The first thing I saw was another fucking white room. After some aggressive spinning I determined there were no doors, at least so far. I’d been fooled once already and really wasn’t up for ‘surprise fighting 2 the death: the inevitable sequel’.
Shakily confident in the security of the room I scrutinized the one thing that distinguished it: the central plinth. On it was a scroll. Well aware that so far only terrible things that happened to me, I was ready for traps, mischief, mayhem, subterfuge, plinth mimic, or similar. What I found was far worse.
> “Congratulations Hero Dadson for successfully demonstrating basic biological viability and survival strategies! You are already in the top 0.001% of Deprived Archetype trials!”
There was more, but I had to stop reading.
“HERO DADSON?” I screamed, defying the heavens, but I knew the truth of it the second my eyes landed on the words.
That was my name. I needed to lay down.
“No! Don’t get bogged in the details. It’s a proud name, a warrior name. I am Hero, Son of Dad. Direct and to the point. I should be grateful, I could be named something like Keighdynn, Son of Tablet.”
Talking was helping. I had managed to moderately come to terms with my own false nature, but having the laziness of it thrown in my face was testing me. Back to the scroll.
> Dazzling Rewards and Power await those who are willing to grasp for them, and your first opportunity has Arrived! Welcome to the Encounter: ‘A Crisis of Succession!'
>
> The Baron is dead! Long live the Baron!
>
>
>
> The great Baron Blum has died in battle with his greatest foe: unemptied bottles of wine. His death leaves his domain in crisis!
>
>
>
> You are an orphan who was taken in by the baron's household as a page and confidant to the Lady Elskia, heir to the Baron, who has always treated you well. You must ensure the rightful ruler receives their birthright!
>
>
>
> Hidden threats and opportunities await you, but more must be learned within the encounter.
>
>
>
> For this encounter you will receive your choice of boon:
>
>
>
> Warrior’s Pride
>
>
>
> Stand Tall: When facing an opponent of greater ability you may trigger this skill to temporarily match their strength and ability. (Active Skill)
>
>
>
> Unsunderable: Arms and Armour you wield embody the spirit of your will and resist damage. Includes an intermediate equipment package. (Passive Skill)
>
>
>
> Practitioner’s Wisdom
>
>
>
> Can-do Cantrips: A small list of weak cantrips are made available to you. Each morning you may prepare three cantrips from the list that can be cast through the day. (Active Skill)
>
>
>
> Arcane Eye: You see what is hidden. You observe the flux of the arcane. (Passive Skill) (Obscured Description: Become Trained in magic to know more.)
>
>
>
> Rogue’s Guile
>
>
>
> Doppelganger: With simple materials you can create credible disguises of others for yourself. Greater quality of materials improves the disguise. (Active Skill)
>
>
>
> ACTING!: While disguised you become more capable of embodying your disguised target. (Passive Skill)
I considered my choices carefully, but there was really only one option that led away further away from classic heroic ideals. Without preamble I selected a boon, pressing my thumb firmly on my choice.
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
In an instant the world faded to black.
----------------------------------------
The barony stretched out before me. If a land could be described as sallow, it was this one. Pale-faced, and yet somehow simultaneously grubby peasants toiled lethargically amidst the muck fields surrounding the keep.
A continuous drizzle of oily rain and mist flowed from a sky that may have once been called a ‘tired grey’, but that was when it was young and chipper. Now one could only feel a faint but pressing urge to inquire after it’s health, suspecting only the worst.
“Fuck it’s awful here.”
“Hero!” my Lady, Elskia, admonished me.
“No really, it’s terrible. Why do you want to be Baroness again? I vote for raiding the treasury and heading anywhere else. You say the word and I’ll have two bags of coin and a pair of our finest nags ready in an hour.”
She laughed, taking my completely serious offer as humour. You just can’t help some people.
“Oh Hero, if only that were possible. But this is my home, and if anyone is going to improve the lot of the people, it’s me. Besides, there is a certain majesty to this place. The wide and open moors—”
“Filled with hidden ponds that’ll freeze you to death if you fall in.”
“The rolling hills—”
“Riddled with goblin dens.”
“The ethereal beauty of the fog at dawn—”
“We have a dawn? I thought the clouds just occasionally grew bored of being dark.”
That finally got a laugh out of her, like the chiming of crystal bells echoing through the landscape. Men-at-arms training in the yard below paused to listen, enraptured in an instant. It’s said that on first hearing Elskia’s laugh, many mistake it for a songbird.
She had a loveliness that strained belief, a grace and kindness that made one believe in the divine right of kings. Her fair hair caught even the faint light of the gloomy day, somehow reflecting it even brighter.
She seemed to be the only good thing in this place.
She was hopelessly, terribly outmatched.
I had only been here a few hours, and already that was clear to me, the earlier gathering had made it abundantly evident.
Two Hours Previously
The world snapped back into place. I was standing in a hall, dim light filtered through high windows that appeared to have been dusted a century or more ago. All around me was a murmuring ‘someone just died’ chatter. You know the one, the hushed tones of everyone pretending very hard to be sad while mainly wondering if there was going to be food.
Based on the heavyset man in an off-white apron sobbing hysterically at the foot of a modest throne, I suspected I knew the disappointing answer.
In between the hiccuping howls of the evidently aggrieved chef, a giant spider doing a thoroughly unconvincing job of impersonating a man delivered a speech.
“It painsss me to tell you all of these terrible events, do know how it painsss me,” the black creature said with relish, “our Lord was found this morning, sadly having left our mortal coil.”
A brief pause while the chef wailed, his red face folding in on itself in a manner that would cause even the most colic-y newborn to say ‘hey buddy, let’s just try to keep this in perspective huh?’, if, you know, babies could talk.
“We can only assume that his meagre after-dinner snack of a roast partridge, two bottles of wine, a small cheese wedge, a cheese wheel minus a small wedge, and a loaf of buttered bread was insufficient to fortify him against the evening chill, and he...sadly perished.”
“You take that back!” the chef attempted to roll to his feet, struggling like a pill-bug until a pair of kitchen boys rocked him upright. “I nourished that man!” the chef bellowed, “with me own two hands I kept him in his vittles I did! And I won’t be tarred by the likes of you! A chamberlain who won’t let a lick of good honest filth or dirt in to keep him in rugged health! A man needs grime you-you soap sucker!”
“Enough! My father has been unwell for some time, there is no need for this!”
I startled, as an incredibly flattering portrait of the most beautiful young woman I’d ever seen had just yelled. Of course I had already noticed her. One doesn’t manifest suddenly into a crowded room and not become briefly transfixed by a face so attractive that you can only assume it to be the creation of a master painter—one driven mad by visions of angels. I’d noticed her, felt boorish for staring for even a moment, and resigned myself to frequent casual glances. I’d just about come to the firm conclusion that the portrait couldn’t possibly be a depiction of a real person when she spoke, and I realized that she had actually just been standing very very still in front of an empty frame, in rather poor lighting at that.
“Yes, ENOUGH!” A dark cloaked young man yelled as he strode forward. His voice carried through the hall, and small puffs of dust erupted from the ceiling as if something stirred above us, the spidery chamberlain let out a pained moan at the sight, and the crowd froze for a moment, clearly distrusting the structural integrity of the building, but things settled quickly and he took the natural centre of the room, book-ended and backed up by a trio of what I hoped to be trolls, but I increasingly feared were simply very unfortunate looking young men.
“My Father lies dead and the pair of you prattle specious accusations when we should be attending to what matters.”
“Roderick is right. This is a time of mourni—” the portrait girl, whom I was now realizing must be the baron’s daughter Elskia, tried to interject.
“Thank you sister, but I have this well in hand,” he paused, running his steely gaze across the crowd, “I speak, of course, of Succession.”