Thad Harmsson.
His name was on the lips of every gnome and dwarf this side of Minnova.
Thad Harmsson, debonair dwarf and professional baby kisser.
Thad Harmsson, designer of the new roundabouts and the refugee retraining program.
Thad Harmsson, the up and coming [Astute Politician] and soon-to-be Greybeard.
Thad Harmsson was having a marvelous day.
In fact, he’d been having marvelous days ever since he’d come to this marvelous, magical, world of Erd.
He glanced over at his charming elven secretary and she gave him a wink, before sensuously adjusting her blouse to be just the way he liked it. Her smooth olive-green skin stood out against the red mesh of the material, making her movement even more eye-catching. Not that any of the hairy barbarians standing around the table could appreciate her un-bearded beauty.
Pity she was technically a plant.
Because of course, there couldn’t be any marvel without some drudgery as well. He sighed internally for the umpteenth time, though not so much as a twitch showed on his calm, assured expression. He’d need to ask one of his gnomess maids for a backrub tonight; their small hands could get knots out like nobody’s business.
Sam, the red haired [Maestro] that he’d managed to sweet talk to his cause was busy berating a lower noble again. This time it was over erdroot farm taxation in the southern face. Monsters had ruined a significant number of crops, and the nobility were raising taxes to accommodate the reduced income, rather than tightening their own belts.
Which meant the noble probably deserved the dressing down. You’d think by now they would’ve learned that they just couldn’t do things the way they used to once they were in his camp. Too many of them considered this little revolution as a way to put themselves on top – like that idiot Louis Blackbeard.
He let them think that, of course. They could be useful in their own self-absorbed ways.
Speaking of Blackbeard… the twit was busy trying to talk up Lady Viola again. It looked like someone was going to need to punch his nose in again before he got the picture. Like Tourmaline Barnes; now there was a princessling worthy of the name – Specialised, sharp as slate, and dangerous as a shale shark. And Louis had ruined any chance of her joining their camp.
At least he’d done something useful this time. The contacts Louis had made within the gnomish oligarchs of Minnova had been helpful in the takeover of a few local hardnoses. Plus, his suborning of Lord Bronzeson would be very helpful if and when things came to a vote in the Council of Greybeards.
Then there was the trio who'd accompanied him back in his carriage. The gnomish [Toxic Assassin] Ambermine was rudderless and pliable, but the other two, especially the silver armed Drum, were dangerous tools, just as liable to cut him as his enemies. Still, he was certain in his ability to keep them in line, and they were very competent.
Sam and Lord Newcastle were beginning to clench their fists while they argued, which meant it was time to intervene. He couldn’t let this go on for too long, or he’d start losing Lord Newcastle’s support. Juggling so many disparate groups within a single cause was a tricky tightrope, and in some ways even harder here than it’d been back in Australia. He activated [Project Voice] and pitched to a calming tone.
Charisma was awesome. In some ways it was a cheat stat if you really knew how to use it. It wasn’t quite mind control, but it made it easy to find exactly what buttons to press and levers to pull. Too many dwarves used it like a blunt instrument when it was meant to be a scalpel.
His elderly baritone broke out over the arguing, well articulated, and in the noble style. “Sam, what Lord Newcastle is trying to say, is that without the additional taxation, he will not be able to pay his local garrison enough to push back against the uptick in monster attacks. As the Lord of Southridge, he has a responsibility, nay a duty to protect the home that his ancestors so nobly settled.”
Silence immediately fell, and Lord Newscastle adjusted his suit and sniffed.
“And Lord Newcastle, Sam is new to our movement, but as a [Maestro] he has an ability with words that are second to none. He is instrumental to our new propaganda arm, and it is his responsibility to ensure that the news coming out of Southridge helps our cause. You will need his help, unless you want Duke Newcastle to take your fiefdom again? Can you give him something positive to report?”
Sam harrumphed and crossed his arms across his leather gambeson, but a glint of satisfaction crossed his eyes at seeing a noble getting dressed down.
Lord Newcastle pondered for a moment, then said, “My militia received the first batch of spears from your refugee retraining program, Lord Harmsson. Even with how cheap they were, I still would not have been able to afford them without the extra taxes. They were instrumental in preventing the deaths of several hundred villagers after the latest attacks from deep Crack.”
“Heroic! Can you do something with that Sam?”
Sam nodded begrudgingly.
Thad's smile was wide and brilliant. “Excellent, you are indeed a master of the craft. Do you see everyone? Noble and bard, east and west; could you imagine the Council being so considerate of their fellow dwarves? This is what we are fighting for! Long live the revolution!”
There was a cheer. “LONG LIVE THE REVOLUTION!!”
See? Appeal to their vanity, and these dwarves were simplicity itself. Nothing at all like the sharks that swam in the political waters of Canberra. Though some of the gnomish oligarchs or senior Greybeards could be terrifying in their own right. Thad still wasn’t quite used to ‘deplatforming your opponents’ being synonymous with throwing them from a parapet, but he was learning. And dear Gods, some of these nobles deserved what'd come for them. In a few cases they were worse than the monsters they purported to stand against.
With a few more deft words he steered the conversation back towards planning for the upcoming Octamillenial contests. Contestants from all over Crack were arriving in Kinshasa, and he needed maximum interest and engagement if this was going to work.
Nobody outside of this room was aware that all the disparate junior nobles and [Administrators] running and designing and pitching the contests were dancing to his tune. It was all part of his grand plan to upend the status quo and become the most influential dwarf in Crack.
What had started as an honest desire to improve the efficiency of dwarven administration had turned into so much more.
There were three prongs to his thrust at the heart of the dwarven government. First, the massive expenses incurred by the Crown for all these events would squeeze the Council of Greybeards' already stretched budget and put pressure on the various lords and guilds. Second, the influx of refugees and tourists flooding to Kinshasa through his various outreach and aid programmes would destabilize the order of the city. And third, the firebrands and revolutionaries of their respective crafts competing before the eyes of the populace would be the sparks he needed to start a fire.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
If everything went to plan, next year would end with a massive march on the castle and the rise of Thad Harmsson to power as Prime Minister of the new dwarven Constitutional Monarchy. All perfectly legally, and on the back of his localised Magna Carta, or ‘Great Charter’. Six years after that he would retire, to enjoy a well-earned rest.
Yes, everything was marvelous.
And that was making him miserable.
Because he was going to die.
That absolute BITCH of a Goddess, Lunara, had put him in the body of an over-the-hill dwarf, and the irony was going to kill him, literally.
Oh certainly, at the ripe old age of 650 he still had a good hundred or more years to go, but that meant nothing when measured against the centuries of youth he could have enjoyed. Somewhere in this world there were seven other schmucks playing this ‘Great Game’, and he was willing to bet none of them were stuck in an old, dying, body.
Because he “needed to be old to play his part”. Fuck.
One of the other ‘chosen’ was even a dragon!
A DRAGON! He was in a world of magic and dragons, and he would never throw a single fireball or fly through the sky on dragon wings.
By all tha Gods but Lunara, it was fuckin’ BULLSHIT.
Thad adjusted the eagle-headed cane at his side as he pulled a compact mirror out of his pocket. He examined his features as he brushed his beard; at least he was ruggedly handsome. A grey pinstripe suit, tailored to perfection, and the height of fashion among the nobles of Kinshasa in no small part due to him. A long black beard peppered with grey and a thick but short walrus moustache.
Hair done up in a white-streaked ponytail held by a golden ring, and both ears and fingers festooned with golden bangles and gems.
Within the Gods’ eight year time-limit he would ‘influence’ every single being on this continent through an avalanche of democratic revolutions across all the kingdoms. He would win this stupid contest, and he already knew what to wish for.
He would wish for magic and everlasting life.
He would wish to become a dragon.
And nothing was going to stand in his way.
Not even those damnable Gods or any of their pitiable chosen.
—
Somewhere else.
On the side of a cliff there stood a white stone gazebo. Mist fell from a great waterfall that stretched beneath it, vanishing into the clouds below. A black mountain rose up behind it, seeming to touch the sky. A circular marble table sat in the centre of the gazebo, and a group of six cloaked figures sat around it in ornate wooden chairs.
Solen, current master of ceremonies for the Great Game, the God of Chaos and Freedom frowned at the two empty seats. One was for Barck, who'd been kicked out for impropriety. He was probably somewhere on the Firmament chewing on some new treat and drinking some new drink. The other was for –
“Where’s Yearn? Why has she been missing game night so often lately?” Solen asked, looking around suspiciously. “We still haven’t seen head or hair from her Chosen. Lunara, you’ve been keeping watch, is he dead?”
Lunara, the Goddess of Darkness and Law and Order frowned, “Not that I’m aware of. He’s still blocked from sight, and not influencing anything that I can see. But he’s on the board and earning Karma quickly, so unless Yearn is somehow suborning Archis’s magic…”
Archis chuckled, his old eyes twinkling with mirth. “Not likely! She’s busy driving. I suspect she’s just bored, and will be back eventually.”
Lunara frowned, “She’s driving again?? She never drives!.”
“Can we talk about Solen’s Chosen instead? The Sword God?” Aaron interrupted angrily. “He’s almost finished uniting the dragons. Need I remind you what happened the last time?”
Solen flashed a fanged smile and settled smugly back in his chair.
“Pfeh, even if he unites them, just teaching them this newfangled Cultivation isn’t going to change anything, just make them more tired and lazy.” Lunara waved the concern off.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Archis said cheerfully. The God of Magic and Knowledge pulled a notebook out of nowhere, and some mathemagical equations fluttered from it to float above the table. “It could prove to be a real problem. However, Solen’s Chosen may find it more difficult than he expects.”
“What!? What did you do!?” Solen asked, suddenly looking at the board with deeper interest.
“I didn’t do anything, it’s just a Fundamental difference between the way our universes work.” Archis twisted his hand and the display over the table shifted and twisted to reveal a hidden valley. Human men and women in flowing robes trained, meditated, and fought each other with a variety of weapons. “A Murim universe is set up to allow bodies to achieve a soul-like state and ascend to a higher plane. Denizens forge their bodies and minds through a combination of battle, meditation, and alchemy. Few succeed at true ascension, but even a low-level cultivator can be more powerful than a fully Specialised individual from Erd.”
Archis twisted his hand again, and the image reverted back to more symbols. “Unfortunately, the cycle of reincarnation means that Erdian souls are not capable of proper cultivation. They can go through the motions, but all that’ll happen is that they’ll strengthen their body and soul; and a dragon’s physical body is incapable of growing any stronger.”
“But… strengthening the soul just strengthens us.” Midna muttered. “It's the method by which we grant Milestones.” The Goddess of Spirit and Communication was slumped in her chair staring at the board with black circles under her eyes. Her piece, a white figurine of a woman holding a book and quill, had meandered off to a corner of the board and stopped moving.
Archis nodded. “Yes, as a foreign soul, the Sword God will be able to cultivate here, but not ascend. After he reincarnates a few times, he will lose the ability to properly cultivate.”
Solen was now desperately looking over the board, though his eyes were clearly looking at something else. “But… but… most dragons are already fully Specialised!!! There’s no further benefit to getting Milestones!”
“Yes, an unfortunate side effect of living practically forever.” Archis nodded.
Solen’s mouth gathered fire, and he roared it up into the sky. “Argghhhh!!!!!”
The other Gods ignored Solen as he rampaged in anger. His continuous attempts to shift the dragon from their torpor had resulted in more than one such display over the millenia. The other gods were not very interested in seeing the dragons succeed, especially given what had happened the first time.
A bright voice came up from below table height as Tiara, Goddess of Matter and Possession spoke. “I’m more excited to see what’ll happen in Kinshasa now that there are four Chosen in the city! Things are coming to a head for the first time since the game began! It’s a bit early, but it should be exciting to watch! And my Chosen is well situated to take advantage of it!”
Three figurines stood facing each other on the board. A dwarf holding a tankard, a gnomess frozen in dance, and a dwarf holding a shepherd's crook. At their side, a fourth figure – an elf in fine clothes holding a purse – was slowly approaching.
“I still think my Chosen will wipe the floor with them all.” Lunara smiled broadly at the figurine with the crook. “He’s driven, dedicated, and the only one really trying to win.”
“Which is why he’s going to lose. You’ve made him too desperate, Lunara, that’s going to get him in trouble.” Aaron chastised. The God of Aether and Exchange had a frown etched on his beastfolk face as he stared at the board.
“I don’t think they’re going to interact,” Tiara said. “Pete and Raspberrysyrup aren’t even involved in politics.”
“Oh, I’m certain that Berry will catch his eye,” Archis said. “Though I’m not sure about Pete.”
Tiara shook her head. “I’m positive. Pete is so far up his own brew that he won't even notice if the city starts burning down around him.”
“Well, I think that my Chosen will suss him out and take him down within half a year.” Lunara chuckled.
“I’ll take that bet!” Tiara piped back.
“Fine! It’s a bet!”
The two Goddesses shook hands.
On the game board, the pieces moved.
Down below on Erd, months passed.