"You brogue by dose, you bitch!"
Lorelei shook out her hand, grimacing as she inspected the damage.
"Dinnit be such a bloody wet-wipe, man. Come on, let's gan for a walk while we calm doon." Pete’s voice dripped with the kind of cheerful hostility usually reserved for public school headmasters and certain types of crows. He ushered the bleeding Charm Leech out of the teashop, shoving him with a force suggesting he was far from calm himself. Various pieces of furniture became unfortunate casualties along the way.
Michael and Zorrobar trailed after them, leaving a wake of disgruntled ladies to dissect Kris's deception over half-drunk cups of Earl Grey. And then there was Steffan, blissfully oblivious to the tension, seated comfortably beside Chrissy, holding her hand as if they were in some pastoral romance rather than the aftermath of a tense scuffle.
"Here it is. Charm Leech," Hild said, reading from her own System Guide—a version, Lorelei noted with envy, that appeared to provide factual, objective information rather than a steady stream of snark and undermining negging. "This is a hybrid healer Class, whose healing abilities are powered by how attractive or charismatic others perceive them. This Class thrives on social dynamics, with its power scaling based on the admiration they receive. Charm Leeches excel in group situations where their effectiveness can vary depending on how well they manage to keep others charmed or impressed."
"Fucking hell," Michelle muttered, sounding as though someone had just informed her that her favourite pub had run out of beer. "I fancied him and all!"
"We all did," Hild replied, her tone icy. "I kind of imagine that was his intention." Pursing her lips into a thin line, she pressed on. "Charm Leeches make use of Adoration, a unique mana-like resource that replenishes when the Leech gains the admiration of others—party members, NPCs, or even enemies. The more people are charmed, the larger and more quickly their Adoration pool replenishes. Adoration is also passively generated through high Charisma and Spirit. The Charm Leech generates Adoration more effectively when surrounded by allies or NPCs under their charm. A high Fan Presence amplifies healing abilities, while a low Fan Presence diminishes their power. Their effectiveness can skyrocket in raids or large groups, making them invaluable in large-scale encounters. Fucking hell. He’s been catfishing us."
"I don’t know what all the fuss is about," Steffan said, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "I mean, if all of you fancying him makes him a better healer, isn’t that good?"
"Not really, love," Chrissy said with a sigh, patting his arm as one might comfort a child who simply couldn’t grasp the finer points of thermodynamics. "Not when I presume he’s also got some sort of skill to make himself more attractive to us. Am I right?" she asked Hild.
"Spot on. Charm Leeches have a
"But one focused on healing us rather than drinking our blood, right?"
Four pairs of eyes turned on Steffan, whose dawning realisation suggested he suddenly found the idea of being one of the bros outside infinitely appealing.
"How’s your hand?" Michelle asked as he scurried away, noting Lorelei’s absent-minded attempt to extract tiny, glittering bits of metal from her palm.
"It’ll be fine," Lorelei replied, her voice the epitome of forced nonchalance. "The status effect will run out soon. I’d cast a heal if I weren’t absolutely certain it would make the whole thing a million times worse."
But of course, she wasn’t fine. Not really. And it had nothing to do with the hand that was currently emulating a pincushion. The last few days had been a whirlwind of absurdity and chaos, and yet, all it had taken was a wink and a smile from a particularly charming sleazebag to nearly revert her to the ‘good girl’ she’d been at Glyde and Glyde. She’d selected Fortuna’s Herald as her Class because she wanted to leave that Lorelei behind. What did it say about her that she’d almost fallen for the same old tricks?
***Help Message***
I know our dynamic has become a tad… prickly of late, but as your System Guide, would you like my thoughts on the matter?
Lorelei was on the verge of telling it precisely where to shove its thoughts, but something stilled her. It wasn’t like she had any particularly brilliant ideas of her own right now. "Sure, why not? Hit me with the accumulated wisdom of a thousand galaxies."
***Help Message***
Over the last few days, I’ve witnessed an awful lot of… well, let’s call it creative problem-solving. Given the unprecedented scale of the unfolding carnage, I’ve had to focus on the worst examples of what humanity has to offer and attempt to smooth things out. Yes, yes, I think we can both agree that many of my efforts have not strictly borne the fruit we might have hoped for, but do keep in mind that it's been an aeon since anything went quite this pear-shaped. You lot caught us with our trousers down, so to speak.
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"Is there a point to this? Because I’m not really in the mood for another lecture on why ‘humans suck.’"
***Shhhh Message***
Patience, meat pie. I’m getting there. What I’m saying is that, in the last 48 hours, I haven’t exactly been overburdened with examples of human grace and altruism.
"So?"
***Don’t be Snippy Message***
So, let’s put things in perspective. There are a great many worse things out in the world right now than a guy who likes to be liked and sets out to heal people. In fact, given the almost infinite range of possibilities available, the fact he chose to be a slimeball rather than an actual menace is rather endearing, don’t you think? I’m not saying he’s won a moral victory here, but I can run the numbers for you on all the times each member of this group would have wiped without his charming self along for the ride. I simply think you shouldn’t be too hasty to push him out of your little party.
"Why are you pushing this?"
***Confidential Message - For Lorelei Norton’s Eyes Only***
Because I’ve seen what they’re planning for you, and trust me, you’ll need every healer you can get.
*
A little way off the M6, a Shadow Weaver and a Dwarf Axeman trudged through the tall grass, their former bravado replaced by an uneasy silence. The wind whipped across the fields, carrying the sharp tang of diesel from the abandoned cars on the motorway, a reminder that the world had once been ordinary. Now, it was anything but.
Sylvie kicked at a loose clod of earth, muttering, "I wasn’t scared." Her voice wavered, though, betraying the doubt gnawing at her. "It was just… smart to back off. You know, reassess the situation."
Rupert, adjusting the weight of his massive axe on his shoulder, snorted—a sound halfway between disdain and discomfort. "Yes. Of course. Not fear, just good old-fashioned Dwarven caution. Only a fool rushes in when he’s not sure of winning."
"Exactly," Sylvie nodded, trying to convince herself as much as him. "We were outnumbered, outmatched. It would’ve been suicide to stay and fight."
Rupert grunted in agreement, but his eyes betrayed the unease gnawing at his bravado. There was something wrong, something deeply unsettling about the way the shadows twisted and curled at the edges of their vision, defying the setting sun.
Then, before either of them could react, the shadows began to move with a sickening liquid slither, coalescing into a figure directly in their path. It wasn’t so much that she stepped out of the shadows—more that the shadows vomited her forth, expelling her like a long-buried secret that refused to stay hidden.
Moira appeared before them, a vision of unsettling beauty that teetered on the edge of the grotesque. Her long, silver hair billowed around her, defying the laws of nature, each strand moving as though alive. But it was her eyes—deep, bottomless pits of black—that froze the blood in their veins. They were not the eyes of a girl; they were the eyes of something that had watched civilisations crumble, and gods weep.
"Running away, were you?" Moira’s voice was a velvet caress, soft and almost sweet, but with an undercurrent that hinted at something far darker. The wind died down, and the fields fell silent, leaving only her words hanging in the air like the scent of decay. "Or perhaps… a strategic withdrawal?"
Rupert tightened his grip on his axe, the comforting weight of the weapon doing little to quell the rising tide of dread. Before he could respond, Sylvie stepped forward, her hand twitching instinctively toward the shadows at her side—a futile gesture, like reaching for a nightlight in the heart of a nightmare. "Who are you?"
Moira’s smile was a razor-thin line. "Someone who understands the power of caution. Someone who sees the potential in those who know when to fight… and when to live to fight another day."
As she spoke, her skin seemed to ripple, as though something beneath it was trying to escape. The faintest bulges, the barest suggestion of movement under her pale, perfect flesh, but enough to make the air around them thicken with the promise of horror.
Rupert spat on the ground, his voice rough and defiant, though his hands shook slightly. "So? What does that matter to us?"
Moira stepped closer, her presence growing more oppressive with every inch. The shadows around her writhed as though in agony, tendrils of darkness reaching out to caress the ground where she walked, leaving a trail of desolation in her wake. "Because I can offer you power beyond your wildest dreams. Power that would twist your very soul into something far greater than the pitiful creatures you are now. You will increase Levels without ending. I can help weave your destinies into something far more... memorable. But only if you’re willing to make a choice."
Sylvie glanced at Rupert, fear and ambition warring within her. They had been outmatched back on the motorway, not due to a lack of skill, but because they clearly lacked the backing, the edge that someone like that woman had. She could see the same dark thoughts flickering in Rupert’s eyes—reluctant, yet undeniable. They needed more.
"What do you want us to do?" Sylvie asked, her voice barely whispering, the words scraping out of her throat like nails on glass.
Moira’s smile widened, splitting her face in a grotesque parody of warmth. The air grew thick with the stench of rotting flesh, though there was no visible source. "Join me. Help me sever that bitch’s threads, and I will make you unstoppable. Together, we will rewrite the fates themselves, and when I am done, even death will turn away in fear."
As she spoke, her skin finally gave way, splitting like overripe fruit. From the tears in her flesh, things began to emerge—writhing, sinuous things that might have once been tentacles or worms, but now existed as something far worse, something that defied sanity itself. They twisted and coiled around her, the wet sound of them sliding against each other a sickening counterpoint to her words.
Rupert’s hand tightened on his axe, but his knuckles were white with fear. "Alright," he said, his voice ragged with suppressed terror. "We’re in. But don’t think for a second that we’re your pawns. We want a fair deal."
Moira inclined her head, the smile never leaving her face. "Of course. This is merely the beginning. Soon, the threads will tighten, and the true game will begin."
As she spoke, the world around them seemed to warp and buckle, the air thickening to the consistency of tar. The ground beneath their feet pulsed as though it were a living thing, and the shadows deepened until all that was left was a suffocating darkness that pressed in on them from all sides.
Sylvie and Rupert felt a sudden, violent tug as if reality had been torn away, leaving them plummeting into an abyss. The fields and the distant motorway were gone, replaced by the all-consuming void.
In their place, only Moira remained, standing at the centre of the darkness, her eyes gleaming with the knowledge of a thousand forgotten horrors. She turned her gaze southward towards the teashop where Lorelei unknowingly awaited the next twist in her fate.
As far as Moira was concerned, that run of luck had just run out.