Quest classification. Failing to resolve Urgent Quests in the time limit will force a Quest Failure, and may have drastic consequences. Good luck!
That''s ominous as hell. Can''t help but note that it doesn''t actually tell me what this ''extremely limited amount of time'' is exactly. But I guess having a concrete time limit would detract from the inherent urgency. Having said that, I don''t know if I have minutes or days to do it, so as soon as I''m done delivering this pot I guess I should try asking around. Talking to Iffmy herself seems like an exercise in frustration. Talking to a wall would be more productive than her wall-eyed ass. A good place to start will be with whoever this pot belongs to. So with that said, I close the distance with the door of the neighbour''s house. Just as he said, the side fence is covered in saddles in various states of completion, and a sharp varnish like scent hangs in the air, cutting through the smell of the stewpot''s innards.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Hm. Rather a macabre simile. Lacking free hands and unwilling to remove the cargo from my embrace, I kick the door a couple of times in lieu of knocking. Not too hard though - since I''m not trying to break it down. "Who''s that kickin'' my door?" Yells a woman''s voice. "Deliverin'' a stewpot Jomsy from across the road borrowed. Hands''re full and I didn''t wanna shout," I call back calmly. Ok, a little irritated still. Hopefully she doesn''t pick up on that though. "Oh!" The door opens to reveal another young woman similar in age to Iffmy, but a lot stockier in build and braided black hair that goes down to her shoulders, "Why didn''t you say so?" If the area around the house made my nose crinkle, being in the woman''s presence only amplifies it, as she positively reeks of whatever chemical solution is responsible for the smell. Likely some sort of leather glue or something. I don''t know, I''m not a Seamsmith. The woman beams, "Ah, something smells good! Come in, come in!" She turns around and waves for me to follow, "My name''s Maybell, by the way. You don''t look like anyone I recognise, you come looking for work on the ranches?" "No, just a traveller passing through from Klennock Village on the way to Mhin." We walk along a corridor past an even more acrid smelling room into a heavily perfumed kitchen, courtesy of several sprigs of pungent herbs and a bowl of flowers. Maybell looks at me in mild surprise, "Really? Didn''t think folks really left Klennock." I grunt. True, most of the villagers tend to stay put. I mean, when you''re that far away from the capital and the nearest town is about a week''s travel away, leaving home is a fairly daunting prospect for most. We don''t get a lot of new blood in, but the village has been around for a really long time, so apparently, it gets enough to avoid going full hillbilly. "Oh, didn''t mean to pry..." Maybell smiles nervously, wringing her hands, "Just leave it on the stovetop, would you?" Complying, I respond evenly, "I don''t particularly mind. Doing a separate favour for the village Alder- I mean, the village Mayor." "That a fact? Sounds like a real adventure, going all the way to Mhin." Shrugging, I dust off my hands and stretch my fingers, "Suppose it does. Job''s done then."
Quest Complete!
Our Daily Bread
Personal Quest Difficulty: Simple
Fulfilling your promise to the Innkeep, you completed the mundane task of delivering a stewpot to the rightful owner.
Rewards: Marginally Increased Fame in Gilmy Village Improved relationship with Jomsy, the Innkeeper Speak to Jomsy to receive your promised reward of 1x Bread Roll
Folding her arms across her apron, Maybell gives a throaty chuckle, "So it is. Anything I can do for you in return?" "I''m already getting a free bread roll from Jomsy, so I''d feel awkward accepting anything else," I hedge. "Free food from that miser? He must like you," Maybell exclaims. "Really?" Offering a bread roll for a small errand means he likes me? Weird. "Oh, yeah. He makes a living off of scalping passing merchants and clueless nobles. If he''s giving you the local treatment he''s either gone and lost his senses or something about you struck a chord with him," She asserts, "But don''t take my word for it, Mister. You sure I can''t get you anything?" "Well, there might be something, actually," I begin, remembering the other quest, "You know anything about a girl called Iffmy?" At the mention of the name, Maybell''s eyebrows shoot up, "He-hey...You admiring the local flowers are ya? Looking to lay down roots of your own maybe?" She snickers knowingly, "Well, she''s got no betrothed if that''s what you''re worried about..." I wince. Gods, no. Not what I''m interested in at all. Got to head this line of conversation off immediately before it gets any further. "No..I''m asking because she doesn''t seem all there in the head. No offence meant o'' course. I damn near dropped the pot when she walked into me just a minute ago, and it was like she was sleepwalking. Didn''t seem like she even realised where she was." The lewd smile drops from Maybell''s face, "Oh." She doesn''t look too eager to spill the beans, squirming a little. Eventually, after an internal struggle I''m not privy to, she sighs, "Alright. Just so you don''t go bothering the poor thing. She don''t need no reminders about what happened, she blames herself enough as is." Maybell licks her lips and launches into a short tale from about a month ago...
Iffmy is the only daughter of the village''s Master Farrier (Not an actual indicator of Blacksmithing skill as much as it is a title Maybell explained). She went out to the stables one day with one of the farriers under her father''s tutelage, a young man named Lester. He was to replace a shoe on a horse, and she was to help the Tenders muck out the stalls. Like many of the young men in the village, he admired Iffmy''s good looks. And this was apparently his downfall, as he became distracted by her beauty and agitated the horse he was shoeing. The result was a hoof-shaped inward dent in his ribcage. One of the stablehands saw the whole thing, and the horse responsible was put down. Not long after, Iffmy started to act more withdrawn, barely acknowledging the people and world around her. Of course, nobody in the village blamed her for what happened, but it was obvious to them that she didn''t feel the same way about the incident.
When Maybell finishes, I remain silent. Trauma from the nearby death of a colleague, huh? I suppose that could explain it. But something still seems off. The look on the Cooper''s face as he cradled the mutilated body of his wife, the empty stare before his knife had to be wrestled away from him? That fits the bill. Iffmy doesn''t feel the same way. Moreover, it seems like she''s been getting steadily worse when she barely ever spoke to the guy. It might be that she''s just sensitive, but again, I have my doubts. It''s been a month. Nobody grieves for a mere acquaintance this fervently. The more I think about it, the less natural I find it. And I''ll be damned if I can explain why. "Now," Maybell interrupts my train of thought, "Off you go back to Jomsy. He''s probably waiting for you, don''t want to keep him waiting, now!" It''s obvious she''s trying to get rid of me, but whether it''s because the topic bothers her or I''ve overstayed my welcome I can''t begin to imagine. Either way, I''m not going to get anything more out of her for the time being, so I should head back to The Knight''s Solace, and see if anyone there can give me something more concrete to work with. Jomsy himself might be a good place to start, thanks to the quest reward and his position in the community. Knowing the incident that kicked it all off is definitely a great start, but It doesn''t really tell me much by itself. There''s more to it than what Maybell''s told me, I''m sure of it. Thanking her for her hospitality, I leave the acrid smelling house and return to the Inn for round two of my investigation.
It''s not been more than 10 minutes since I left, so the common area is in much the same state as when I left it. Maybe with one or two people missing from before, but I wasn''t paying that much attention so I can''t be sure. "Ho there!" Jomsy greets me boisterously as I approach, "Didja give her the pot like I asked." I nod, "Yeah. Said it smelled nice. Not sure how she can smell much of anything living in that house of hers though. Feels like my nostrils are gonna pickle." The Innkeep guffaws, "Aye, that''s Maybell alright. Got a nose made of cast iron does that girl. Don''t know how Renth can stomach it, but I suppose love doesn''t have a sense of smell!" He reaches below the counter and drops a loaf-sized roll of bread atop it. I''ll admit it''s a lot more than I was expecting, so maybe there was something to Maybell''s suspicions after all. No way I''m eating all that in one sitting. "Big roll," I comment lamely. Jomsy shrugs, patting the loaf/roll, "Chef baked one extra, but they never came to pick it up like they were supposed to, so it''s yours now I figure." I nod appreciatively, "Thanks." "Don''t mention it, lad," He snorts, "Now, can I interest you in a bowl of fresh hot soup to go with it?" Staring at his politely smiling face, I can''t help but break out in laughter, "So it were a merchant''s scheme to get me to buy more food the whole time?" He grins fearlessly back, "Aye! I hafta make a living as well y''know! Can''t be giving out charity on a whim!" I shake my head in disbelief, laughing quietly, taking a seat at the bar, "Alright, fine. I''ll take a bowl if you can help me with some information..." Chapter 23: History and Mystery Jomsy scratches at his chin, face full of curiosity and maybe a hint of suspicion, "Information, eh? What''s a lad like you wanna know about?" I glance behind me, unsure if people are listening. Whatever, not like I care too much about subtlety. If anything, trying to grill him in private would be more suspicious. It''d be better to keep my voice down, even so. "When I left the Inn I bumped into a girl that looked like she were staring off into a whole other world hidden in my chin. Asked Maybell about it, got a bit of background from her, butshe didn''t go into a whole lotta detail. Call me nosy, if you want, but something ''bout that Iffmy girl''s behaviour bothers me. If I can help her while I''m still here in the village, I''d like to do what I can." The Innkeep chews his bottom lip, shruggingapologetically, "Sorry lad, I don''t know much more''n what Maybell likely told you, I weren''t there myself, after all..." He pauses, looking off to the ceiling, "But if you''re serious about wantin'' to cheer the poor lass up, you might check in with her father first. He''s mighty protective of his baby girl, y''see." He gives me a somewhat pointed look. I nod, a close family member would be a good place to start, "I suppose it''d only be polite. Any idea where I can find them this time of day?" Jomsy nods, "Like as not he''ll be in the forge still. Man doesn''t have time for anythin'' but work, horses and his daughter. But he''ll be there a while, so why don''t you cozy up to a bowl of fresh ''otsoup first?" He winks, apparently having not forgotten the condition I set initially. I sigh, disappointed. For a moment there I could have sworn it slipped his mind when he denied further knowledge of the incident. But a deal''s a deal''s a deal... I slap the appropriate coinage onto the table with little ceremony, where they quickly vanish beneath the counter, courtesy of Jomsy''s quick hands. "A pleasure doin'' business, lad!" He grins, belly shaking with mirth, before swinging his head back and yelling, "Oi, one bowl of soup!" When he turns back I meet his jovial smile with a frown, and ask something that''s been bothering me since it was brought up by Maybell earlier, "Actually, before that, I got another question for ya." Jomsy folds his arms, eyebrow raised, "Aye? What''s that then?" I lick my lips, "Didn''t think much of it before Maybell mentioned it but apparently, you''ve been treating me better than most strangers who walk in here. Wondered why." The Innkeep sighs, "You remind me of someone I used to know about eighteen years back. Correct me if I''m wrong but you''re Walther''s lad ain''tcha?" Huh. Visibly confused I affirm it, "Yeah, I am. You know my Da then?" He nods, "''course. Klennock ain''t that far y''know, and he used to be Jaltem Forrester''s errand boy. He''d come out here with lumber about once a month before the oak trees started thinning out. Folks from Klennock are good as local, far as I''m concerned. Couple boys from there apprentice here, too." Guess he knew my maternal grandfather as well. Interesting that he''d bring up oak trees though. Most of the softer woods near the village have been cut down by the villagers for firewood and building repairs. The palisade that surrounds the village now probably accounts for much of what was left of them. Further north where Klennock Woods becomes the Forest of Beasts, there''s a lot of softer wooded trees, but that''s easily a week''s travel, and - true to the name - it''s infested with dangerous animals and monsters, with a fairly infamous Trial Ground somewhere within to boot. Moving the village out there would be suicidal, to say the least, so for better or worse the village is forced to rely on Da, Woody and the travellers that use the village as a last stop on their journey before crossing the border down south into the Santocracy of Suld, a nation of holier-than-thou perfectionists that could put a dwarven master craftsmen''s hubris to shame, according to rumour. That same border is marked by a miles-wide, gods-only-know-how-deep ravine called Herod''s Wound. According to the tale, the founder himself is responsible for its creation, rending land and army asunder as he fled the Santocracy northward, with the bridge across coming out nearer Klennock Village than anywhere else. "Haven''t seen him since he came out here with his wife though," Jomsy continues, "Hell, you were probably made in one of our rooms!" He chuckles, and the involuntary wince I give from his insinuation just encourages him to laugh harder, only interrupted by the appearance of an ashen-skinned man in a splotchy apron with spikes protruding from his shoulders behind me. Huh. Gurn are a rare sight this far north. Nealan''s only seen two or three in his life while running with the Loranics. Most that make the trip across two continents are probably merchants headed to Redault or maybe the capital. Trying not to stare too much, I thankthe Cook for the soup and wooden spoon he places on the counter next to me. He smiles politely back at me, nods at his boss and heads back to the kitchen, "Need another barrel ofweak ale sent through soon too, as well, love." I pause mid-scoop, blinking. Love? "Save the pet names for after closing time, Kalluck," Jomsy calls back, smirking. He notices my surprise, smiling pleasantly, "My husband. Best cook I ever met, shame Nemmelberries are out of season, his tarts are our biggest sellers in winter."The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. I relax my expression, "Me Mam makes them too, now that you mention it." This time, it''s Jomsy''s turn to be surprised, "Does she now?" I nod, taking another spoonful of the pleasantly warm soup, "Once a year, on Herod''s Respite. Faithteller Morstorganises a feast outside the village Shrine every year." Swallowing a chunk of discoloured vegetable, I continue, "Folks make a big deal out of who can bring the best food, and Mam was always tight-lipped ''bout her recipe.I guess now I know where she got the recipe from. Can''t say I''m overly fond of them, myself. Not a big fan of sourfood." Jomsy murmurs understanding, "That''ll happen when you don''thave any sugar, but I can hardly judge," He shrugs, "Luxuries like that are expensive - but I s''pose don''t need to tell you what you already know, eh?" I nod, "Used to be we had some honey bees in the village. But the apiaries were destroyed in a storm about 12 summers ago, and took Gannimo with them. Folks found her in the morning with a charred hole through her stomach, so the story goes." Jomsy smiles sadly, "Yep, I remember that storm. Costs us more''n double to stock honey because of that, and the ranch lost a mare. Surprised nobody tried taking over her business." Shrugging, I slurp more soup, "Nobody knew how. And people old enough to do it have their own trades to pursue, like as not." Jomsy grunts, "If that fat-arsed King would pay a bit of attention to us out here maybe we''d have the people. Kids around here not involved with the ranch are leaving for the east, one by one ''cos there''s not enough for ''em," He squints at me, "Same for you, probably." Feeling a little guilt, I spread my hands in defeat, "That''s part of it, I won''t lie. Surprised there''s anyone still living out here if I''m honest, but I guess being on Suld''s border keeps us all going for the time being." "True enough." From there, the conversation peters out into small talk and then silence, until the meal is finished.
Walking out into the street, I stretch my arms out behind my head, yawning contentedly with a full belly. The sun overhead is still bright, but it''s obviously a little dimmer overall, as clouds move in. As before, the village is deathly quiet, save for the squeaking of metal hinges as a stiff breeze pushes the inn''s sign out of its way. My destination isn''t far, as according to Jomsy, the smithy is just around a corner at the end of the street, and the guy I''m looking for is usually found there around this time of day, making nails or something. I actually have no idea what farriers do other than shoe horses. I think they make the horseshoes themselves, but I don''t know about anything else. That smelly woman from earlier makes saddles and stuff, so maybe she gets the pins and studs from there too? Stands to reason, I suppose. I snort, after bringing it up again, now all I can smell is that tanning gunk sticking to my shirt. If you broke a firesnap stick next to her house you''d probably ignite the entire village in the explosion. All-in-all, It''s probably a good thing that the forges are on the opposite end of the village, really. There''d be nothing left but a crater, assuming the fumes are even flammable. Which, I don''t know if they are to be perfectly honest. I''m probably just making a big deal over nothing. Rounding the corner, at the far end of a dusty yard, I see a long, stout building made of large, carved stone bricks. The right end of which is open from the overhanging roof held up by multiple pillars of thick timber to a chest high wall that is in turn fitted with a long, continuous trough of hay and water. A pony with a mottled grey coat stands with its head hanging over the barrier to munch at it. The left end, however, is entirely closed off with wide slits in the brickwork to serve as rudimentary windows, and apair of tall, square chimneys rising through the thatch roof. The surrounding surface of the windows and the rim of those chimneys is stained black by soot, but no smoke is emerging at present, nor can I hear the telltale sounds of hammering. I frown, chewing on my thumbnail anxiously, "Hopefully he''s actually in here then, I don''t wanna walk all the way back to Jomsy to ask where this guy lives. I''m still supposed to be on a timer." However, the inch thick door is open wide, with a large chunk of stone serving as a doorstop, so odds are high someone was here recently and remains nearby, at the very least. I take another look around as I approach, but the only thing of note is that lone horse over there, just minding their own business. I stick my head in, rapping against the door frame with the back of my knuckles, "Hello? Anyone in ''ere?" A gruff male voice answers back from behind a shelf packed full of leather bundles on my left, "Aye, who''s asking?" "My name''s Nealan, I''m looking for Almecks, the Master Farrier." A middle-aged man in a dusty leather apron emerges from out of sight, holding a broomstick lightly. He''s tall and heavy-set with a bushy black moustache and arms covered in pockmarks and burn scars, "I''m Almecks. What can I do for ya?" I nod, thanking my luck. Looks like I caught him as he was cleaning up. Deep breaths now, "I''m just passing through from Klennock on my way to Mhin. Bumped into a girl outside Jomsy''s place, and she didn''t seem all...there. Asked Jomsy if he knew anything about it and he sent me over to see if I can help any." The important thing is to let him know Jomsy trusts me enough to give me a chance. Almecks is at first silent, his knuckles on the hand holding the broom whitening. After a moment he speaks up with obvious distrust, "Really, now? What business is it of yours, stranger?" Facing the glare head-on, I reply, confident in both my innocence and (mostly) good intentions, "Just as I said. Whatever it is that afflicts her bothers me, so I wanna do something about it while I''m still here. Get the feeling that things''ll go real bad real fast if I don''t step in." I''ll avoid mentioning that I got involved because I got a quest for it. I don''t know how much the natives of Eden know about Quests, exactly. Going off Nealan''s memories, I reckon there''s at least some awareness of the existence of something along those lines when Classes and world-shaping events are involved, but he doesn''t really know much beyond that. It could very well be that they do exist for everyone, but as a Player, I get access to the special privilege of being able to ''see'' them pop up. Maybe a few people on Eden can also see this, but it''s just no common knowledge. Nealan''s overall lack of an in-depth education is actually pretty irritating in times like this to be honest - since a lot of the meta details I got back in reality are in that ''censored knowledge'' bin along with the lyrics to my favourite songs by Hefferschorn. I''m a little surprised I still remember as much as I do, but for how much longer, who can say? The farrier closes his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, "Suppose I believe you. What do you get out of stickin'' your nose in?" I shrug, "Experience? Looking to join the Adventure Company when I get to Mhin. If nothing else, I just feel like helping out." He sighs, "That a fact? Fine, then. So, what do you want from me?" I suppress the urge to smile, "I''m looking to get your permission to poke around for the cause of my discomfort, and a bit of information on why this is even happening. I talkedMaybell into telling me about that farrier that died. She reckons your daughter''s just down because of him, but I don''t really buy it. I pause for emphasis, "Something about this whole thing just don''t seem natural, is all." Almecks considers me for what feels like a few minutes, weighing my trustworthiness against his suspicion and protectiveness, then exhales, turning back into the workshop, "Come in. Pull up a stool." Chapter 24: Laughter Behind Closed Doors The interior of the forge is both more and less spacious than I expected. On the one hand, in terms of scale, it is definitely quite a large building, but it is nonetheless filled with tools, furnishings and all manner of miscellanea. A pile of dust, dirt and iron shavings sits between a pair of log mounted anvils, likely the result of Almecks'' efforts with that broom. It''s also dreadfully dim inside, with the only illumination besides the open door coming from the narrow windows I noted from outside. The forges, a pair of brick and metal bound charcoal pits with huge bellows affixed to the base with the aid of a slightly charred wooden frame and metal chains, aren''t lit, though a few gentle wisps of smoke rise from the bed of charcoal, evidently still smouldering though no flame is visible. Big barrels and a long, empty trough still slick with moisture take up space in between them. Perhaps more pressing, however, is the smell of the place. If Maybell''s home was like dunking my head in a vat of particularlypungent pickling vinegar, the smithy is almost completely opposite. Musty, stale and smokey, with sour notes of stale sweat, breathing the air in here is uncomfortably close to swallowing sand. True, they have multiple openings for ventilation, but working in here for years upon years would kill a man. It probably contributes a fair amount to the coarseness of Almecks'' voice. Listening for it, I think I can hear the faint hints of a wheeze whenever he breathes out. Almeckswaves dismissively to a four-high stack of battered, three-legged stools that rise up to my knees individually, next to one of these forges and moves to place the broom ina far corner of the workshop. Taking the hint, I pull out a pair of stools for us both to sit on and place them opposite each other in the clearest space nearby. He sits across from me, lowering himself with a discomfitedgrunt, clenching his knees with thick fingers - a flash of pain crosses his features before he forces himself to relax. Settled, Almecks slowly brings his arms up and together, projecting a strong front. I follow suit, sitting down on the small seat, hunched over just a little. Almecks strikes an imposing figure, sure, but he doesn''t have anything on Mam when she''s particularly pissed off. I find myself on the whole unimpressed by his attempts to intimidate me. His physique, however, is something I hope to eclipse in a few years, so I guess in that regard I am still just a little bit impressed. No doubt if we were to arm wrestle I''d lose...but I can probably outrun him with a little effort just from the state of his health. I should probably tell him to go talk to Mam for some medicine or he might not last a few more summers. I''ll mention it before I leave Gilmy, assuming I''ve earned his trust by then. "So," He begins, "What do you know?" "About a month ago, a farrier was too busy staring at your daughter to pay attention to what he was doing and angered a horse. The horse retaliatedby kicking him hard enough to crush his ribs killing him. The horse in question was killed as a result, and not long after the incident, she started to care less and less about her surroundings. Like she''s sleepwalking. Folks think she''s blaming herself for that fool''s death." I pause, wet my lips and continue, "But I seen despair and guilt consume folk when monsters flooded Klennock, and that girl ain''t anything like them. As I said, it''s more like she''s daydreaming sofervently her skull is hollow," Breathein, swallow, continue, "Now, I don''t know her, and frankly, I don''t much care to get to know her all that closely. All I''m interested in doing is figuring out whatthe problem is and solving it. Don''t need any reward and you''ll like as not never see me again when I''m through here." I need to be clear that I''m not motivated by her - admittedly good - looks or anything like that. A claim of altruism is easier to swallow than morbid curiosity over where this Quest is headed. And although I doubt he believes me either way, that''s not important so long as he doesn''t seriously challenge me on it. He stares hard at me, likely looking for any trace of malicious intent. Satisfied, he relaxes marginally, opening his mouth slowly, "Alright. I''ll choose to believe you for now. It''s true Iffmy''s behaviour is becoming worrisome. But know this - if you mean my daughter any harm, I will nail your limbs to a rock and kick you down into a Gormling''s valley with a smile on my face."
Dauntless Activated! Intimidation and Fear effects reduced by 60%!
Oh, hello Dauntless, nice to see you again. Forgot you existed. Can''t help but wonder what the exact conditions for that activating are. Hm. I''ll figure it out later. All I can really do is shrugat him, "Fine by me. I haven''t anything to fear on that account, nor should you." "Best you remember that," He says, jabbing a finger at me. Silence follows once more; Almecks'' head slowly sways left and right as he looks off into the distance, left hand behind his neck, rubbing. "Aye. About a month ago Lester, one of my ''prentices whacked the leg of our best stud and paid for it. When she came home..."
The sun dips low on the horizon, as Almecks gazes out the window with much to think about. Today, one of his apprentices, a rakish young lad with no living family named Lester. He couldn''t say he was fond of the boy, or the rapacious glances he made towards Iffmy, but for that to cause his end, the gods truly have an unusual sense of justice. Far be it for Almecks to question their judgment, however. They are as close to beyond the logic of mortal minds as one can get, and their motives rarely clear. Still, Almecks cannot say he wished this upon the boy, and the loss of even a marginally skilled hand is sure to be felt in the coming months. There is simply too much work to go around, and too few left to do it, to say nothing of his own advancing age. Years of work in the forge have not been kind to his body, either, and moving metal for long periods of time is becoming steadily more difficult as the seasons come and go.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. But if he were to quit, who would take over? None of his apprentices are even close to his accuracy and there simply isn''t enough money saved away to last for more than a couple of years. Even as expensive as the horses are, the demand doesn''t mean that they have the supply. Breeding and rearing high-quality horses takesa great deal of time and effort, as Pilt Wilcox - The ostensible owner of the ranch, though he and his family have a cushy manor in Mhin and rarely visit, save to show important clients the herd - has to keep reminding customers. Half-heartedly considering the consequences of his approaching retirement, Almecks is interrupted mid-thought by the clomp of boots in the hallway behind him. He turns, a sombre smile on his face, to regard his daughter, "Hey, flower." Iffmy smiles back, a radiant image, "Hey, Da. Hell of a day, huh? Glad to be home." Almecks looks at his daughter with open concern, "Are you doing alright? When Renth ran over he said you were there when...when Lester died." Iffmy shrugs, still smiling, "I know you taught me not to speak ill of the dead, but I never liked the way that creepstared at me when he thought I wasn''t lookin''. I''ll be fine with living my life without such a gaze." Almecks finds himself speechless, "...Are you sure about that, flower?" Puzzled, Iffmy looks back with her head cocked sideways, "Why wouldn''t I be? You''re always going on about how we need to be careful and respectful when we''re working with the horses, and he decided to ignore that to leer at me." She snorts, "The idiot brought on himself. Why should I feel bad about that?" Having said her piece, she kicks off her dirt-caked boots then heads down the hall to her room, "I''m gonna go wash up. Call me when dinner''s ready, Da!"
"It really didn''t bother her? At all?" I can''t help but ask. "Maybe it did, but it''s like it never happened. Death don''t seem to bother her any - She was still as cheerful as ever after her mother died. Not like she were bottling it up either, ''fore you ask - I''d have noticed. Iffmy always wears her thoughts on her face." Almecks smiles fondly, reminiscing about something, before it slips from his face, "When she started withdrawing into herself a couple days later, I thought maybe it were the last keg on a rotting floorboard, same as the rest of Gilmy. But the more I thought about what she were like that day, the less I believed it. It wasn''t like her to shut herself away." He sighs, heavy with frustration, "At first, it was just her talking to folks less, and daydreaming at odd moments..." Again, he clenches his fingers, digging into his thighs, "Then she starts mumbling to herself,spacing out in the middle of a sentence, and bumping into things." I pretty much gathered this stuff already. He''s not telling me much new here, so I prod him into continuing, "And then?" "About a couple weeks ago, I come home and hear her laughing..." "What''s unusual about that?" I ask not out of disbelief, but rather as a way to get him to elaborate. Laughing on it''s own isn''t odd, even in her condition. He hesitates, avoiding my gaze.
"See ya tomorrow, boss!" Calls Renth, a young man working as an apprentice Tender betrothed to the village Seamsmith, Maybell. Around him, other Tenders and Farriers echo his farewell to the Master Farrier as he leaves them to their merriment and ale. The hour is late, with a bright pair of moons hanging perfectly overhead, shining down on the darkened village. Esta, larger of the two, and Merstuna, the lesser, following behind in an endless, eternal hunt. Perhaps Almecks had had a little too much to drink because the story of that legendary chase through the cosmera eluded him. Or maybe it was because he had in fact, had too much ale that he was stood in the middle of the cold street staring at the moons instead of returning home to his significantly warmer bed. Not to mention that his prolonged absence may have ill-effects on Iffmy''s already darkened mood. With heavier steps, Almecks turns and begins the short walk back to the small house his family has called home since the days of King Herod himself. What manner of malicious dread has possessed Iffmy, and robbed her of her good cheer? Nobody in the village could provide a satisfying answer, and rumours of a secret tryst between her and Lester were beginning to circulate through the local gossips. That she was with child and mourned the loss of her babe''s father before he had a chance to break the news. Naturally, Almecks didn''t believe it for even a second. He trusted his daughter not to withhold such a secret from him, and her apparent disdain for his former apprentice was not, to in his opinion, a lie. The dead boy''s infatuation was entirely one-sided. Almecks was confident he''d have noticed any change in their behaviour if romance was truly blossoming between the two. Neither one was all that proficient at the Bardic arts of acting and deceit. Lester being a naturally shifty-eyed sort, and Iffmy being comically incapable of affecting anything resembling a poker face. Still, as irritating as it was to have his daughter''s honour besmirched, Almecks understood that those responsible were just as perplexed by her behaviour as he himself was, and only sought to rationalise it. Undoubtedly there were some feelings of jealousy and a desire for some sort of entertainment wrapped up in it, but it only served to show how strange it was. Almecks yawns, rubbing sore eyes with thumb and forefinger, dislodging a nugget of rheum. With his free hand, he opens the door to his home, into a dark, hazy corridor that is more becoming of the night''s darkness than the night sky itself. A single blade of soft yellow cuts from beneath a door at the end of the hall, coming from Iffmy''s room. Perplexed, Almecks cocks his head to the side, shutting the front door behind him without taking his eyes off that patch of light. The hour is late, and Iffmy was never one to wait up long for her father to return home. Especially when he makes his way to Jomsy''s place to make merry with the ranch hands. Alcohol - even the smell of it - makes her nauseous, supposedly. Regardless, Almecks is exhausted by the day''s activities and the night''s festivities, and as such decides to disregard immediate investigation the oddity in favour of a good night''s rest. If needs be, he can simply ask her about what she was doing so late at night over breakfast in the morning - assuming she even deigns to acknowledge his existence. An increasingly rare thing in recent days. The silence of the night is cut by an unexpected sound. Girlish laughter peals out from within the confines of Iffmy''s room, making Almecks feel like his skeleton tried to jump from his skin out of surprise. A half raised foot freezes in place then settles back to the floor. He strains his ears, trying to understand what''s going on. After a few breaths, laughter erupts a second time, followed by the muffled voice of Iffmy. Is someone with her? This late at night, the only person he could think of it being would be Maybell, but Renth didn''t mention anything like that. If anything, he seemed eager to join her in bed. An embarrassingly candid confession born of strong ale that his companions will rib himforadmitting to for weeks to come. Suspicious, a spark of worry ignites his fatherly instinct to learn of this trespasser in his home - in his daughter''s bedroom in the dead of night. Filled with purpose he strides confidently down the shadowed hall, Iffmy''s words becoming slightly clearer in the approach. "....-op it...not...worthy of..." Teeth clenched, Almecks grabs the doorknob and twists, barging into her bedroom, for all the world embodying the picture of fatherly concern. Almecks'' righteous anger fizzles in the throat as he beholds his precious Iffmy, illuminated by a half melted pig tallow candle on the dresser in front of the bedroom''s securely closed window. Sitting cross-legged on a woven latticed horsehair rug in the middle of the room with a dreamy smile adorning her fair face... Entirely alone. Chapter 25: Overcomplication I squint at Almecks, suppressing the urge to cough. I need to wrap this up before I choke on the charcoal and metal dust hanging in the air. I can''t breathe too deeply in here. Almecks is naturally not especially bothered by it, and merely raises a single eyebrow at me. "...You doing alright there, boy?" He asks out of, I assume, courtesy. I try to smile, "I''ll manage. Keep going." Almecks hesitates briefly, but nods in agreement, "I asked her who she was talking to, but she refused to admit she was talking to anyone, saying I was drunk and just imagined it. Might be I did, but I know if nothing else, she was hidingsomething from me. That much was obvious just looking at her." I consider his words, "Are you sure there was nobody else in the room?" He was drunk by his own admission, "Maybe they hid or fled?" He shakes his head, "Impossible. It was just Iffmy and myself in the room." Hooray for locked room puzzles.From the sounds of it, he only caught her out like this the one time. I look him in the eye, "Anything else happensince then?" But that doesn''t mean nothinghappened since. He nods, "She''s been getting a lot worse, a lot faster. In the past few days,she''s taken to vanishing from the house in the middle of the night and wandering into the fields. She does her work like normal in the day, but when she wanders off at night, if anyone tries to take her back home she screams bloody murder and slugs them one. Damn near broke Renth''s jaw." That''s worrisome, to say the least, "Why not lock her in her room if it''s gotten so bad? What''s she doing still out in her condition?" Almecks clenches his fists, "She continues to work by her own insistence. I don''t wish to shut her away like some addled spinster. Iffmy is still completely capable of taking care of herself and will not be in any danger so long as we keep a close eye on her, so as her father I chose to respect her decision for the time being." I frown. Frankly, I don''t understand his reasoning. Someone so obviously confused should not be left to roam freely. It''s idiotic and ridiculously irresponsible. Granted, I get the impression he understands that, but his inaction on the matter is cowardly. Maybe it was fine a few weeks ago, but I think that by now she''s lost the right to such leniency. It could be that''s why he''s accepting help from an outsider. "So," His eyes focus intensely on me, "Having stuck your nose in our business and heard all this...What do you intend to do about, huh?" Hearing Almecks out has definitely been informative. But I don''t feel like I''m any closer to figuring out what''s going on. Hm. No, I don''t suppose that''s entirely true. I have some theories as towhat could be happening with Iffmy, but I feel like I''m still missing a lot of really important information that would give me a better grasp of the Quest. Regardless, I''m pretty much at my limit here. I need to get out and get some fresh air before I hack up one of my lungs. It''s hard enough concentrating on this puzzle without being starved for air that isn''t tainted by poor ventilation. I realise I''m being a little dramatic, but that doesn''t mean I have to sit here and suffer if I don''t want to. And obviously...I don''t want to. "I don''t really know yet," I inform him, scratching my itchy shoulder bandages, "I''m gonna have to take some time to think on it, ''cept not in here. Feel like I''m breathin'' sand in here." Almecks, looking disappointed, snorts, "And you were so eager to help." I shrug, then stand up, "Don''t be so quick to dismiss me, would you? It''s barely been a minute, I got plenty o'' smarts but I ain''t exactly Archivist material quite yet, yeah?" Disappointment and distrust don''t budge from his expression even an inch, his arms draw up into a folded position as Almecks continues to glare at me in silence, waiting for me to provide some reason for him to trust me. "I''m gonna head back to The Knight''s Solace and think on it a little more. The Gods above know I''m not gonna manage to come up with anything useful sticking around here with you breathing dragonfire down my neck." He contemplates my words, then nods once, "Fine. I''ll come by when I''m finished cleaning up here." Nodding back, I offer my hand to the old farrier, "See you there." Almecks takes it, stands up and firmly grasps it, "Here''s hoping you figure something out by sundown."
Returning, yet again, to the common room of The Knight''s Solace, I wave to Jomsy and take a seat at an empty table near the door. I don''t particularly feel like discussing things with Jomsy right now, and I would rather go through my findings in solitary silence. Let''s just start from the top, shall we? Iffmy is a young woman native to Gilmy Village, daughter to Master Farrier Almecks - really just the most senior farrier in the village - and works as a Tender at the horse breeding ranch that forms the basis of this settlement''s continued existence. For the past month, she''s been acting strangely. It all started - or people started to take notice - a few days after a farrier named Les..Lester..? Some guy apprenticed to her father was killed by a horse he was shoeing because the pervert wasn''t paying attention or something. According to Almecks, Iffmy said it was because he was leering at her, and she wasn''t fond of him in the slightest, finding his lascivious gaze to be offputting. People think it''s something to do with her ''secret'' relationship with him, but Almecks disagrees and though he may be mistaken...he''s protective of her enough that with the paranoia that parents like him always seem to possess when it comes to potential sons-in-law, he''d have noticed a development like that. Iffmy is by his account, a terrible liar, and I''m somewhat inclined to believe him on that part, at the very least. Either way, Lester is dead, but her behaviour doesn''t match up with my experiences of those in a deep depression or mourning. In the day, she goes about her business as usual, with enough competence and presence of mind that for whatever reason, her overprotective father has elected to allow her to continue doing so. She may be a little on the dazed side, such that she bumped into me on the way out of The Knight''s Solace, but let''s just give her the benefit of the doubt and say that she wasn''t expecting me to come out so quickly and the accident which followed was more my fault than hers. I will admit that I was acting hastily in order to get the favour to Jomsy over with as soon as possible, under the assumption that speedy completion of the Quest he gave me would be better.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. That and I just wanted to get back to resting my sore feet. The bottom line for this point is that whatever is affecting Iffmy isn''t affecting her judgment all that heavily, nor her ability to work as normal. Or, it wasn''t initially and has recently been becoming steadily more apparent. The fact remains, however, that she still doesn''t pay all that much attention to her surroundings. Even if I surprised her, a normal person would have had a couple of seconds available for which to react to my presence and dodge back. I assume, maybe I''m wrong and this whole line of thinking is pointless? But I''m getting sidetracked. Iffmy has taken to talking to herself, a fact she''s trying to hide from her father for some reason, though some of the townsfolk have noticed her doing so under her breath. And to top it all off, in the past few days, she''s been running away from home into the fields at night, attacking anyone who tries to bring herback into the village. Although Almecks didn''t explicitly say, I think it''s more that she''s struggling against people trying to drag her back home against her will as opposed to just random acts of violence against anyone who provokes her by trying to get her back. Having learned all this, I can safely say that what I''ve discovered is almost entirely useless in pinpointing who could be responsible for Iffmy''s bizarre behaviour. What Ican say with certainty, is that whatever is going on is almost certainly magical in nature. Who, how, and to what end, I haven''t the damnedest idea. But Eden is a place where magic exists all around us, and where people who can tap into this eldritch energy exist. If the answer to a riddle can''t be solved with conventional reason, the answer is probably magic. Magick with a ''k''. That of course, still leaves the big question: Who''s the dickhead spell caster that''s decided to mess with this random country girl''s head? And, surely, anyone with that kind of power would find something better to do than spend a month fucking with a literal nobody for shits and giggles, right? Who? Why? Who? Why? "Tula grant me strength..." I exhale, frustrated as my mind turns in ever tighter circles, no closer to figuring out what the hell I''m supposed to do. I''m not a Spellchanter, nor a Scriptist or Magus. Certainly not a Faithcaller, though Nealan does pay his respects to Tula and her brother from time to time, following his parents'' examples. I have absolutely zero magical knowledge or experience that doesn''t come out of Bardic tales of adventure and sorcery. Men with the power to stitch wounds and heal scars. Women with enough magical oomph to crush whole armies thousands strong with a shower of molten rock. I know of these. Nealan adored those stories as a child, they shaped his desire to become an Adventurer. Mind magic? Or whatever the fuck this is? Nope. Not even a little bit, except to recognise that such a thing might be possible from the machinations of long-dead villains with grand designs for the world, immortalised in the legends told from mother to daughter, Bard to rapt audience. I close my eyes and scratch the back of my head vigorously. I want to yell my lungs out at how frustrating this is. "Greetings, stranger! Are you...what was it she said..? Nee-something...Ne-ul...Nealum?" Blinking, I turn to see a smiling young man, maybe a little younger than me - scratch that,older than me, almost forgot - standing at the opposite end of my table with an easy smile on his face and short black hair, wearing a dirty linen shirt and even dirtier pants. Annoyed by his intrusion I correct him curtly, "Nealan. Can I help you with something? I''m kind of extremely fuckin'' busy." The man''s grin widens, and he snaps his fingers, "That was it! Yeah. Oh, uhm...I''m uhh, Renth. Maybell said you were interested in Iffmy?" I squint at him, brow furrowed, "So you''re this Renth guy I keep hearing about." "In the flesh, and fresh from the stable. So, uh, sorry if I smell," He laughs, "I wanted to see the nosy travelermy fiance told me ''bout for myself, is all." Without asking if it''s ok to join me, he pulls out a chair and seats himself with his arms folded on the table, leaning forward, "So, what''s your story, huh? Taken a liking to my old friend, the flower of Gilmy Village?" I roll my eyes at his rude insinuation, "Barking up the wrong tree, you are. Saw someone in need and decided to help them out on a whim. No greater scheme on my part." Renth smiles again, a fraction...I don''t know, softer? More genuine? "That a fact, eh?" He relaxes, shoulders slackening, leaning back into his chair, "Was worried I might have to punch you when I heard about you." Renth chuckles, "You seem alright though." Reaching out across the table, he offers a handshake. Looking quizzically at it, then back to him, I sigh in resignation and take it, shaking firmly. "...Nice to meet you, I guess." "Likewise! So, what brings you into Gilmy, huh?" Renth looks me up and down, assessing my worth, "Probably not looking to buy one of our horses with clothes cheap as the ones on my back. We don''t have any mules neither, sold them all three winters ago." Renth seems like the highly talkative, overly friendly sort. I admit, his sociability is a little infectious, "I''m from Klennock Village, just passing through on my way to Mhin." He blinks, "Ahh. A seeker of fortune then?" I nod, "After a fashion. Looking to get into the Adventurer life with the Adventure Company." Renth whistles low, "Aiming high, to boot? I can respect that. From what I hear it isn''t really all that cheap to even get them to talk to you let alone joining on." Deciding better than to admit how much Nonne I''m in possession of, I nod briefly, "It isn''t." Grinning, Renth wiggles his eyebrows at me, "Well, when you strike it rich off a bandit king''s treasure, make sure you come back here and buy one of our best. Guarantee they won''t steer you wrong!" I wince, his enthusiasm caused him to start yelling at me near the end there, "...Sure. Actually, can I ask you if you''ve noticed anything strange about Iffmy''s behaviour? And I don''t just mean staring off into nothing, I already went and talked to Almecks about all that." Joy drains out of Renth''s posture, turning markedly more serious, "Probably nothing you ain''t heard already, then, I guess. I''m sort of uh, looking out for her when we''re working with the horses, just so''s we don''t have a repeat of Lester''s accident. Every so often I''ll find her just standing around outside one of the stables, but that''s about it." My response is cut short by an unpleasant, all-too-familiar smell that cuts through the smell of swear and horse sticking to Renth. Maybell enters the room and yanks Renth out of his seat into a big hug, damn near lifting him off the ground entirely, "Renthie!" "...Put your poor fiance down before you break him, Maybell," follows the exasperated sigh of Almecks, who is also apparently here now. I realise he probably didn''t have much left to do to clean the forges, but I still expected him to take a little longer. Maybell ignores his words of caution and plants a firm kiss on Renth''s lips, who for his part, doesn''t seem too bothered by this turn of events, no doubt entirely used to his lover''s antics. I''d pity him, but he made the decision to marry her, so he''ll just have to live with it. Really not my business, hope you make the most of it before she snaps you in half. Sighing, Almecks nods to me, and I nod back, bemused. "Wasn''t expecting you to be here so soon, if I''m honest," I tell him. Almecks takes a seat to the right of me, "There''s not much time left until sundown, and I have to go make sure Iffmy stays home when that happens, so I deemed it prudent to take care of this sooner rather than later." I murmur agreement, "Fair." "So," he stares at me expectantly, "What have you come up with?" Deep breath in, "I hate to jump to conclusions...but my best guess is that some asshole has taken it upon themselves to mess with your daughter using some kind of magic." "I don''t think so. None of the villagers have any magic to speak of..." Maybell chimes in, surprising me. She''s let her fiance down and is currently resting her head atop his with her arms wrapped around his shoulders. "None of the villagers would ever mean Iffmy harm either. She''s well-loved around here by everyone," Renth follows up, stroking Maybell''s arm. Get a room, damn it. I roll my eyes, "What about-" "I''m well-acquainted with the merchants and noble servants that are here. The only suspicious outsider is you," Almecks cuts me off, staring at me ever more intensely. Put so bluntly, it''s hard to find fault in his claim. But then, anyone undertaking this...whatever it is...without being discovered all this time wouldn''t be incapable of deceiving him, I don''t think. But what else is there? Obviously, it''s not me to blame for this mess. By all accounts, nobody is acting suspiciously in the village, save for Iffmy herself. Talking to the villagers, and thinking as hard as I can about it isn''t going to make the identity of the villainous twat responsible any clearer in the time I have. I need answers I don''t have - answers which I can''t reasonably acquire before the Quest resolves itself as a failure. Again, I feel an urge to scream in despairing frustration, my blood boils; begging me to smash this table into the wall just to take the edge off my stress. Thinking about it isn''t cutting it, I need todo something. To hit the smug piece of shit that''s got my mind in a tizzy. Then, of course, at the height of my anger, it hits me. I''m overthinking this. Why should I bother solving a half-finished riddle when I can just let it resolve itself? My scrunched up face returns to normal, and a playful grin spreads across my face, revealing teeth. I look at Almecks, whose paranoia has turned to confusion, then to the two lovebirds: "I have an idea...and I seriously don''t think you''re going to like it very much at all..." Chapter 26: Prince Last Winter, The Knight''s Solace The common area is packed with people deep into their cups, making merry conversation in the comfort of a roaring fire and numerous warm smiles. The loudest laughter is from the jolly bald Innkeeper, Jomsy, serving drinks by the armful to patrons. In one corner, opposite the main entrance, a pair of young women sit alongside one another nursing mugs of their own. "Iffmy!" shouts a young girl, "Are you even listening to a word I''m saying? Is the salt brandy going to your head?" Bleary-eyed, Iffmy turns to her best friend since childhood and smiles an easy smile, "What? Oh, no. Sorry, Bell, I was just..." She takes a big sip of her ''medicinal'' brew, gesturing for Maybell to continue where she left off, smirking, "I guess I kind of blanked out when you started gushing over how cute Renth is for the fourth time in a row. You were talking about your first date? Something about that anyway, you got pretty distracted by how pathetic he was at asking you out." Maybell slams her palms on the table, huffing, "He was not pathetic! It was really swee-wait how do you know that?" Iffmy squints out the corner of her eye, one brow raised, "Who do you think put him up to it? I''ve been watching the two of you dance around the subject foryears, Bell. Tula be praised for her blessings of patience, I would have strangled one of the poor horses if I had to watch another awkward conversation with you stammerin'' and doing everything you could to not look at each others blushin'' faces." Hearing that, Maybell shrinks back, sulking, "I-it wasn''t that bad..." Giggling, Iffmy nudges Maybell with her elbow, "It was adorable. But I just figured I''d speed things along, so I spenta few weeks nagging him until he finally went and did it. The whole village breathed a sigh of relief when they saw you both holdin'' hands with each other, I tell ya!" Another glug of brandy goes down the hatch, "Now look at you, finally getting betrothed to one another. How far we''ve come since you chased him and me ''round the fields tryin'' to shove a ball o'' fresh manure down our shirts, eh?" Maybell snorts a laugh, and with a mischievous glint in her eye, decides to pay back the teasing she received, "So, when''reyou going to get yourself a love of your own, huh?" The happy smile freezes for but a moment, Iffmy responds in a strained voice trying hard to hide embarrassment, "Weeell...I can''t say I''ve really, y''know, met the right guy yet..." Maybell grunts into her cup, "Rot and ruin! There''s plenty of boys who''d love a chance to take you for a walk ''neath the trees. What about Ashron? He''s a real sweetheart." Iffmy rolls her eyes, "I grew up with the folks ''round here, Bell, I don''t feel even a glimmer of romance from any o'' them. They''re like family almost. I ain''t marryin'' a cousin." Pausing to think about it for a second, she gulps down some more brandy, "Some of them actuallyare my cousins, come to think of it - or near enough. So, no. Not even a little teensy bit interested in any of those godsforsaken perverts." A cheergoes up from a different table, the result of a different conversation. A young noble squire stands up and raises his mug in salute, before stumbling backwards and tripping over his chair. The cheer is silenced before the group erupts into raucous laughter. Iffmy smiles sardonically, "...And the errand boys that come from out of Suld and the noble estates to the far east aren''t much better if I''m honest." Drumming her fingers on the table, Maybell sighs, "Is there a man that is not a Hero out of legend worthy of your hand, Duchne Iffmy?" She laughs, draining the last of her beverage, "Ah, but for a valiant, handsome prince upon a noble, well-bred Gilmy steed to come here dressed in the finest silks, with the express intent to sweep me off my dainty feet in search of grand adventure...and even grander sex." Maybell blinks, blindsided by the final remark. The two girls stare at each other in silence before echoing the drunkards through mirthful giggling, slapping the table and kicking their feet. "I think you''ve had a bit too much to drink," She admonishes her cohort, finishing off her mug and standing up, "Come on, let''s get you home ''fore you melt into a puddle of booze and cussin''."
A Month Ago, Stable #2 A young woman sweeps dust and stray strands of hay into a pile outside a vacant stall with a broom made from a rotten Klennockwood branch too poor quality for the merchants that left it behind to reasonably sell - the Klennock logging business was already struggling thanks to a shift in the popularity of Klennockwood furniture or something to that effect. Drunk merchants like to complain about all sorts of economic nonsense that don''t hold anyamount of water. Once, even, a portly man from the Santocracy of Suld, clothed in a stained silk gambeson of surpassing vibrancy and quality claimed that religious statues in the image of the gods made out of monstrous beast bones were hot sellers, and tried to fob his stock off onto his drinking companions, only for a sudden rainstorm to reveal his statues were instead made of rock salt as they melted. It''s rather a miracle that the man wasn''t stabbed to death by his incensed clients, thanks to the intervention of Jomsy and some of the rather more sober patrons... An inhuman screech of agony, preceding another''s roar of pain breaks the peaceful sounds of sweeping, alerting Iffmy to the plight of the farrier in Boulder''s stall behind her, and while the screeching and distressed whinnying of the horse - one of the best breeding studs Gilmy has - persists, the man is concerningly silent following the dull thump ofsomething heavy against the far wall of the enclosure. Ignoring the continued screaming of the stallion bucking and crashing against his captivity, Iffmy and other nearby workers rush to investigate. Despite their haste in arriving, the gathered Tenders are not especially enthusiastic about entering the stall with the 7-foot tall behemoth of a horse - not with him bucking so wildly and manically. However, the comparatively weaker stall cannot hold the raw strength of such a creature for long, and the damage to its walls is marked by exaggerated dents. "Does anyone have any moorflower powder?!" Iffmy yells, trying her best to be heard over the terrible racket. One Tender, a young man with strong arms and a lazy eye shakes his head, "Fresh out! All I''ve got is some Henrose Oil!" Renth, an old friend to Iffmy, rummages around in his belt pouches, "I don''t think I have more than a pinch left from this morning''s foaling!" Luckily, between the half-dozen gathered, enough of the tranquiliser to give Boulder pause is scrounged together and tossed without any real ceremony or elegance into the roof of his stall. The Tenders follow it up by tying scarvesdampened in a nearby water bucket around their mouths and noses. Rosy pink-coloured powder almost smokey in appearance slowly falls, coating everything it touches. They wait. They wait until at last, several minutes later, Boulder''s thrashing is calmed and he falls to the ground unconscious, making it at last, safe to enter the now ruined enclosure. Muffled, one of the Tenders sighs in relief, and the group relaxes. Nodding to the others, Renth opens the stall hesitantly. Silence amongst them devolves into gasping, as the broken and trampled body of a farrier named Lester slumps out into the open area, covered in bruises and bloody gashes. One look at the still form is enough to understand that this young man is very much deceased. Collapsed opposite, his killer sleeps with unsteady breaths, his legs twitching and spasming. Iffmy steps over the corpse like it didn''t even exist, and marches purposefully to the horse, looking Boulder''s stunned body over for the cause of his distress. In his back left leg, she finds it. A bent nail hammered halfway into the leg at an angle just above the hoof. Iffmy scowls, a rare expression; then beckons to her cohorts with a wagging finger. One by one they find the courage to enter the stall, careful not to disturb Lester''s body. The lazy-eyed man, Fare, grunts, "Think the leg''s broken?" Iffmy shakes her head, "Doubt it, but the nail might havemade a fracture. It''ll heal if he''s kept off it for a few days, best case scenario. Either way, he''s in a lot of pain, so we''ll have to keep him knocked out if we don''t want to end up like that idiot farrier over there." Following her pointing finger to the crumpled body of Lester, the Tenders grimace beneath their makeshift masks. Renth nods, "I''ll go get the boss and some more moorflower powder." Within the hour, the stables are stuffed with people, to the point that more are crowded around the entrance to thebuilding, all of them muttering incessantly to one another in barely hushed tones about the scandalous circumstances they have found themselves a spectator to. Shouting for people to make way, a pair of men carry a makeshift stretcher covered in a thin woollen blanket out of the stable, and exposed is a single limp arm swaying broken in the motion in a way that is sickeningly unnatural. Parents cover the eyes of their children as the grim cargo is transported away across the fields to some unknown destination that is perhaps more private. In the absence of a family, the proper arrangements for the handling of the departed farrier would fall to a collection of volunteers and the Mayor, but at a later occasion. For indeed, a more pressing concern is on the minds and tongues of the Tenders and the Village leadership. While those crowding around the doors are mostly rubbernecking locals, those inside the stable itself are engaged in fierce debate with one another, though it mostly boils down to two different opinions, the disorganised ramblings of multiple would-be demagogues is drowned out by the angry yelling of disinterested individuals seeking their own resolution to the topic. Iffmy, for her part, is simply doing her best to avoid colliding with embittered Tenders as she makes her way through to the side of the Eventually, one man, the Mayor of Gilmy Village decides he''s had enough, and pushes his way roughly through multiple Tenders into the centre of the conflicted assembly and stomps his foot, "ENOUGH! BE SILENT, THE LOT OF YOU!" The effect is not, by any stretch of the imagination, instantaneous. The man, though he may possess authority over the village, is hardly so charismatic as to command a presence demanding obedience beyond the concerns of those with firmly held opinions and fiery tempers. Instead, it is gradual. An elbow here and there to gain the attention of the more talkative and the steadily building quiet slowly brings the attention of those gathered to theirsupposed leader. The Mayor, a portly old man of middling height and furrowed brow named Romai, clears his throat twice, once for dramatic effect...the second time to prevent a sputtering cough. "Are we all..." a cough, "...listening? Good. We''re not going to get anywhere on this issue with the way this is continuing - if anything, all it''s gonna do is turn into a gods-be-damned riot. We don''t need more tragedy today." The rowdy rabble murmurs agreement, and though most still don''t look best pleased, the tense shoulders of a least a few slacken at Romai''s chastisement of their ill-mannered behaviour. For her part, Iffmy remains tactfully silent, having kept her opinions to herself throughout the arguing. "Maurice," Mayor Romai turns and points to a tall beanpole of a man with a crooked nose, "We''ll start with you. The rest of you can shut up and be quiet while he talks." Lazily, Maurice lowers his head in acknowledgement, a few strands of long black hair escaping from behind his ears, "So be it. As Head Tender, the well-being of all horses and cattle in Gilmy is, in one way or another, my responsibility. This also extends to the Tenders working under me. The same cannot be said of the Farriers. Therefore, it is my opinion that Boulder should be spared death, given that is, according to the witness of his death, the fault of Lester that this incident occurred, and not that one of our prized breeding studs has become murderous." Those opposed in opinion mutter angrily, in increasing volume, until the mayor shushes them harshly, "I said, be silent!" Romai takes a deep, frustrated breath, "Then, pray tell, what do you suppose we do? That one of our village has died is bad enough, when word inevitably spreads that he was killed by one of our most valuable...breeders..." The mayor grimaces uncomfortably, obviously ill-at-ease with the practice despite having grown up a local, "When word of that gets out, it becomes a black mark on the reputation of our ranch. Not only in the efficacy of our workers and methods, but the entire lineage of Boulder becomes suspect. To then let the killer stallion live to create even more offspring would cause our credibility to vanish like a charlatan''s coin." Iffmy shuts her eyes, chewing her bottom lip. In truth, she would prefer that Boulder not is put down. After all, having grown up in the company of horses all her life, a certain fondness for all those at the ranch cannot be understated or ignored. But though the mayor can hardly be said to be all that concerned for the health and happiness of the animals, his greater concern, in his mind, as to the business side of the ranch is similarly valid and difficult to fully dismiss. And the fact that Boulder had killed a man, whether provoked or not, still, likewise, remains.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. On the surface, there''s really only two options: To terminate the equine murderer - destroying generations of careful breeding and potential profit from Boulder''s offspring - and suppress the information...or allow him to live, and thus bear with the stigma associated with that decision. Regardless, the reputation of Gilmy Village''s pedigree will suffer, and the already infrequent sales of their thoroughbred steeds would further diminish. Enviable, the choice before them, is not. But what if the answer was, well, not exactly a third, unspoken option, but both of these divisive choices? Iffmy nods to herself, chewing on a dirty thumbnail. Yes, there is a way out of this, surely. Before she can voice her opinion, however, another woman speaks up. "Can''t we just blame it on Lester? He is the one who stuck a nail in Boulder''s leg, so why not let him take responsibility?" A farrier snorts, "If it were only that simple..." Before she can retort, the Mayor, once again, interrupts the growing ire, "That doesn''t solve the issue of what to do with the horse who killed him, true or not." The Head Tender takes the opportunity to speak, albeit quietly, "I believe we should kill ''Boulder''." The assembly of Tenders and Farriers express shock in all manner of ways, from calling out insults to staring slack-jawed at the man who, just moments ago was all for preserving the stallion''s life. Perhaps the only exceptions are Iffmy and the Mayor. Romai stares hard at Maurice, "Explain." "As I said, I am responsible fer the well-bein'' of all animals in Gilmy. I do not wish to kill one of our finest horses. But ''Boulder'' must be punished appropriately for the sin of killing Lester. These two desires need not be different in the end." The people are silenced, trying to make sense of his words. A laugh, hearty and maybea little high-pitched, echoes through the stable, emanating from the rhythmically shaking jowls of Romai''s mouth, "I see, I see. ''Boulder'' must die, huh? Then, in that case, I have no objection. I''ll leave this matter in your hands, then. As for the rest, Lester will take proper responsibility for his mistake." He pulls himself up into a more authoritative posture, "That will be all, then! All of go home! Maurice, Iffmy, Renth, you stay for a minute. I''d like a word in private."
3 Days Later An uncharacteristically chilly morning breeze floats gently through the open stables, stealing warmth with subtle contact and disturbing stray stalks of scattered hay. The dawning star shines through the wide-open doors dimly, with a strangely burnished radiance, burning the sky from blue to a sickly red, signalling perhaps, a night of poor weather. If Gilmy were a farming village of poor means, this omen might bode ill, but unlike Yarm Village to the northeast, such a problem is vastly diminished by the absence of large amounts of crops and properly built shelter made by a Carpenter from Klennock Village some generations past. Rainstorms are frequent on the Dragonhunt Plains this time of year, making agricultural development a chore, but the horses, people and cattle will be safe and warm indoors. Again, Iffmy concerns herself with idle musings about the growing difficulties of life out in the west, far away from the capital with its bustling sea trade and magnificent architecture said to light the way for merchants far better than any lighthouse. Whether they mean that in the literal sense or if it''s because the opulent appearance of Kingshore attracts profit-minded businessmen and ocean-faring traders, it''s hard not to take the tales with a bit of cynicism. Oh, but living there would certainly make a world of difference from waking up before the sun crests the Klennock Woods to wade ankle-deep in horse dung brandishing a stinking old shovel. Dreams of sitting in closed conversation with an eligible young noble heir in a tearoom drinking the finest blends of the central continent and sampling foreign delicacies, all the while draped in the latest fashions in jewellery and clothes... Well, she could probably do without the more voluminous dresses. Skirts are ill-advised for work as a Tender, and the image of herself walking around like some sort of decorated birdcage instead of a solid pair of boots and leggings strikes as unnatural. Iffmy sighs wistfully as she enters a stall, "I suppose it''s because of thinking like that I''ll never have it." At her feet lies a massive stallion, with a grey coat, completely unconscious and breathing steadily. Around one of its legs is a wrapped cloth bandage made of an old, torn tunic. She smiles pleasantly, kneeling down to check it remains securely wrapped around the wound left by that clumsy oaf, Lester''s incompetence. Satisfied, she stands and turns to leave, when a voice, just on the periphery of her hearing speaks up, if quietly. "Excuse me, if you would be so kind as to spare a moment of your time, milady?" The young Tender pauses, visibly confused, turning her head this way and that trying to locate the man who spoke. "Who''s there?" A little clearer, the voice speaks again, bringing to mind a regal personage, accompanied by a shuffling noise from behind,"That would be me, on the floor here. Forgive me, but I find my strength rather difficult to access, so I shall remain, ah...seated, so to speak." With a growing sense of unease, a suspicious frown spreads across Iffmy''s lips. Slowly, she turns around to see the formerly unconscious horse staring directly at her. Confused, she chews her bottom lip, "B...Boulder..?" The long-faced animal slowly shakes his head,"Yes, and no. Certainly, that is the name this form was given originally. Though I suppose nowadays it would be Regal - perhaps a more fitting name for one of my station. Or should I say, former station?" The horse snorts, sadness tinges his eyes, "It has been quite some time, I would imagine. But where are my manners?" Iffmy can''t help but stare in shock at the talking horse. True, it''s mouth does not move, but undeniably, speech emerges from its general direction, passing the distance instantly. Unperturbed by her disbelieving frown and limp arms, Boulder(?) continues as though the whole situation were nothing out of the ordinary, and instead in fact, very normal. "My name is Elotto Valnezi, PrinceLuminary, Lord Protector of Haavesh, and Heir to the Ivory Throne of Calmeqt." Boulder - Prince Elotto, bows his head deeply, and slowly, in an imitation of courtly graces. For a horse to act so might be considered comedic, were it truly an act, but there is no audience here save for Iffmy herself, surely? "I..Hello? Am I still...asleep?" Iffmy shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose and massaging her eyelids, not wanting to believe her own sight nor hearing. Talking horses may fit quite snugly into the legends and fables passed around by the odd Bard stopping by to fleece the infrequently visiting nobility, but as fantastical as such a thing sounds, to be confronted by a fairy tale creature made flesh is quite something else altogether. Elotto responds with amusement, his voice a little clearer, "Not at all, milady. Truly if this were a pleasant midsummer''s dream I should hope that I, at least, was the dreamer, for me to be trapped within this animal''s body and accompanied by such a stunning beauty...It could only be such if I were not fully aware of the events that led me here." Feeling her lips starting to dry, Iffmy nervously proffers the obvious question, doing her very best not to blush from the shameless flattery, "What events are those?" "Before that, might I have the pleasure of knowing your name, fair maiden? And where, precisely, we are?" Iffmy pauses, looking shiftily from side to side, feeling strangely unsure about introducing herself to the self-described Prince, but the location is easy, "We''re in Gilmy Village, in umm...The Righteous Monarchy of Herod, Mr Valnezi. I''m just a Tender who looks after the horses. Nobody important." Her faked smile withers quickly under the evaluating stare Elotto gives her, and he closes his eyes, "For such a delightfully pretty young woman to be ''Nobody important''...I confess I am having some difficulty believing your words. Truly, you would not blend in at all with the ladies of my old court. Rather, your effervescence far outshines even Lady Menesh''s eldest with far less finery." Unbidden, a smile perks at the corners of Iffmy''s mouth at such lavish praise, the blush breaks free and burns across her cheeks. The Prince chuckles, "To answer your question, however." There is an odd pause. Elotto raises his head after a moment, "I was cursed, to put in the simplest term possible." Iffmy blinks, "Cursed?" He nods, "Yes. By a jealous former lover andthe chief rival formy rightful throne. I am not familiar with this, Righteous Monarchy, did you say? But it is likely some distance from my homeland. To think that I would be banished so far..." The Horse Heir looks off to the side, ponderously, "I wonder too, how many years it has been since I assumed this base form. I admit, I only awoke recently from this simplistic beast''s vacuous mind. Only to be forced beneath the eddies of consciousness once again by an unusual powder." Iffmy''s lips form a tight line, a suspicion bursting at the seam, "Did...did you kill Lester? On purpose?" Elotto turns toface Iffmy once again, "I assume you refer to the clumsy oaf who hammered a nail into my leg." She nods, biting hard on her lip to steady the nerves. He pauses, suggesting an inaudible sigh, "Nay. The shock of pain may have shaken free my will, my soul, but I cannot claim to have been in control of the panicked creature, so pained and scared it was. Perhaps, instead, I owe the buffoon a great debt for freeing me of that soporific prison. So, nay, again I say." The Prince stares directly into her shaking eyes, "I did not kill that man. Know this as truth."
3 Weeks Ago Ever since that day, the day the Prince Luminary of Calmeqt, awoke from his cursed slumber within Boulder and revealed his existence to Iffmy, the Prince''s jokes and flattery have never been far from Iffmy''s ears. Day through blessedday, he shares numerous stories of life at the royal court of his homeland. Tales of whirlwind romance, murderous intrigue and subtle sorcerous manipulation. To hear him tell it; the overblown tales of Bards who have never seen the inside of even the outhouse of a Nobleman''s Mansion servants, all of them are true - No, they barely even grasp half of the truth. It was everything Iffmy had dreamed about as a little girl and more. Prince Elotto had a rapacious appetite for conversation, and the lack of a need to breathe between sentences often left Iffmy at a loss to understand the nobleman''s ceaseless rambling. It was starting to affect her behaviour, and her father was beginning to become suspicious. Mercifully, the only person able to hear the Prince was Iffmy herself, and as his strength returned to him over the recent days, the distance at which his voice could travel was rapidly increasing, along with a curious ability to transmit images - memories of his old life. Glad of the interesting company, Iffmy played along, in spite of a nagging voice of her own making huddled in a deep corner of her mind, whispering how she has surely gone mad to be talking to an imaginary prince trapped inside of a horse. She did, of course, recognise the sheer absurdity of the situation. Perhaps with that, Iffmy could claim to still possess some semblance of a sound mind, despite it all. But in truth... This kind of fantasy, real or not, was immensely enjoyable. For once in her small, closed off life, she felt like she truly mattered in the world - that finally, after years of waiting, she had been given the right to be the Heroine of her own story, instead of just a feckless observer. Elotto appreciated her for who she was, and was not afraid to speak his mind on the matter, at length. If it is little more than a daydream brought by loneliness and isolation from the rest of civilisation...Then that''s ok, too. For now, at least, the Prince has not been very forthcoming as to the details of how he came to inhabit a horse''s body. Whenever the topic is brushed upon, he catches himself mid-sentence and changes the subject. Should Iffmy ever try probing around the issue or, more recently, asking him directly, he either refuses to answer - turning uncharacteristically silent for a while - or otherwise, again, changes the subject to one more palatable to his tastes. More often than not, he prefers to fall back to ridiculously over-the-top flirting.
2 Weeks, And 3 Days Ago, Iffmy''s Room Iffmy sits cross-legged upon her old, somewhat worn horsehair rug. It is hard, owing to the tightly packed weaves, and scratchy to sit out bare-skinned. But it is perhaps one of the few things left by her long-gone Mother, and it was in turn, an heirloom passed from her own parents, supposedly, but who knows where it came from beyond that. Nevertheless, since she was but a wee little tyke, she would insist on doing just about everything better suited to a proper chair or her own bed on that ratty old rug. Even now, a woman grown, she sits upon it still, deep in conversation with a Prince who through curious circumstance, found himself cursed to inhabit the body of a horse in a foreign land. But no longer does she speak to a disembodied voice, no, now the Prince has become able to manifest a projection of himself for her to see. The memory transmission from the early days was mere practice for this new trick, which he has grown remarkably proficient in controlling. The projection is Elotto as he truly is, not the equine shell in which his true soul is imprisoned. A stunningly handsome man with a roguish cheerfulness that encompasses his entire being. Black hair tied into an intricate knot and fastened by an ivory comb, tanned skin and piercing blue eyes at once full of mirth and overflowing charisma. His clothes change, depending on his mood, from simple robes to the most elaborate costumes, rarely an hour goes by without his whims dictating a change in appearance. Tonight, he sits - or rather, appears to sit - on the edge of her bed, hands clasped together as he hunches over to look down at her on as close to an even plane as can reasonably be managed without breaking his non-existent bones. An event he has to be especially mindful of, as occasionally, his concentration slips and the results can be hilariously awkward to behold. All semblance of pride and nobility falls away when you realise your elbow is sinking through your knee. Iffmy smiles upat him beatifically, "Rather late in the night for a chat, you know?" Elotto laughs, "Ah, but your father should be quite occupied with his merrymaking, and having made my decision, I see no reason to delay ''til the morrow." She smiles wryly, "I doubt he''ll be absent for much longer, though. He''s not a young man anymore, and his head for ale isn''t what it used to be." Elotto grins, stroking his chin, "Perhaps I should consider it a mercy I never reached my dotage if such a fate awaited even myself." He makes a show of clearing his throat, folding his muscular bare arms across his new sleeveless, green and gold tunic. Iffmy sneaks a brief glance, then gives him her full attention. "After much thought, I''ve decided that you are a woman of incomparable integrity. To ensure my safety and secrecy as you have done is a task I greatly appreciate, and for that, you are to be commended." He places his right fist to his heart, "Thus I will reveal to you the misfortune that befell me and my intentions from here on out." Iffmy stares at him, hanging off his every word, but offering none in return, content with simply listening to the handsome man speak. "Colluding with that snake of a man, Uilo, a former paramour of mine enticed me to a private meeting with offers of diplomatic discussion concerning the forthcoming war between our great nation and the sandy wastes of Jir. In that room, a trap was sprung. My bodyguards were cut down before their weapons could be freed from their scabbards, and I myself found little choice but to throw down my own. At the points of many spears, it was revealed to me that I was to be ''punished'' for my callous behaviour of the time.." Elotto grits his teeth, the handsome features of his face pulling together in a visage of restrained rage, "They had the gall to suggest that truly, no one loved me at all. That the smiling faces I encountered in the palace, the happiness observed when I walked amongst the common folk...All of it - lies." He clenches his fist, "Of course, the liars were they themselves, and their flimsy accusations held no weight for which to judge the worthiness of their transgression against me. I even reminded them of such. This is when the Curse was unleashed upon me. Shoved into the middle of a Scriptist''s schemata, I felt pain enough to perish, with the only thing I could hear being the triumphant gloating of that madwoman: ''Perhaps one day you might find yourself free, should you find a woman truly willing to stoop as low as to romance a mule!''" Iffmy giggles loudly, "A colourful send-off." Elotto concedes the point with a small smile, "Mayhap, that is one way of addressing the insult. But the course, to me, is clear. In you, I sense a radiance unlike any other, and I wish for your earnest assistance in breaking this curse. Then, I will return home to enact bloody justice and take my throne...alongside you, as my Queen." Iffmy laughs further, "Stop it, I''m not worthy of such a high position alongside you, as nice as that would be." The Prince opens his mouth to retort but is halted, tilting his head. A flash of irritation crosses his handsome features, before he vanishes completely from sight, leaving no earthly evidence of his presence or existence perceivable by magic-deaf peasants. The door to the room slams open, and in steps Almecks, the dreamily smiling woman''s father, all drunken indignation and fatherly instinct. He looks at his daughter in obvious confusion, then casts a searching gaze around the small bedroom, finding nothing, for nothing was there, to begin with. The Prince lies safe, and silent in a stable far from the Master Farrier''s home, having not moved even an inch throughout. Chapter 27: Convincing Argument "You can''t be serious!" seethed Almecks, restraining his temper and his voice to avoid drawing the attention of the entire room, "I won''t hear of such reckless chicanery - absolutely, and completely out of the question!" The older man''s offence at my plan is on the whole not very surprising even when you take into consideration his dislike of me, and honestly, I can''t say that I don''t understand his objection to the plan. Because I''ll admit, I''m making a rather disconcertingly large amount of assumptions here, and this could blow up spectacularly in my face should any one of them be sufficiently wrong. I glance at the overly touchy-feely couple. Contrasting Almecks'' red-faced bluster, they share a similarly confused frown, obviously not all too impressed or all that understanding of my plan either, but still possessed of enough of their wits to not dismiss it out of hand or start cussing me out like Almecks still is. Honestly, I''mtuning him out a little since all he''s doing is throwing out a constant stream of insults about how dunderheaded I am for even suggesting we put his precious, sweet, baby girl in danger. The hypocrite. In fact, I think he spends more time praising Iffmy''s attributes than belittling my intelligence. It''s a little offputting, but I can''t profess to entirely understand the feelings of a father, and given my own parents'' reactions to coming back with a Dirolft Alpha''s severed head, that much is obvious. My guilty conscience doesn''t have a place in this conversation, though, and to be frank, Almecks is starting to get on my nerves. Maybell and Renth don''t look too eager to intervene so I guess it''s on me to get this discussion back on topic. "Alright, alright! Quit yer blusterin'' an'' lemme jest explain it point by point, real simple so''s you can get it through your waxed up ears without it sending you into another tantrum," I sigh, raising my hand to stop him reaching over the table. He clenches his teeth and lurches in his seat like he''s going to attack me, but a firm hand on his shoulder courtesy of Renth - thanks for that, by the by - keeps him still, although probably not for very long. As before, I''ll just ignore the part where I got a quest that went out of the way to tell me that I didn''t have very long to act before it "automatically resolves itself", whatever the hell that means. I would assume that it means I immediately and unavoidably fail the quest, but without any experience with this sort of thing and no defined reward or consequences, I can only continue to make assumptions. I still don''t know what to make of the fact that it appears I haven''t investigated enough to clear the first objective. But it doesn''t fill me with confidence. Anyway, I''m getting off-track again. Was I always this scatterbrained? "Ok..so, first off, ever since this whole mess started all Iffmy''s done is sink further and further into her magical widdle dreamland, and even if you''ve been stopping her from going off as she pleases, so far it''s not changed that fact. If anything from what you''ve all told me, she''s getting worsefaster now, since she started...eh...''absconding into yon starry night to dance ''neath the hunting moons'', as the Bards would say." I smile sardonically as I quote a line from an old story about a Baker''s daughter, and a wanderingstudent who turned out to secretly be a wizard-prince or something. Not one of Nealan''s favourites, but definitely one of the more eloquently written ones that get bandied about by passing storytellers. Tales of romance were never his preference, Cyril''s, only slightly more so. Renth nods along, "She don''t seem to be getting any better, I have to admit." I lick my dry lips and continue, "Yep. If she keeps going like this I don''t know how much of Iffmy''s mind is gonna be left, to be blunt. ''course, I''m not in any way knowledgeable about this stuff, so it could be this is about as bad as she''ll get. But it could also end up killing her. I don''t bloody know." "So, bearing in mind that there ain''t nobody we can count on to magic her better or figure out what''s doing it in the time we probably have, we can only assume that if she''s in contact with the dickhead that''s put thegirl''s head in a tizzy that leaving her to her own devices will make the bastard poke their smug face outta the woodwork. If nothing else, finding out where exactly she''s trying to go and what she plans on doing there is really good information to know going forward." I pause to catch my breath, sweeping my gaze over the trio, all of them listening politely and with their full attention, "And if it turns out that what she''s doing is trying to go directly to ''em. Then we deal with them in whatever way seems best. Talk it through with ''em or just kick their teeth out; it don''t matter much to me, my job''s as good as done at that point. I mean, I''ll fight if I have to but if it''s some local squabble at the bottom o'' this I''d rather just go back to my room than listen to y''all argue about it through the night, because I don''t got any stake in that and I don''t wanna get involved more than I already have. All I care about is making sure the girl doesn''t turn up as a gormless husk or a dead body when it comes time for me to get back on the road to Mhin tomorrow mornin''." You know, I don''t ever remember being this talkative about much of anything, and maybe it''s just been a long day what with the hours spent hiking across hills and uneven ground to get here, or this whole Quest business, but I''m starting to feel exceptionally tired. Idly, I wonder if there''s something similar to coffee in this world since a few staples from back in reality like bread, pork and porridge made it over, but the only thing I''m aware of is a herbal stimulant Mam keeps in a jar she wouldn''t ever teach me how to make. She got really cagey about it when kid Nealan asked what it was since the jar looked expensi-aaand it was an aphrodisiac, wasn''t it?A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Fantastic. I shake the thoughts out of my head along with the less than subtle implications they carry. Almecks is sitting quietly, staring holes into the table in front of him with lowered eyes, while the lovebirds keep their eyes fixed upon him, waiting for his reaction to my lengthy spiel about why letting Iffmy go do whatever it is that she''s being compelled to do is the least terribleplan we have at our disposal. His hesitation is still plain, however, so I decide to give him one last little push, "It''s the onlychance you have to save yer daughter. And if you don''t take it, you''ll take that shame and regret to your grave." His fist slams the table hard, hissing through clenched teeth...before he deflates, utterly defeated, and looking more his age than he ever did before. There is a deep sorrow in his crumpled frame that struggles to accept that I might be right, but it''s clear that he doesn''t have the means to refute me. Taking advantage of his fatherly protectiveness like that makes me feel a little - no, extremely - guilty, but if it weren''t for his cowardly reluctance in his refusal to confront his daughter over this whole affair, maybe it wouldn''t have escalated this far in the first place. He can''t keep coddling her like this. Ultimately, it''s not me or Almecks that speaks up, but Maybell, her face stoic determination, staring up at the much taller farrier, "Uncle Al. He''s got the right of it." Wordless, Almecks opens his eyes and nods slowly atthe seamsmith before turning back to me, sadly, "...Fine. Though it goes against every bone in my body, I accept your mad scheme. Olgra, my love, forgive me for this..." Renth frowns with distaste, but swallows whatever objection he has in favour of a more pertinent question, "So, how exactly are we gonna do this? I can probably get a few guys together." I rap my fingers in sequence on the table a couple of times, "Part of me wants to agree, but I don''t know if we can trust anyone not sat at this table right now - and even that''s pushing it for some of us." I glance pointedly at Almecks. "Besides which, I don''t think riling upthe entire village is going to accomplish much other than tip off our wannabevillain that something''s up. The idea is to follow Iffmy and catch them in the act. Can''t do that if they''re hiding from a lynch mob." If it does come to a fight, having backup would ordinarily be reassuring considering my still injured arms. But it could very well be that they''d use whatever magic is twisting Iffmy''s mind on the gathered mob. Better to not give the mind control guy more minds to, y''know, control. So far they''ve only bothered with Iffmy but as the old saying goes, never attribute to malice what can be adequately explained by laziness and stupidity. In other words, don''t give them any ideas. I can maybe handle a couple enthralled peasants with no combat training to speak of if it came down to it, but that''s being extremely generous given my own combat experience is rather limited. More than one or two at a time is almost certainly a death sentence. Nealan may have been part of a mercenary band...but that mostly just involved walking around and looking imposing as opposed to constant, heated conflict, gruelling training and epic showdowns. The Flood was the most action any of the Loranics had seen in years, which probably contributed to the death toll they incurred. Cheap workers, for cheap work and cheaper pay. "That''s my pair of pahnc, anyway. If there''s any weapons we can grab from your forge we should head there before we do anything else, though," I wave offhandedly at the old farrier, who''s barely paying attention at this point. Maybell shakes her head, though, "We don''t make weapons in Gilmy. Just horseshoes, stirrups, the studs I use for saddles, and all associated tools." Renth sighs, "Yeah. Monsters don''t normally bother us this far from the heartlands. The only thing that comes this far south are smearlingslooking to bother travellers further east, and an Adventurer crew wiped out the latest bunch about two months back." I nod, "Understandable. Still, I''d have thought there''d be at least an old shortsword or something. Not like you''re completely safe out here - just look what happened to Klennock." He shrugs, "Maybe there is, but the only weapons you''re like to find in Gilmy are in the hands of the travellers passing through like yourself, and you already struck that off as an option, dincha?" I frown. He''s right, I suppose, between the travellers, adventurers and mercenaries roaming the plains, a famous ranch like Gilmy Village would probably never see the like of a smearling for years on end, without the locals having to really do anything. I still find the lack of weapons odd, even so, but there''s little point in complaining about it. Almecks breathes deep, the intake turning into a cough rather quickly, "I''d try t'' hammer a blade together if I had the time, but it''d be shoddy work, and the forges are already cold. There is little time until sundown, on top of that." Maybell grumbles, "Guess we just gotta grab what we can an'' make do, huh?" Renth pats his fiance''s shoulder supportively, "I''ll grab a couple knives from the house. I think we still have Alec''s mallet from when you fixed the fence last week too, if you know where that is." She thinks for a moment, then nods, "Oh, yeah. I think I left it on one of the barrel''s out back." The two look at me next, expectantly. "...I have an ol'' hatchet an'' seax knife in my room." Taking their cue, I look back to Almecks again next, and they follow suit. The farrier shrugs nonchalantly, "I''ll just get some rope, Don''t need a weapon. Better without one anyway." I can believe that. I still half-expected him to use a forge hammer though, on account of his profession. But if the man thinks he''s better off punching something with those big meaty fists of his, far be for me to disagree with his judgment. They''re probably like hammers themselves after years of smithing metal. I cough. Ok, stop staring at this guy''s muscles, Cyril. Envy is unbecoming of me. "I''ll meet up with you allat sundown, then. Where''rewe gathering?" Almecks closes his eyes, thinking for a moment. After a minute he opens them and answers with the same confidence he exhibited when he was ranting at me for my supposed idiocy earlier, "Behind the mayor''s home, just across from mine. I''ll tell Iffmy I''m going to the Solace for a quick drink with my ''prentices and ''forget'' to lock the doors and windows ''fore I leave." Maybell and Renth nod at him, and we all stand. I proffer my hand to Almecks, "Then we''ve got ourselves a plan." He looks at it, then shakes it without hesitation, "That we do. Don''t muck this up, or there''ll be hell to pay." Chapter 28: Succulent Slumber After some time spent zoning out in my room, I stretch my arms and massage my stiff shoulders in anticipation of the likely violent confrontation with a mind-controlling wizard twat in the next couple of hours. They''re not as sore as my elbows or my wrists, but at the very least I count myself lucky I can move my arms around relatively normally. Experimentally, I flex my fingers, staring at the unfamiliar digits. The disconnect between my perception of my body in reality and the data construct I currently inhabit is lessening at a rapid pace. It feels far more like my own after a night of rest, though the physical exertion involved in my woodland stroll likely helped force some of that familiarity just for the sake of survival. I wonder if they''re looking to hire any more researchers. When I leave the simulation, I''d absolutely love to go through their data and theories when the testing is finished to see how it all works. No guarantee I''m going to even understand a lot of it, given that I flunked out of neuroscience as hard as I did, but I still wanted to get my Doctorate in the field. Sharon seemed to be amenable to the idea of employing me, though that was before she found out about my lack of certifiable qualifications. Something to bear in mind, I guess, assuming I still remember any of this by the time it''s even a concern. Properly equipped and a little more rested, I make my way downstairs, shuffling past an inebriated patron sprawled out on the bottom of the staircase - something that Jomsy or one of the drunk''s friends will have to deal with since it''s not my problem and I''m already running late - and out into the open street. Twilight is rapidly approaching, I note with a glance to the horizon. The sun dipping low enough to rest atop the distant hills, so perhaps I''m not quite as tardy as I feared - though the lack of a more accurate indication of the time makes it so that could still be a possibility. There''s no way to be sure of when Iffmy will return home, either,if she even bothers, but I''ve been assured that one of the Tenders will see to it that she makes it home. Grumbling aside, I spot Renth in the same dirtylinens from earlier sat on the fence of Maybell''s house-cum-workshop picking at some filth on the sole of his boot with a kitchen knife, flicking flecks of dirt and manure in my general direction without a care as to who could be walking by. Electing to not get pelted by that muck, I walk around the splash zone and tap him on the shoulder, snappingRenth out of his reverie. His shock is replaced with an easy smile, "Hey, Nealum! Just waiting for Bell." Irritated, I correct him, "Nealan. Lan. Come on, it''s not that weird a name. It was my great-uncle''s y''know?" Well, to be honest, it was the name that got suggested to me by the writing team guy whose name I - ironically - can''t remember. Unperturbed, Renth shrugs it off, "Sorry, I''m terrible with remembering peoples names. Horses, though? Know ''em all by heart. Ain''t the same with people though, strange, right?" He chuckles a little, and I can only roll my eyes, "Just...just call me Neal, then. At least you gotthat part right." His face brightens, "Really? Alright then Neal, you''ve got yerself an accord." The way he grins at me makes me wonder if he did it on purpose just toso he could have an excuse to call me by a nickname. It''s annoying and makes me want to smack him upside the head for it, but having already fallen for his ploy, real or not, I find myself unwilling to call him out on it. "So, what''s Maybell doing, exactly?" I ask, changing the subject to satisfy my curiosity. At the mention of his girlfriend, he becomes positively radiant, hopping off the fence with a big goofy grin, "Ahh, she''s making up a simple pair of sheaths for our knives real quick. Probably just about done, in fact." "Is that really necessary..?" I can''t help but be sceptical. Renth shrugs, "I mean, I don''t think so, but Bell insisted on it and I wasn''t about to argue. Hey, maybe if you ask her really nicely she''ll make you a proper belt loop for your hatchet?" I shake my head, "No point." About a minute passes before Renth speaks up again, looking concerned, "So, how do you think it''s gonna go down?" "No idea. Well, I hope. I already said all there is to say on the matter, so I ain''t gonna repeat myself." The door to the house opens, "Renthie, I''m done!" Maybell emerges with a big grin, waving a pair of leather sheathes as she approaches. Opening her eyes,Maybell blinks once in surprise, "Oh!" She nods at me, "Hello there. Time to go then, is it?" "Yeah. Reckon so. You both ready?" Renth claps his hands together, dusting off his palms, "Ready if Bell is. Been gettin'' a li''l twitchy just sitting around waiting if I''m honest with ya." Maybell hands over a sheath and pulls his head down to whisper something in his ear, smirking. Renth blinks rapidly then smiles sheepishly, fumbling to get his knife in its sheath. I can only roll my eyes and the lewd looks the couple are giving each other. Pointedly, I clear my throat, "It''s great that you''re getting along so famously, but unless you''ve forgotten in the last few seconds, we''ve got a sleepwalking friend o'' yers to deal with." Renth coughs, embarrassed, while Maybell gives me a rather smug sidelong glance as she starts walking, "I know, I know. Yer a grumpy one, ain''tcha?" She tugs her fiancee''s wrist and we all get moving down the street.
Amidst a small group of Tenders, Iffmy trudges lazily across the field back to the village, barely paying attention to the animated chatter of her colleagues amidst the anticipation of a new evening. The only thing on her mind is the mounting ire of her beloved Prince, whose disappointment continues to grow more explosive with each failed attempt to reach him unhindered by the plebeian villagers and her stubborn mule of a father. Their concern for her wellbeing might be considered endearing - sweet, even. But it is utterly unfounded in truth. How can they not understand that? Truly, their ignorance is overwhelming. His Imperial Elegance is not someone to be feared but admired and obeyed, as befitting his royal countenance and nigh-perfection. A station that he deserves to regain as is his right. To deny her is to deny him. But even so, she can hardly alert the village to his existence before he is ready to make his triumphant radiance known. They would not understand, perhaps call him a murderous monster. No, no, no. That won''t do at all. Still, it is a fact that their obstructions have made going to his side stealthily in order to fulfil his desire for release almost impossible. Her father especially has proven exceptionally paranoid about her behaviour ever since he interrupted a wonderful conversation with her love. Again, Iffmy understands his exasperating need to protect her after his embarrassing failure to save her mother, but such things are inconsequential to her. She stops in the middle of the road into the village at the tug of her sleeve, a colleague says something to her, face full of concern, but his voice sounds as though she is submerged just beneath the surface of a steadily surging river. Muddled, and uninteresting in the face of other concerns. A few seconds of staring blankly back at the man once again does the trick, just as it has for most of the unenlightened bumpkins. Exasperated, he sighs, shoulders dropping in defeat, and walks off with a wave to the remaining members of the group. They laugh...or appear to be, by the shaking of their bellies and gross smiles. Another minute of unsuccessful attempts to engage Iffmy in conversation go by until at last, they arrive at the entrance to her family home, built generations ago to house the first settlers...a history for which she cares nought. Even before the Prince opened her eyes to new possibilities at his side, she hated it, though the former Iffmy would have to be pressed hard in order to admit it. Generations of her family were born here. They lived decades of their lives here. And then, just the same, they died here. As if trapped by it. This innocent little hovel symbolises to her the stagnation and utter lack of ambition that suffocated her, with her father as the jailer exacerbating the entrapment. Emphasising tradition and similarly disgusting beliefs. Iffmy''s otherwise impassive face curdles into a brief visage of distaste that disappears just as quickly into the blanket of her Prince''s embrace. "Evening''s tidings, my sweetest jewel," echoes the Prince''s voice through her mind. To her right, the handsome figure of the man dearest to her heart appears, as if he were always there and simply chose now to allow her to see him. Of course, she would not be so ignorant as to miss his presence. During the day, His Imperial Elegance minimises contact with her so as to preserve and gather his strength through relative dormancy. But, come sundown; when her watchers slacken in their vigilance and reduce in number, he is free to act as befits his mood.Once, he mentioned that the indignity of being treated as a common animal is lessened by this practice, as a bonus. The smile she returns to his radiant presence is beatific, "Such flattery ill-suits one as low as me." Despite her lack of supervision at the present time, Iffmy keeps to her habit of whispering and muttering under her breath when conversing with the Prince. She herself is unclear as to why the vocalisation of her words is necessary, aware of His Effervessence''s apparent talent for mind magic, but far be it for her to question him. It is unlikely to be a flaw in his spellcraft, rather a limitation imposed on him by the world itself. Yes, that makes sense. Nonetheless, the Prince''s words belie his disappointed eyes, "Perhaps this is so, given your recent failures. It is a shameful waste of such beauty to be so incompetent. These are mere boorish peasants, are they not? Their tenacity cannot be so great as to dissuade a truly devoted woman." The man folds his arms, leaning in, "I grow impatient. Are you truly making an effort, or is my attention better spent elsewhere?" With a derisive snort, he changes his clothes from a gilded scarlet robe to a green and blue tunic and grey tights that accentuate his muscular calves. In spite of herself, Iffmy finds her eyes moving of their own accord to snatch a quick glimpse of them. "N-no, milord. Tonight, for certain, we will be reunited. Your will be done." He growls, a strange sound, seemingly all around her at once, "Such empty promises preceded your failures on all previous nights. Your certainty is difficult to trust at this point, my jewel." Iffmy gulps, lowering her head in shame, "Sorry...There is little I can do to escape my father or Renth." "Weak excuses, and little more," The Prince sniffs, "Now, go and greet your Haksh. You''re much too conspicuous standing around out here mumbling to yourself."
Inside, the sound of haggard breathing greets Iffmy to her home. Behind her, the breeze slams the door shut, eliciting nary a wince from the girl, but does cause the house to shudder in her stead. Age and amateurish maintenance work have left the small house in poor shape, particularly in comparison to it''s slightly more modern two-floored neighbours. Unperturbed, Iffmy walks slowly down the corridor and turns almost mechanically to look through the cased doorway of the Kitchen. At the old metal stove is her father, stirring a pot of something lacking the smell of spices but altogether savoury. Perhaps feeling her stare, he cocks his head left to eye her over his shoulder, "Evening, flower. How...how was yer day?" His voice is shaky, but easily written off as a consequence of his recent illness. Fits of coughing and hoarse breathing have been rather a common occurrence of late, and in a way, he has been rather lucky to avoid the affliction that took the life of the previous Master Farrier for as long as he has. The forges are perhaps more ravenous for the lives of the villagefolk than even this forsaken hovel, as many struggle to make it past their fortieth winter as Almecks has.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Still, luck cannot shield one forever, and his health has entered a steady decline before even getting halfway to the natural ends of many tradesmen on Eden: Their fifth decade. All told, Iffmy can''t help but find it difficult to properly register it as a concern. A rather desolate few seconds go by before she brings herself to respond, forcing her words out beyond the whisper she''d grown accustomed to in recent days. "...It was alright. Jemmy looks like she''s going to make a recovery from her foaling yesterday." Awkwardly, Almecks murmurs understanding, "I see...well, that''s good isn''t it?" He turns a little more towards her, stirring the put with his right hand, expectantly. However, his daughter offers no such thing, staring blankly at his shoulder - or rather, in the direction of his shoulder, and through it. Disheartened,Almecks sighs, "...I''m going to go out for a drink with my ''prentices tonight. Yer dinner should be done cooking now," he taps the pot with his spoon, "So take as much as you want, and leave what''s left in the oven. I''ll be out late...alright?" Iffmy blinks, genuinely a little surprised. Quickly, she masks it with her usual blank stare, but can''t help but be distracted by the growing aura of anticipation on the periphery of her senses. No doubt the Prince heard that. "This is your best chance for escape. Do not ruin this opportunity, or there might not be another," comes his eager whisper, entirely too close to her ear. Reflexively, she blushes, to the confusion of her father. Shaking his head, Almecks drops the stirring implement in the pot, and plods across the room, looking Iffmy over with a somewhat complicated expression, heavy with indecision. Before too long, he reaches a large, calloused hand up and ruffles her hair fondly. "I won''t be gone long. Just a couple rounds." With a last smile, Almecks lets his hand drop to his side and walks out into the corridor, leaving a motionless Iffmy still stood in place as the front door clatters shut behind him.
"Well, I suppose we should be glad we don''t have to hunt her down. Looks like the guys managed to get her home alright," remarks Renth. Behind me, in the shadow of the house we''re hiding in, Maybell nods, fingering the handle of the knife newly belted to her hip, "Just as well. Light''s running out right quick and I don''t wanna have to go looking for her while it''s twilight, let alone the cover of night." I cast my gaze upwards, craning my neck a little to see around the corner of the building. The sky has turned from a bright, burnished orange to a dull blue, and a few speckled lights in random patterns just barely shine through. Clouds, dispersed and dark also begin to slowly shift over in a thick blanket from the southeast, likely bringing yet more rains from off the coast. Locals don''t call The Dragonhunt Plains the Mudwest for nothing. I grunt, twisting back to face them over my shoulder, "From the clouds, it looks like the rainy season is gonna make tonight a damp one either way. Let''s hope this doesn''t take long or we''ll be soaked t'' the marrow." We collectively grimace, when the loud bang of a door slamming shut draws our attention to the front door of Almecks'' rather ugly looking family home. At least, ugly as it is now, perhaps it was better looking when it was recently built and not flanked by more modern structures; better designed to deal with the heavy rainfall of the region. The Master Farrier himself stands in front of the door with a palm against it, trying to steady himself, still hesitating even now. I suppress the urge to call him out on his rank cowardice, since it might provoke him to abandon the plan altogether, and I don''t feel like shouting to reveal our presence is the wisest course of action either. For all I know, Iffmy could be by the door listening in for the departure of her father, or the rickety construction of their home could allow my voice to carry through its walls. Renth pushes past me, and waves Almecks over, before ducking back into hiding. I glance back at him in annoyance, but it seems to have been the push the old man needed, since he makes his plodding way over to us. I roll my eyes at the couple''s smug faces and greet him with a short wave, "No second thoughts now." Almecks only grunts in response as he passes me by to take a spot behind the rest of us, leaning heavily against the wall. Maybell nudges him with her elbow, "D''you think it''ll work? Did she..say anything?" He glances down at her, before slowly shaking his head, "No different. ''cept...I dunno, got this weird feeling offa her. Not like it''s been before. Felt like someone else were in the room wi'' us, staring at me o''er her shoulder. Put a chill down my spine it did." Renth thumbs his chin, "Suppose that''s Neal''s wizard?" Almecks shrugs, then deflates, "Only The Faceless would know for sure. I just want my baby girl back to her smilin'' old self. Safe ''n'' happy." "All going well that''ll be what she''ll be after we''re done," Maybell assures him, patting his arm. "Yeah," Renth concurs, "Won''t be long." I do my best to put their conversation out of mind, focusing on the door to the house, when a heavy slap on my shoulder damn near makes me jump out of my skin, "Ushvi''s Fire, what was that for?!" Renth smiles at me, "You''re being awful quiet there, Neal. Something bothering you?" I scowl, turning back to stare at the door, "I''m trying to keep a lookout. Not got anything to add to your conversation." Renth tuts, "Not gonna make any friends with that attitude, Neal." "Really not worried about that right now," I wave him off dismissively. Unperturbed, Renth spends a few minutes trying to convince me to open up to some conversation before giving up. The group remaining silent until the last strokes of ember in the sky die out, and the Hunting Moons resume their eternal chase across the cosmos. My eyes, adjusted to the dim light, spots a window on the side of the house swing wide open, followed by the clambering form of a vaguely feminine figure illuminated poorly by the light from within the building. I reach back and pat Renth''s chest with the back of my hand, beckoning the group to attention. Having taken the bait, Iffmy is finally on the move. I grin, the anticipation turning ever so slowly into excitement.
Ducking through the old wooden fence encircling the enclosure, I almost trip over when my ankle snags on the lower beam, and have to hop in place on my other foot to recover my balance, earning a withering glare from Almecks who is waiting for his turn to go through. I do my best to ignore him, and resume my crouched pursuit of the powerwalking Iffmy some 20ft ahead of us, approaching the main entrance of the attached stable, so far appearing oblivious of her stalkers'' amateurish pursuit. Out of the four of us, I''m probably the most used to creeping around in the dark unseen, but I''m no Rogue or Ranger; Wandering the woods at night as a child, pretending to be on an adventure is a poor substitute for talent and training, and with the utter lack of cover marking the distance between us and her, all it would take is a twinge of paranoia to turn around for our presenceto immediately be revealed. Speeding up a little to close the distance, it''s not even two paces before Istart to feel uneasy, my veins beginning to itch like my blood is burning hot, unnaturally so, and a faint tingling...downstairs, as it were. Stopping, I take a cautious look around the area, but note nothing out of the ordinary. Glancing at Maybell I think I can make out the beginnings of a blush, but no real discomfort, as she stares longingly into her fiancee''s eyes. Irritated, I snap my fingers between them, hissing, "Save it for later." "...She''s gone inside the stable," Almecks interjects sternly, standing up, brushing himself off and breaking into a run. Grunting, I jerk my head for the couple to follow, then do much the same as Almecks, catching up to the farrier in pretty short order and coming close to passing him by the time we arrive at the opposite end of the field. Bending over with my hands on my knees, I take several deep breaths, an unseen weight pressing down on my whole being and setting mybody alight with pins and needles like I swallowed a lightning bolt whole. Even the others look like they''re starting to feel it, by their moonlit grimaces. Sweat glistens off their skin, and their bosoms heave. Magic is the likely culprit, I note before shaking my head vigorously. Stop staring at Maybell''s chest, me. Woman''s basically married already, even ignoring the situation. Scrunching my eyes shut and massaging my head with my knuckles, I turn around and force myself to walk to the edge of the large doorframe, a deluge of inappropriate thoughts about my compatriots raging through my head with ever greater tenacity as I continue to approach. Clenching my teeth, I dig my fingernails into my palms to try and stay focused by offsetting the mental chaos through physical pain, to limited success. It doesn''t take long for the sensation to turn to a perverse sense of pleasure, and I immediately cease the tactic out of fear. Whatever spell is at work here is seriously messing with my perception just by being nearby, which doesn''t bode well for a direct confrontation with the source of it. Swallowing a thick gobbet of saliva, I lick my cracked lips and slowly move close to the gap between the slightly open door and the frame. What I see is the single largest horse I''ve ever come across, standing easily a few heads above me and towering over the much shorter Iffmy, who isn''t even looking at the enormous creature, instead staring into space to the left with a blissful, dumb smile stretched wide across her face, both hands drawn together to her collarbone in a maiden''s pose. Stranger still, is theoily sheen of the horse''s head and shoulders, accented by irregular waves of rainbow-like discolouration, and the eerily blank eyes that stare down at the lovestruck blonde. More than that, I can''t really see from this angle. In turns, the others also take a quick peek, but none of them seem to understand what''s going on in there. Nonetheless, there doesn''t appear to be anything else present in the building unless there''s an invisible wizard or something, so it stands to reason that that freak of a horse of all things is responsible somehow for Iffmy''s present behaviour, or at the very least closely related to the culprit.
Quest Updated!
Investigate the cause of Iffmy''s reticence 1/1 Locate the Culprit 1/1 Confront the Culprit 0/1 The Quest ''There''s Something About Iffmy...'' has changed into the Quest, ''The Hand That Feeds''.
Quest Accepted!
The Hand That Feeds
UrgentRegionQuest Difficulty: Extremely Hard
Iffmy has fallen under the influence of a powerful individual. Resolve the situation before it is too late. Objective/s: Destroy or Escape from the Culprit 0/1 Optional: Rescue Iffmy 0/1 All Companions Survive 0/1 Report the Situation to the Authorities 0/1
Rewards: Massively Increased Regional Fame ???
Failure: High Likelihood That All Local Settlements Will Be Destroyed, Including Gilmy and Klennock Village. ???
My turbulent thoughts stop short at a cheerful giggle, drawing my attention to the scene inside, "Please, I am just as pleased as you to finally have this moment to ourselves. By your will, my beloved, all I am, all I will be, my purity of form is yours to enjoy for as long as you wish, that you may gain your freedom ever quicker." I inhale sharply, as Iffmy rapidly begins to strip her clothes with nary an ounce of seductive intent, walking toward the hulking animal. Still, I struggle to pull my eyes away from the revealed curves and skin as each article of clothing drops to the dirty stable floor. My breath quickens and my eyes bulge, drawing me closer to that thin little crack and the contained wonders. A roar of indignation shocks me back to my still addled senses, a blur of movement passes my vision and obstructs the fascinating scene, resolving in the form of Almecks. He stoops low on the approach to scoop up a piece of discarded clothing, then shoves it into Iffmy''s surprised arms. Renth and Maybell also jump through the door after a brief moment of hesitation. "I''ll not be party to whateversick game this is!" Almecks looks around wild-eyed, "Show yourself, you coward! You will release my daughter of thisenchantment at once!" Well, so much for stealth. With resignation, I pull out my hatchet and seax, then join Renth and Maybell in the entrance. I keep my grip on the handles tight, straining my senses and focus for any hint of additional presences inside the stable, though to no avail. A voice, far too close, scoffs in my ear, "Who dares interrupt my long-denied entertainment?! I will not be robbed of my property again!" The horse raises a single foreleg and stomps it''s hoof into the ground, the stone foundation splitting from the impact, and the shockwave rattling the wooden building. Before us, a man fades into view as though he were always there, olive skinned and impossibly handsome, dressed in lavish silken drapery,reminiscent of a toga. His eyes burn with arrogance, and his delicate lips form a thin line of displeasure that makes me somehow feel a little guilty and ashamed - feelings I do my best to cast aside as false. As he turns his head to observe us individually, the horse''s follows the movement in lockstep. Pausing on Almecks, he sneers, "For who else but you could it be? Ever have you been a thorn, burning and jagged in my side, denying me.Years of your interference and disdain have I endured, and even now you persist. Even now, you seek to quash me, restrict me from what should be rightfully mine." Confused I look to Almecks, who is staring at the stranger with a mix of shock, anger and disgust, "My daughter is not your property." Iffmy scoffs, "On the contrary, I''m notyour property, father. I am His Radiance''s to use as he wills, for my love is true." I share a look with Renth. He nods at me with complicit understanding, and we slowly begin to make our way around the side as subtly as we can, weapons ready. Maybell approaches Iffmy in the meantime, displeased, "A lover ya wouldn''t tell me about?" She harrumphs, "I don''t believe in the existence of such a thing, Iffmy. Or are you so desperate for a man that you''d stoop to riding a horsesaddle-side down just to take the edge off?" With that, Maybell grabs Iffmy''s shoulder firmly, earning a deathly glare from her friend, followed up with a swift backhand across the face that sends the stocky woman flying several feet, "You will not hinder my Lord''s release! He needs me, and I will hear no insult to his good name." Unsurprisingly, Renth loses his cool and abandons the flank to run to his lover, "Bell!" Which brings the attention of the stranger from glaring at Almecks to me, as he realises where we were attempting to move to. Fantastic. The horse sniffs, "Hrmm. I don''t recognise you, but you smell delicious." Long rivulets of drool leak from its mouth as both the stranger and the horse eye me hungrily, "But you shall have to wait your turn. I have waited for too long to taste a sweeter dish, eyeing it hungrily from afar waiting my chance to partake of it, to ruin my appetite on something altogether savoury." As he talks, his voice raises in volume and irritation, and a premonition of extreme and imminent danger cuts through the layers of cotton thick lewdness weighing down my mind and body, but too late. Before I can make a move to attack or defend, a thick, translucent mist erupts from the hulking stallion''s body, the foreign man vanishing as it blankets the room. "The feast of carnal pleasures will proceed without interference, even if I must expend some of my savoured magic to do so!" Heavily, I collapse to my knees, and slumber, succulent and sweet, takesus. The last thing I see is the massive beast moving toward the now nude Iffmy. All I can do is smile in satisfaction, as the Prince claims his Right. Chapter 29: Sink, Ever Deeper I wake up. Hazy thoughts stutter briefly to life, only to be snuffed out by a long heady drag of the room''s air, thick and viscous with the scent of the previous night''s vigorous exertions. I smile dumbly, revelling in the barely remembered sensations that seem at once distant and fresh in my mind, as though being held just within reach. Sitting up, the thin bedsheet, silken and warm, falls down my chest and barely protects my modesty, though such trifles are perhaps the furthest thing from my mind at present. Silently, I thank my luck for being able to spend some quality time with my bed partner, still resting fitfully next to me. Their warm breaths rhythmic against my arm. I look left and see... I see... What do I see? I blink. Once. Twice. The form beside me seems to shift identity in my head before resolving in the figure of
I wake up. Hazy thoughts stutter briefly to life, only to be snuffed out by a long heady drag of the room''s air, thick and viscous with the scent of the previous night''s vigorous exertions. I smile dumbly, revelling in the barely remembered sensations that seem at once distant and fresh in my mind, as though being held just within reach. Sitting up, the thin bedsheet, silken and warm, falls down my chest and barely protects my modesty, though such trifles are perhaps the furthest thing from my mind at present. Silently, I thank my luck for being able to spend some quality time with my bed partner, still resting fitfully next to me. Their warm breaths rhythmic against my arm. I look left and see... I see... What do I see? I blink. Once. Twice. The form beside me seems to shift identity in my head before resolving in the figure of that security officer I met earlier, Jillian. I admit to being unable to recall her surname, however. Truth be told, I''m not sure I recall how we got into this situation either. I''ve never been much of a drinker, so it stands to reason that I may have blanked it from my memory in a drunken stupor. Which does of course, beg the question of why I was drinking in the first place. But I find it honestly rather difficult to make myself care, given the result. But for some reason, I don''t feel wholly satisfied. Like..this isn''t something I really wanted. Why is that? I squint, staring confused at my hand, then down at my body. Sure enough, I''m still Cyril. Same as I''ve always been. That''s how it is. So why do I feel like something''s not right? A sort of...emptiness. I grunt. Probably just a hangover. Not like I''m experienced enough with drinking to know what a hangover is supposed to do to a guy. Especially if said guy drinks enough to completely block out an entire night of drinking and sex from his memory. I flop back onto my pillow. Jillian doesn''t even stir.
I wake up. Hazy thoughts stutter briefly to life, only to be snuffed out by a long heady drag of the room''s air, thick and viscous with the scent of the previous night''s vigorous exertions. I smile dumbly, revelling in the barely remembered sensations that seem at once distant and fresh in my mind, as though being held just within reach. Sitting up, the thin bedsheet, silken and warm, falls down my chest and barely protects my modesty, though such trifles are perhaps the furthest thing from my mind at present. Silently, I thank my luck for being able to spend some quality time with my bed partner, still resting fitfully next to me. Their warm breaths rhythmic against my arm. I look left and see... I see... What do I see? I blink. Once. Twice. The form beside me seems to shift identity in my head before resolving in the figure of...I''m not quite sure honestly. Her form is tall, lithe and muscular. Modest breasts and bright red lips, shifting with her breathing. I feel like I should know her intimately. That she is... ... Who is she? I blink. The Prince rolls over, mumbling. I blink. Jillian grunts, kicking my shin reflexively before settling down again. I blink. There''s nobody beside me. There''s nobody I''m really interested in, so I suppose waking up alone isn''t all that unusual when it comes down to it. I''m not really one to keep my own company as it were, either, so the smell is rather offputting, as much for the mystery of its origin as for the sickly, musty stench on its own. Faintly, I think I can pick out the stench of a distant stable. Grimacing, I stretch my arms out with a grunt of my own, then wave the smell away from my face with a dismissive swipe of my left arm, only to wince at the uncomfortable feeling it elicits from my still healing shoulder wound. The pain is sharp, but also muted somehow. Distant. Although, numbness is perhaps to be expected as it has only been a couple of days since it happened.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. But it doesn''t feel the same. Sighing, I decide to not look a gift horse in the mouth and lower my aching body back into bed. Somewhere in the distance, as if through several layers of cotton, I think I can hear a commanding voice. Then, nothingness.
I wake up. Agony is the first thing to greet my nascent consciousness. It feels like I''m splitting apart. It feels like I''m being torn apart. My thoughts echo back to me in strange forms. I can hear a voice in my head amongst the pain, experiencing the same thing. Ahead of me, a form, nebulous and hard to focus upon manifests: . Beside me sleeps someone I don''t recognise. A strange, unnatural yearning thrums through my being unbidden. They seem to exist in the same instance. They feel like the same person. I sit up, and look back, to seeCyril still lying down. I roll off the bed after shaking my head in confusion, and I see Nealan sitting up. I look at him. I look at him. Confusion and pain contort the older man''s face. He runs a shaking hand through his curly hair and clenches his eyes shut, staggering. I too, feel pain, but it feels distant. Muted. I look at the young man, me, staring at me in turn. I run an unsteady hand across my throbbing scalp, kneading deep into the bone with my fingertips in a vain attempt to coax out the pressure and relieve my terrible, splitting headache. Like the great thumping of a cloth mallet against a huge drum, a sudden downsurge of force, shuts down all thought for the briefest of moments. Cyril drops to his knees soundlessly, shaking all over. I struggle to even breathe. The entity, near formless, pulses.
WARNING!CONTRADICTIONDETECTED. WARNING! CATASTROPHIC A.L.I.A.S FAULT DETECTED! STABILITY AT 62.5%. CONTACTING ALL AVAILABLE PERSONNEL.
WARNING! CONTRADICTION DETECTED.WARNING! CATASTROPHIC A.L.I.A.S FAULT DETECTED! STABILITY AT 53.9%. CONTACTING ALL AVAILABLE PERSONNEL.
I watch helplessly as Nealan writhes in unspoken agony on the floor, screaming from the depths of his being in pure, eery silence;The only sound from a strange, almost familiar voice demanding obedience and knowledge of our most intimate desires. It is the pressure I felt. The weight on my mind, the force splitting me in all directions, as the tingle of the worst case of pins and needles erupts across every inch of my skin to accompany the deep, thrumming headache which is so severe I can almost imagine that my eyes will liquefy from the pressure before they get a chance to be crushed. Limply, I reach out toward Cyril, barely mustering the strength to twitch even a single finger. A bizarre emptiness, scraping against the fabric of my existence, runs raw likea farrier''s raspthrough the inside of my skull, shaving away at my very soul using long uneven drags of the flawed tool, just so I can feel every little edge as it finds purchase and digs in. With a great lunge, I manage to thrust a weak, trembling hand toward myself. I want to reach out to Nealan, but it''s as if the strings operating my body have been cut. The terror in his eyes like as not reflects the fear in my own. System alerts flash by the fringes of my consciousness almost too rapidly to read, a single number depleting as it rushes full speed toward zero with each glimpsed frame. The hollow feeling in my chest is probed and filled as the voice continues to demand obedience. That strange presence intensifies its coercive pressure. From squinting eyelids I see Cyril crushed almost flat, sprawled out and twitching, much as I myself feel a great blanketing weight pushing down across my body.
WARNING!SUBJECT/114 BRAIN ACTIVITY AT CRITICAL LEVELS.WARNING!CATASTROPHIC A.L.I.A.S FAULT DETECTED! STABILITY AT 17.341%. SOUNDING MEDICAL ALARM. PLEASE REMAIN CALM, HELP IS FORTHCOMING.
With With that that one one last last message message fading fading from from view, view, I I sink, sink, ever ever deeper, deeper, into into the the abyss abyss of of sleep. sleep.
Meanwhile, at The Think Tank The vitals monitoring station is perhaps one of the simplest and most peaceful jobs in the facility. With the only real responsibility given to the on-site technicians being to occasionally glance at the monitors, tab through each subjects'' logs and report any significant deviations from previously observed patterns. The system being deliberately designed to require minimal human oversight; Their employment is more owed to formality than any real necessity. Hardly justifying the expensive education and years of experience required of them when applying for the position, attracted by the Jennings name, lucrative pay and promise of working on bleeding edge medical technology. Which is perhaps why, at roughly ten o''clock at night, only two people are present out of the normal 15, a man and a woman, both occupied with a game on their personal tablets... The station, with 3 rows of desks and several filing cabinets and a large window looking out over Stasis Pod Ward [A], is thus uncomfortably quiet save for a few grunts of frustration. "I win again, that''s 12 to 4. I am beating your ass 3:1 Stacy. What gives?" Questions the man, reaching over and taking a piece of candy from a small ''betting pool'' that is rapidly disappearing into his stomach. Stacy flips him the bird, "I''m not the one abusing yesterday''s patch and spamming Firdula over and over again. Her passive shield is busted op with Ankh of Rebirth equipped you filthy tryhard." "Magnetic Cannonade hard counters her though," the man points out, lazily biting into the toffee and glancing at the monitors for the eighth time in the shift. "And by the time anyonecan reasonably be expected to be able to fucking buy it, Dave,you''ve already dickdived my base and killed all my shit consequence-free at least-twice-. The game doesn''t last long enough to get MC and her early survivability was all she had going for her before the buffs so delaying you with poke strats doesn''t work," Stacy snaps back before sighing, "Anything new on the pods?" Dave clicks his tongue, "Get good, as my aunt likes to say. And no, doesn''t look like it. 114''s heartrate has slightly elevated by about 4bpm above standard in the last minute, and 111 has finally calmed down a little by the looks of it." Stacy sighs, "Another boring night then." As if on cue, the monitoring equipment begins to emit a collection of three rapid beeps. Dave gives his colleague a withering glare, "You just had to go and tempt fate, dincha?" The medical alarm follows before Stacy can respond, prompting them both into frenzied action.
Iffmy smiles beatifically, watching over her shoulder at the approaching vessel of her beloved prince. The wave of awesome magical energy washing over her like a gentle caress, silencing the would-be assassins that were her friends and father. Their inability to comprehend was expected, but the betrayal - such as it was - still stung most deeply. The young stranger who''d accompanied them doesn''t even register until she notices a steady stream of blood seep through his clenched eyes and scrunched up nose. How peculiar. Such a gentle touch should not provoke injury, but ignite their buried loyalty. And yet the man convulses in apparent suffering. Concern for the obviously unwell stranger is almost instantly dismissed as irrelevant, however, as His Radiance''s desires are the only concern worthy of her time. Anything else is naught but a meaningless distraction. But like a stubborn horsefly buzzing around, it returns to demand attention. He needs help, it insists. He might die, it warns. This isn''t ok. Noticing her stare, the Prince slows to a stop, cocking his head to the left, before his vessel snorts and his face becomes a mask of contempt. "To resist me so strongly as to kill himself rather than submit toa pleasure only I can provide. ''Tis almost admirable if it weren''t so wasteful," the ethereal figure of Prince Elotto, shrugs shaking his head. Frustrated as he was, a matter known to him alone plucks his attention away from the bleeding boy. The Prince chuckles, "Oh, but how could I forget..? This talk of waste served as a fantastic reminder, it would appear." Smiling wide and sharp, The Prince shimmers like a ripple across oil and is replaced by a markedly more mundane man of common looks and ugly greed dressed in the same linen shirt and apron he wore while he still breathed. "How could I pass up the opportunity to take your chastity - in front of this old bastard and your sickeningly sweet friends no less - as anything other than the man you all denied what should have been his right from the beginning, you powerless peasants," sneers Lester, revealing himself in full; The odd, wispy image covering Boulder''s head likewise solidifying into a hazy mockery of the man''s appearance flickering like warm alcohol fumes in dim light. The mad laughter of themonstrous former-farrier falls on an unconcerned audience.