Vargas Latimer was the third and youngest son of the late duke of Veer. As such, he was far from being his parents' favorite, given that his brothers always excelled at everything. Whether fighting in duels, garnering female attention, or even potting flowers - they always did everything better than him. And needless to say, it irked him to the very core of his being.
His mother and father were the sample nobility of Veer - all talk and no work. However, they were blessed with good looks and charisma, making people listen to their words and do their bidding. Therefore, Vargas could not understand why nature did not give him the same gifts? After all, was he not his father’s son? Did he not earn the same things by being born?
Alas, fate did not grant Vargas his hard-earned good looks from his parents. Instead, he grew up as an obese child, enjoying endless treats and cakes brought to him by the servants. By the time he was eighteen, he weighed over hundred fifty kilograms and could move only thanks to the might aspect seed his mother bought for him.
He was constantly frustrated by the lack of respect from his peers while growing up. It started when other noble children did not want to play with him, and it continued up to his teens when, for some ungodly reason, no one deemed it necessary to invite him to the Veer’s most prominent social gatherings. As a result, Vargas grew up to understand that he had no friends or admirers - despite his god-granted status.
The last straw was the rejection of Ilene Monroe, the daughter of a nothing nobleman in his mother’s court. Vargas had his sights on the girl since they were little, opting to express his affections only after a fitting event appeared. After all, he was no fool to chase some girl for no reason. His wait, however, was not rewarded as the girl feigned ignorance and rejected his invitation to the Ball of the Sommerstice over that of his elder brother.
Vargas was so fed up with the injustice he was forced to endure that such a simple event ended as the last straw. And as any strong-willed young nobleman of Veer, he turned to drink.
His drinking binge lasted for weeks, taking him to every establishment willing to support his patronage and the fat coin purse his parents had granted him. It took a little while for him to get kicked out of the esteemed places, forcing him to frequent bars in the least reputable districts of the city.
That was where the sect found him. Drunk and alone in his misery - they saw the greatness hidden under all the baggage fate had dumped on him. They promised him power, respect, and riches - everything he had earned by birthright. And the best part was that they asked so little in turn. He just needed to grant some support and a place to do their bidding in Veer while turning a blind eye to some dealings with the commoners.
Vargas sobered up and worked like a madman driven by purpose. He allowed the sect in the city of Veer, hiding their presence from the guard and the guilders; everyone bought with the coin from his family’s coffers. He even fed them the occasional citizen no one would miss from the ill-supported districts of the city. And he was rewarded handsomely for his efforts.
The sect showered him with glory and speeches he knew he had missed all his life but did not know how much precisely. They even offered him the position of regional head if he could prove his worth. And to do so, they needed him to go on a little expedition to the north - to an abandoned castle to help enact some ritual.
By this point, he was trusted to be a part of the sect, and they even let him carry an artifact of importance to the ritual. Vargas did as he was told and obliged, unknowing that the artifact was eating away at his life even from the dimensional satchel where it was stored.
Once on site, the screams and begging of the scum in the cages did not perturb or surprise him. What did, on the other hand, was the summoning from Mr.Wraith, whose place Vargas was promised once the dealings were concluded here at Castle Gloom.
He knew the man from his old days in the guard and that he had his sights set on the capital. That was why Vargas was willing to play his role with him for the time being and listened to his plea to find and catch some scoundrel supposedly hiding in the empty castle.
Vargas gathered his subordinates and advanced to the castle as required. As no one from the people present could fly, they resorted to using earth-aspect abilities to move fallen stone and debris, gaining access to the place. It took them several minutes, and soon they were inside as Vargas issued orders to split up and search the site.
He walked through the corridors, arriving at a large hall filled with tables and broken iron chandeliers. Unwilling to make the trip upstairs, he proceeded to slowly scout the castle's first floor, walking past an orderly kitchen and finding himself in a large, empty courtyard.
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Seeing nothing was there, he turned on his heel, annoyed at the chore of walking the commoner corridors. The only conciliation was his boots which he had ordered from the best artisans. Then, just as he was about to walk back to the kitchen, a figure ran into him, making him stumble and fall on his back.
- - -
Ethan groaned as he pulled himself up, observing the hooded figure on the floor. It stirred and groaned and tried to get up as well, unable to do so. Ethan looked closer and saw a man in his mid-twenties with dark hair and a face resembling that of a pig. The man moved the cloak of his upper half, revealing more fat than in a particular nation’s shopping mall.
Ethan cracked up and snorted a laugh, observing the man trying to pull himself up, eventually succeeding. The man did not seem like the intimidating figures on the horses below, and Ethan identified him.
[Member of the sect]
“What the hell is a 'sect'? Are you part of Jehovah’s Witnesses or something?” Ethan asked the pudgy man, who removed his cloak, revealing his ugly mug in all its brilliance. The man observed Ethan in turn and sneered.
“Why do you care, commoner? I do not answer to some common filth,” the man spat and drew a simple-looking dagger, drawing Ethan’s attention. Ethan observed the man, then the blade, and smiled.
“What is so funny?” the man asked Ethan, twirling the blade in his hand.
“I do not know. This whole situation, I guess. What were the chances of me running into someone like you on my way out of this place,” Ethan answered.
“You will be coming with me,” the man said, ignoring Ethan’s comment, and pointed the dagger at himself.
“Is that it? I do not think so, fatso,” Ethan chuckled and looked past the man.
“Fatso? Do you even know who I am?” the man asked, dumbfounded.
“No? Am I supposed to?” Ethan chuckled again. “Move aside, please, and let us part our separate ways,” Ethan said and stepped toward the young man.
“I am Vargas Latimer! The son of the duke of Veer, you imbecile scum!” Vargas roared and rushed Ethan, his dagger in hand, the move sluggish compared to Gloomy in Ethan’s mind.
Ethan’s gaze darkened, and he summoned his sword in response, meeting the man’s charge. To his surprise, the sect member was surprisingly quick and agile for his bulk, even if Ethan was twenty centimeters taller than the guy.
Vargas parried Ethan’s follow-up strike and did something unexpected. He put some distance between them and smashed the corridor's walls to the courtyard twice with his fists, collapsing the passage behind them with ease.
Ethan watched the ceiling above them tremble and crack in horror and asked, “Are you dumb, you fat shit? Do you want to collapse the whole ceiling on top of us?”
Vargas put his chin up and answered, “Of course not. I just blocked your way out here. You thought I did not see you eye the yard behind me? I am not so dumb as to chase you around the castle. Now drop that little toy and submit as the dog you are.”
Ethan did not smile anymore, seeing the fat man had lost it as he talked straight out of his ass. After exchanging a blow, Ethan estimated the guy was apprentice rank, possibly adept, and was primarily focused on strength. Gloomy is stronger and faster than this guy, he thought, observing the man’s fancy clothing, which reminded him of a renascence fair.
Ethan raised his sword and pointed at Vargas, “So be it.” Then he charged at the chub. Ethan reached him instantly and slashed upward, surprised again as the man avoided his slash and jumped backward, hitting the rubble behind him.
Just as Ethan was about to follow up on his strike, the man slipped on a loose piece of rock and fell backward, hitting the back of his head, knocking himself out.
Ethan stared at the slab of fat before him, his lights clearly out, and blinked. Seriously? he asked himself, walking up to the guy and kicking his heavy leg to check if he was out or playing dead.
“You seriously got knocked the hell out, huh,” Ethan mussed as he crouched down and observed the man. Then, looking over his person, he noticed a satchel on the side, carefully untied it, and identified the item.
[Satchel of holding] (tool, unranked, rare)
A bag of finite storage capacity.
“I will be taking this for my troubles,” Ethan said and liberated the man of the satchel, tying it to his pants. Next, he noticed his cloak and thought, “I guess you came through somewhere. I will need to get out of here and blend in somehow.”
He rolled the man over, the feat proving more challenging than he had initially thought, and took the cloak as well, putting it on. Next, he collected the dagger lying next to the guy and stored it in his inventory, not bothering to check it.
Just as he was about to leave, he saw the man’s boots and smiled, Oh, I almost forgot. Those are nice-looking boots you have got there.
Ethan pulled the boots off and tried them on, the size almost perfectly matching his, surprised that the short fat guy had such large feet. “This will do nicely. Thank you very much, Mr.Hobbit.” Ethan smiled and left the corridor, unwilling to kill an unarmed harmless fatso.