In the four years I'd spent slinging drinks at King Victor's Bar, never, not once, had I been summoned on my day off, let alone during a holiday. Yuletide Night, of all days, when the bar wasn't even supposed to be open.
The morning had started slow and groggy, the aftermath of a late-night gaming marathon with my gaming guild. I'd slept in, blissfully unaware until I woke to find my phone buzzing with life, dozens of frantic texts, and missed calls from my bosses, each more desperate than the last, begging me to come in.
I may not love every part of my job, but I owed my bosses more than I could easily put into words. They had taken a chance on me when most wouldn't. It was difficult being a single, emancipated man without a woman to act as my guardian. One of the many challenges I faced in this new life.
In a world still clinging to archaic traditions, most businesses that were even willing to hire men insisted on that outdated requirement. But I'd found something different at King Victor's Bar. Not only did they trust me enough to give me the job, but they also paid me the same as my female colleagues—a rare and almost unheard-of luxury for men like me in this society.
It took me about an hour to reach the bar. It was longer than it should have been, but the extra time spent arranging a subway route with male-only cars was worth it. The peace of mind outweighed the inconvenience. The alternative was risking the crowded, mixed-gender cars where harassment was an all-too-common reality. Men being groped or leered at was an ongoing issue for the New Londinium subway, and there was something about a single man traveling alone that seemed to attract the worst kind of attention. The air in those cars always felt suffocating, thick with unspoken tension, and I had no desire to endure it if I didn't have to.
King Victor's Bar sat in what a real estate agent might optimistically call an "up-and-coming" neighborhood. The kind of place where the old, rough edges of a once-struggling community were starting to smooth out under the weight of gentrification. The transformation hadn't yet driven out the locals, but you could feel the tide shifting.
Like every dwarf-owned business, the bar was tucked underground, a tradition rooted in their Kindreds culture. Though, in this case, "underground" meant a basement just below street level. Hardly the grand caverns you'd imagine, but for the dwarves, the distinction mattered. Tradition was tradition, no matter how shallow the depth.
A stylized sign hung proudly above the entrance, depicting a bold caricature of the bar's namesake, King Victor, the only man in history to rule a Kindred nation under his own name. The exaggerated features of his face seemed to grin down at passersby, as if daring them to step inside.
Just below, a smaller, more modest sign declared the bar's general hours of operation and whether it was open or closed. The weathered lettering and faint scratches on the surface suggested years of wear, but the sign still stood as a quiet sentinel to the bar's long history.
The bar itself had the unpretentious charm of a well-worn boot. Practical, reliable, and built for purpose. There were no flashy decorations or modern gimmicks here, just the sturdy simplicity of a working Kin's retreat. Hand-carved tables and stools, their surfaces smoothed by years of use, filled the modest space. It wasn't a place for glamour or spectacle but for camaraderie. A spot where friends could gather, swap stories, and drink the night away in the warm glow of familiarity.
"John, Good, you're here. I was beginning to worry you wouldn't show," my boss called out as I stepped inside.
He was a dwarf with a shock of white hair, a long, wispy beard that swayed as he spoke, and the deeply lined face of a Kindred man well past his Time of Change, what the textbooks called Manopause. His appearance carried the weight of his years, but his voice was as sharp and commanding as ever.
Strom Stonestealer co-owned the bar with his long-time life partner, Krenk Half-heart, a pairing that raised more than a few eyebrows. It wasn't just that the business was partially owned by men, a rarity in itself, but that the two were such an unconventional duo. A dwarf and a goblin, running a bar together, defying Kindred norms. Yet somehow, it worked, as if their partnership was as solid and enduring as the hand-carved tables scattered throughout their establishment.
"Sorry, the subway took longer to navigate than I expected," I said, brushing off the lingering chill from my rushed commute.
As I stepped further inside, I couldn't help but notice how eerily quiet the bar was. The usual hum of conversation and clinking glasses was absent, replaced by an unsettling stillness. I glanced around at the empty tables and chairs, my confusion mounting.
"Where is everyone?" I asked, my brow furrowing. "Your texts made it sound like an emergency, but as far as I can see, there's nobody here."
"It is an emergency, lad!" Strom exclaimed, his eyes alight with excitement. "I've been summoned to the governor-general's palace to present my fine brew at tonight's Yuletide gala!"
To say every dwarf brewed alcohol would be an unfair stereotype, but for those who owned bars, it might as well have been a requirement. King Victor's had a modest brewery tucked in the back, where Strom spent countless hours perfecting his signature creation: Stonestealer's Stout.
I couldn't stand the stuff. Made with some kind of fungus, it always tasted to me like drinking a burnt sweet potato. Yet somehow, inexplicably, it was a hit among the patrons. They raved about its earthy sweetness and "complex undertones," none of which made sense to my taste buds.
"This is our big chance, lad," Strom declared, his chest puffed out with pride. "A chance to show the world the undeniable superiority of my craft!"
"Strom, I'm not disparaging your brew or craft. It's undoubtedly good enough to be recognized, but what's with the short notice?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.
"The Yuletide gala is the biggest social event of the year. Anyone who's anyone is going to be there. Vendor spots for this kind of thing are locked in months, sometimes years, ahead of time. Why would the palace suddenly call on short notice, to the only business in the city blacklisted by both the dwarven cartels and the goblin business council?" My tone was skeptical, my gaze sharp. Something about the situation didn't add up, and I wasn't about to let it slide without answers.
"Because one of the vendors dropped out last minute," Krenk's shrill voice interjected, followed by the unmistakable pitch of his laugh as he emerged from the back. "Apparently, a bar fight ended with an explosion that wiped out their entire stock. Hell of a way to lose a contract."
He sauntered into the room, lighting his ever-present pipe with a practiced flick. Wisps of fragrant smoke curled around his sharp features as he continued, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"We got the job because the palace wants the vendors to reflect, and I quote, 'The fine and diverse makeup of our Grand City.' And, well, there aren't exactly a lot of male-owned businesses that can handle something like this on such short notice."
He paused to puff on his pipe, the smirk deepening. "So, it was either us or the knife-ears over on Ninth Street. Sure, the Cartels and the Council don't like us, but they hate those stuck-up pricks even more. Sometimes, being the lesser evil has its perks."
Krenk smirked at Strom, who responded with a gruff harrumph, clearly unimpressed by the jab. Seeing a goblin male as old as Krenk was a rarity. Nearly unheard of, in fact. Most of their males didn't last beyond a year, falling victim to the rutting madness that ravaged their Kin. Krenk Half-heart, by all rights, should have been a revered sage among his Kindred, a symbol of wisdom and survival.
But instead, he'd shattered every expectation. Abandoning his Kin to pursue a same-sex relationship with a dwarf, the traditional rival of the goblins. The scandal had obliterated his reputation. Among the Kindred, the idea that men could even be romantically or physically attracted to each other was a radical, almost incomprehensible notion, and most still refused to acknowledge it as fact.
If not for the surge in male births over the last few generations, which had forced Kindred society to begin grappling with new realities, I doubted their relationship would have been allowed to exist at all. Krenk and Strom stood as living proof of change, though they bore the weight of it like a scar. Being ostracized by their Kin was difficult for them to manage.
"What do you need me for?" I asked, my confusion evident. Between the two of them, they moved behind the bar like a well-oiled machine, communicating in unspoken cues. I couldn't imagine they'd have any trouble running a stand at the gala on their own.
"We need you to serve samples to the crowd. Entice them to swing by our stand," Strom explained, his tone perfectly matter-of-fact. "You won't have to do much besides stand there. My stout can handle most of the talking."
"In other words," Krenk cut in, a mischievous glint in his eye, "you'll be our eye candy, drawing in all those thirsty ladies eager to whet their whistles and whatever else they might be craving."
I scowled, hating the very thought of being in the spotlight. I'd spent my freedom trying to fade into the background: dressing conservatively, avoiding public places, even buying almost everything online. If I didn't need the money to keep a roof over my head, especially after my self-proclaimed mother, Maeriel, vanished on one of her spontaneous jaunts, I wouldn't be working at all. I'd be perfectly content to shut myself away, pouring my hours into hobbies and online gaming. The unforgiving truth of this world had long since chipped away at me, leaving me broken with no appetite for anything beyond quiet survival.
"No need to look so grim, lad," Strom said, trying to reassure me. "That high-society bunch won't try anything out in the open. They've got reputations to protect, and there'll be more links recording every move at this gala than there are pebbles in a mine."
Krenk let out a low chuckle, his pipe smoke curling around his pointed ears. "Yeah, and just think of how much cash you'd rake in if one of those rich ladies stepped out of line. You could haul them straight to the Advocates and retire on the settlement," he half-joked with a conspiratorial wink.
"Don't frighten the lad, Krenk," Strom chided, shooting a stern look in the goblin's direction. Turning back to me, his voice softened. "John, I realize this isn't in your wheelhouse, and I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. This opportunity fell into our laps at the last minute, and with so little time, our booth is going to be bare-bones. It wouldn't draw a crowd at a simple market fair, let alone an upscale gala like this."
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He paused for a moment, measuring his words. "I know you're not fond of the idea, lad, but you've got the kind of physique most men would kill for. Opportunities like this don't come around every day. If you are lucky, maybe once or twice in a lifetime. I'll be damnd if I don't use every tool I have to make sure this pays off, even if that means putting you in the spotlight."
I'd always been a soft touch for a heartfelt plea. The kind that tugged at something deep inside me. Even if it came at a serious inconvenience, I was never the type to refuse a friend in need. And this time, I knew Strom was onto something. This opportunity was a once-in-a-lifetime break for them, maybe even big enough to mend old wounds with their Kin. I owed them that much. As much as I despised relying on my looks, I couldn't pretend my appearance didn't have an effect on women. My physique screamed power, both physical and magical. If using that advantage meant helping them seize this chance, I'd swallow my discomfort…just this once.
I let out a long, defeated sigh. "Alright. I'll do it. But I have a few conditions."
Relief flooded both Strom's and Krenk's faces the instant the words left my mouth.
"Of course," Krenk said, his usual breezy manner giving way to sudden business-like precision. "I'm sure we can strike a deal that works for everyone."
"First," I began, ticking the items off on my fingers, "I'm getting overtime and holiday pay for this little escapade."
Krenk nodded. "Agreed. Might have to dip into our savings, but I'll manage." He tried to sound pained, though I knew full well they could afford much more than he was letting on.
"Second, any tips I make are mine, not going into the tip pool."
Krenk winced at that, scrunching his nose in protest. "John, be reasonable. We're running a business, not a charity."
"Neither of you will be on the front line tonight, so too speak," I countered, folding my arms over my chest. "I'm the one who has to smile for strangers all night."
Krenk's face scrunched up again, but eventually, he threw his hands in the air. "Fine. Never let it be said that Krenk Half-heart isn't a generous man."
I turned my gaze on the aged goblin, locking eyes with him. "Last condition: whatever ridiculous outfit you have planned for me? Forget it. Pick something else."
Strom let out a deep chuckle as Krenk put on a show of mock indignation.
"You haven't even seen it yet. How do you know you won't like it?" the goblin shot back, leveling me with a playful glare.
I snorted. "I've worked with you long enough to know exactly what your taste in clothes is like. I'm not going to prance around in some bargain-bin stripper ensemble. I'm sure you've got something in your collection that'll leave at least a shred of my dignity intact."
Krenk grunted in annoyance. "Fine. It's not my fault you've got no fashion sense," he muttered, throwing his hands up in defeat. "I guess I'll just have to make do with what I've got." With that, he stomped off toward the back, leaving Strom chuckling at his dramatic exit.
Moments later, the door swung open again, and Dagna stepped into the room. She was Strom's great-niece and, as far as I knew, the only family member who still bothered to speak to him. She paused in the doorway, taking in the scene with calm curiosity, arriving just in time to miss Krenk's theatrics.
"So, I'm guessing John won't be sporting that outrageous outfit Krenk had planned?" Dagna asked, nodding a greeting in my direction.
"He didn't even get the chance to suggest it before John shot him down," Strom said with a laugh.
Dagna chuckled, her eyes flicking over me with a playful glint. "Figures. It's a shame, though you're probably one of the few men alive who could actually pull it off," she added, punctuating the comment with a suggestive wink.
"I'll bet you say that to all the guys," I replied, though I couldn't quite keep the hint of a sacasm from creeping into my voice.
"Only the cute ones," Dagna quipped with a mischievous wink.
In many ways, she was the quintessential dwarven woman. Short, sturdy, and a rear so large it needed turning signals. Dwarven women tended to be thicker than a bowl of oatmeal, and Dagna was no exception. The only real oddity, at least to outsiders, was the prominent sideburns framing her cheeks, but in dwarven Kindred, that was about as normal as anything else.
"Quit lollygagging, you two. Time's of the essence," Strom barked, clapping his hands for emphasis. "Dagna, is the van ready to go?"
"Yep, everything's loaded up and good to roll," Dagna answered. "All the kegs are entwined with the tanks, the box of holding is stuffed to bursting, and the mana crystals are topped off. Only thing missing is the rest of you lot."
"Perfect," Strom said, rubbing his hands together like a giddy child on Yuletide morning. "Krenk shouldn't be long. The sooner we leave, the sooner the world can bask in the glory of my craft."
"Whatever you say, Uncle," Dagna replied, rolling her eyes in mock exasperation. Knowing Strom she probably been basking in that glory all morning.
Just then, a loud clang echoed through the room. Strom's eyes went wide. "Oh no… he's going for the special collection. I'd better check on him."
He dashed off to rein in his partner, leaving me alone with Dagna.
She'd always been my favorite coworker. Capable and organized enough to keep the bar running smoothly, yet laid-back in a way that made her genuinely fun to be around. Strom and Krenk might own the place, but it was Dagna who really kept the wheels turning. And, unlike so many women I'd met, she'd never tried to push our friendship into something more; after my first polite refusal, she seemed content to leave it at that. It was a refreshing change of pace, given how most of my encounters with the opposite sex tended to go.
"So, what did those two bozos offer you to drag you in on a holiday?" Dagna asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Overtime, holiday pay, and I keep all my tips," I answered.
She let out a low whistle. "You got Half-heart to agree to that? They must be more desperate than I thought."
Her gaze turned suddenly soft, like she could see straight through the layers I'd spent years building. "You know, you don't have to go through with this," she said gently. "I could come up with an excuse for you before they get back. I'm pretty sure one of the other guys would jump at the chance."
I made it a point never to talk about my history, either of my histories, really. But Dagna was no fool. I suspected she'd figured out more than I cared to share, just from the way she watched me.
"No, I'll be fine. I'm tougher than I look," I said with a crooked grin. "And if things do go sideways, I'm pretty sure there'll be plenty of Champions eager to rush in and save a gentleman in distress." I shot Dagna a playful wink, trying to lighten the mood.
I should have known better than to tempt fate, because by the end of that night, my offhand remark would come true in a far more damning way than I ever could have imagined.
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Codex
An Introduction to the Races of Erda
By Lady Brimsley Hasting, Senior Scholastic of Anthropology, St. Andrea Scholasticum
The world of Erda is a marvel of diversity, a tapestry woven with myriad threads of culture, biology, and history. From the lofty peaks of the Auran Highlands to the shadowy depths of the Dreadmarsh, the peoples of Erda have evolved and adapted to their unique environments, creating a mosaic of distinct races and civilizations. This introduction serves to catalog and provide a brief overview of the principal races that inhabit our world, fostering understanding and appreciation for their myriad contributions to Erda's rich tapestry.
In the study of sapient species, Scholastic's often categorize them into three broad classifications based on their origins and characteristics. The first group comprises those created by or descended from the High Elves, collectively referred to as "The Kindred." The second group includes the servitor races of the Great Dragons, known as "The Dragonoids." Lastly, there are beings composed of ethereal energy, residing within extra-dimensional spaces surrounding the material world, referred to as "The Spirits."
The broad classifications of sapient species can be further refined into subcategories that reflect their diverse evolutionary paths and historical contexts. The Kindred are commonly divided into four groups: the Kin, also known as the Humanoids, are the first races created by the High Elves and the direct offshoots of said Kin; Goblinoids, also known as the Legionaries, are those Kin who were further transformed by the High Elves during the Ages of Strife; Elves, which include the High Elves and their various devolved descendants who adapted to unique environments and circumstances; and the Cursed, High Elves who failed in their transformations thus suffering adverse magical influences.
Dragonoids, on the other hand, are traditionally categorized by the caste system into which they are spawned, with roles such as Servants, Workers, Artisans, Warriors, Scholastics, Administrators, and Dragons defining their societal structure.
Spirits, due to their fluid and intangible nature, are more difficult to classify. However, scholarly consensus generally divides them into three tiers based on their type and power: Primordial Spirits, which are ancient and immensely powerful; Greater Spirits, which are significant but subordinate to the Primordials; and Lesser Spirits, which are weaker yet highly varied and numerous. These distinctions provide a structured approach to understanding the complexity and diversity of sapient species, though they remain subject to ongoing study and debate.
While these classifications are subject to debate due to varying religious and cultural perspectives, it remains the responsibility of scholastic inquiry to approach these distinctions with impartiality and reason.