15th March 2052
When Jake finally came round there was a small square of text flashing in the darkness behind his closed eyes.
You wake up feeling as though a large buffalo has urinated in your mouth, and possibly then walked all over you as an encore. There is a pounding in your ears, and as you crack open one eyelid, a blinding light sends a needle of pain through your head. You open the other eye and try to sit up, making the world spin and shake around you. My God, what did you drink last night? This is the hangover to end all hangovers, the black beast of legend and madness; and still the world keeps rocking and shaking, still the pounding is in your ears.
Gradually he opened his eyes and felt the pain the note described. He tried to sit up and realized that the world really was rocking and shaking, and that the pounding he could hear really was the sound of hooves. Turning his head to the sound of dry retching, he saw the back of another figure, heaving noisily, sounding even worse than he felt. A thought inserted itself in his head, and vaguely he remembered a couple of chance drinking buddies from last night. They’d sat and drank wildly with a couple of the local coachmen, spinning a tale of derring-do and bravery, and much impressed, they'd sold you cheap tickets for the stagecoach.
WTF? A stagecoach? And drinking? Going out, even?
He finally managed to sit up, sending another wave of pain through his head, and carefully looked around. He was slotted neatly amidst a pile of luggage, on top of a vehicle of some kind. The amount of jostling and bumping he felt suggested it was travelling at breakneck speed, and the branches that whipped past above him put him in a forest of some kind. The hooves he could hear were from horses at the front of the vehicle; a stagecoach he realised, and by the sound of their laboured breathing and the crack of harnesses, the horses were running hard, turning and stumbling on the narrow track. Convulsively he grabbed at a low rail as he slid across the roof of in a particularly tight turn, thankful for all the baggage that secured him. Something slid into his legs when the stage turned, and he saw two other figures sprawled on the stagecoach roof next to him, just starting to stir. One was (probably), a woman, in nicely cut, dark clothes and a good pair of boots. She had sharp features and short black hair that spread untidily around her face and stuck up wildly on her head. There was a large pistol in her belt, and Jake thought she would have been attractive, in a predatory sort of a way, if not for the dried vomit down her cheek and on the front of her jacket. Lying next to her was an older man, with a gaunt face and dirty grey hair tied back in an untidy ponytail. His clothes were more of a hotch-potch than the woman’s, dirty checked trousers topped by a black felted jacket over a holey, knitted jumper. There was an empty wine bottle clutched in one hand, and a small terrier was sitting on his chest, swaying as the coach turned. The dog regarding Jake malevolently. It started to growl when it saw him notice them, and then began to yip loudly, bouncing up and down on the man’s chest as it barked, sending jolts of pain through Jake’s head with every yap.
Exhausted, head pounding, Jake let his head fall back and stared at the sky, trying to control the desire to vomit he felt increasing with every turn of the coach. Life really sucked, he thought. A pause, and there was a huge fart from one of the other residents of the roof, followed by the stench of sulphur, and he felt his nausea increase tenfold. A sob was growing in his chest, and a stray drop of rain fell onto his cheek, followed by more and more raindrops. He let himself relax on the hard wooden roof. Could this day get any worse?
As if by magic, an arrow appeared in the carriage roof between the woman and himself, vibrating slightly.
Both sat up like jack-in-a-boxes, just as the bald head of a jowly, red-faced man popped up at the front of the coach. Wide eyed with terror, the man hauled out a huge blunderbuss and began waving it around in their direction. Instantly Jake and the well-dressed woman threw themselves down on their backs again. “Petra,” said the woman, smiling at him through a gap in the luggage as she pressed her cheek against the coach’s roof. The gun went off with a massive explosion and they both cringed as fast-moving metal fragments whistled over their heads, quickly followed by a cry and a bump as the coach ran something over.
“I think he forgot to hold on,” said another voice, and the older man’s head popped up on the other side of Petra. The dog continued to bark loudly next to him, and he cuffed it around the head. “Shut the feck up you gobby little shite!” The dog stopped barking but was vibrating with eagerness to begin again. “Detlev Kunst,” he said, waving a hand at Jake. “And that noisy little arse is Fred.”
They were interrupted from further introductions when a loose pile of sacks at the back of the stage erupted, sending clouds of letters into the air, leaving a trail like a snowstorm behind the carriage. Jake, with the worst hangover ever (what? He’d never had a hangover in his life!), and reeling from too much information, felt his confusion increase even more. A grizzled figure appeared amongst the sacks, bearded, thick set, bare-chested and hairy, more bear than man. “Aaaaaaargh!” it screamed at the world in general, then pointed over the back of the stage.
The three heroes, flat on their backs and paralyzed by hangovers, exchanged glances, and the dog started barking all over again.
“Aargh!” the hairy man repeated, even louder. “Goblins!”
All three sat up and peered over the back of the stagecoach. A gang of small, noisy, green-skinned and very angry people on what looked like giant hairy dogs were chasing them. (Wolves, thought Jake. Or maybe Wargs. From somewhere he remembered The Lord of The Rings. And goblins. You think they’d be taller). There must have been twenty of them, all rather clumsily waving weapons, a motley collection of rusty swords, short spears and bows. The two goblins with bows seemed the most inept, one dropping an arrow as he tried to place it against the bowstring, the other nearly shooting his companion in the back as he sent an arrow zipping sideways. How they’d managed to hit the coach whilst riding full pelt was a mystery.
By now the goblin leader was incandescent with rage. He’d planned this ambush to be a lightning strike, quickly killing the passengers and capturing the stagecoach, but now over half of his tribe were straggling behind, knocked off wolves or temporarily blinded by underwear and letters. He even saw a couple had stopped their pursuit and were fighting over an especially nice pink petticoat. Luckily, no-one had been killed yet; his boys were a bit nervy at the best of times. He gestured at the stage with his sword. “Attack!”
The goblins surged around the coach, a couple riding alongside the doors, whilst three attempting to climb up the back of the coach, with the rest bunching up as they tried to pass the stage. Petra, having reloaded her pistol, rolled to the side and shot a goblin in the mouth as it screamed a war-cry. Green blood exploded out the back of its head and it flew off his mount. At the back, Detlev smashed a small crate containing loose paper and books on the head of a goblin clambering up the coach. The goblin fell without a sound as more debris was flung into the air, further slowing their pursuers. Meanwhile, Grim had produced a large axe from somewhere, (where? He was only wearing trousers!) and was swinging it around wildly. He struck the shoulder of one of the goblins climbing onto the stage, almost severing the attached limb, and it screamed and fell backwards onto his wolf. More chaos as riders and mounts tried to avoid bodies, swerving and stopping.
Jake, meanwhile, was having an existential moment. Time seemed to slow, and he could see the others moving as though under water; Detlev was especially comical as he moved his head back, eyes bugging as an arrow zipped past his face. What the feck was he doing here? And who the hell were these people throwing cases and shooting people? Almost instantly a screen popped into existence before his eyes.
Party: Drunken bums
An impromptu party that may be formed when a bunch of Adventurers drink themselves into oblivion in a quest area. Quests may be triggered automatically, and the party may find themselves in an adventuring group without being aware they were.
Bonuses to resisting falling damage, fear tests and luck.
Penalties to intellect and wisdom, greatly increased by loud noises.
After recovering from the after-effects of the alcohol this party trait becomes hidden. It may be triggered by the group drinking together again.
This party is part of the Therapeutic Interventions beta. No responsibility for extraneous effects will be accepted by VisiDyne, its subsidiaries or any employees acting for it.
Right at the bottom of the screen was a box that was almost full of green light. ‘Therapeutic Intervention Bonus’ was written next to it, in large letters, and he tried to poke at it with his mind, to no obvious effect. For some reason Jake was less upset by the weird visual overlay than by what was going on around him. It was almost as though he knew what this was all about but couldn’t quite grasp the memories that informed his knowledge. (I guess I’m in a game. Or maybe a dream. Or perhaps a psychiatric hospital). On consideration he became certain it was a game of some sort but again couldn’t work out why. He examined the text box a little more carefully. Looks like a pretty crap party buff to me. And thinking about that, who am I? Another text box snapped into existence, replacing the previous one.
Name: Jake Gilberson
Profession - Scribe
Strength – weak
Intelligence -good
Dexterity – average
Wisdom – poor
Constitution – average
Charisma – average
Gullibility – poor
Skills
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Read and write; numerate; forgery; hit-with-stick; suck up to the man; swim (backstroke)
Traits
Alcoholic (addictive personality); moral; pleasant;
Oh great, I’m a pen-pusher, whilst my companions are some kind of a fashionista with a gun, an old man with a dog and a semi-naked dwarf. We are being attacked by a tribe of violent green midgets on wolves in the middle of a forest. The guard is already dead, and I think the stagecoach is out of control. This is so not going to end well. He looked at the belongings listed on his character sheet; beyond everyday clothes and a coat there were twenty-five copper coins, a goose feather quill, flint and tinder, an ink bottle and a ‘stout wooden club’. He considered briefly then equipped the club into his right hand. The pen is definitely not mightier than the sword.
He studied his skills; bookkeeping, forgery, suck up to the man, swim, and hit-with-stick. Not great. Then his traits; alcoholic (addictive personality), moral, pleasant.
WTF! Pleasant? Character generation certainly had something to answer for. After a moment he became aware that Petra was knelt in front of him and was bellowing at him in slow motion. Unaware how he’d done it, he snapped out of screen time and listened to the end of her shout. “… sit there like a dick! Do something!” She pushed him towards the front of the stagecoach, and he fell onto his hands and knees before he pulled himself forward, using cases and boxes as leverage. Suddenly a malevolent green face popped up over the edge of the roof to his left. He struck it hard on the side of the head with his club and was pleased to see the goblins eyes cross, before falling backwards.
“‘Hit-with-stick’. Not so bad after all. Killer scribe strikes again.” Another head appeared, as he was congratulating himself, this time at the front of the stage. Where the driver ought to be. Uh oh. He hit it hard on top of the head, but this time there was a metallic sound as the club bounced off the goblins helmet and it merely looked annoyed. With a nasty grin it started to climb onto the roof, sword in hand. Jake was unable to move back because of all the luggage. Yelling, the goblin stabbed at Jake, who rolled aside to avoid the strike, then lay there, waiting for the killing blow. Grim, too far away to help and seeing Jake about to die, grabbed a wildly barking Fred-the-Dog with one hand and threw him at the goblin. Jake heard Fred’s maniacal barks peak as he flew over him, before ending in a snarl as he attached himself to the goblin’s face. Both fell off the roof and were lost in the chaos.
“That was my fecking dog!” screamed Detlev, holding on one handed whilst deftly sticking a knife into the eye of yet another goblin poking its head over the side of the coach. That looks better than hit-with-a-club, thought Jake as he desperately clung on. There were screams from inside the coach as one of the goblins finally managed to get into the passenger compartment.
“Well maybe it’ll stop fecking barking now!” Grim screamed back at Detlev, chopping the hand off another goblin, who fell off with a scream. He, too, seemed much better equipped for combat than Jake, and had somehow acquired a second axe. While he looked comical, fighting on his hands and knees to prevent himself falling off the roof, he’d killed five of the goblins all by himself.
Jake peered over the guard rail at the driver’s bench. There was a thickset man slumped across the seat. Jake vaguely remembered him as Benny Bengston, the driver who had hardly spoken in the bar last night. There were several arrows sticking out of his chest and a considerable amount of blood splashed about.
“There’s no-one driving the coach!” shouted Jake at his party in general. Detlev and Grim looked at him in horror, whilst Petra, who was behind Jake, pretended not to hear.
“Well do something about it then!” Grim bellowed back, wrestling with a goblin who’d attacked him from the side, and almost falling off as the stagecoach’s speed increased. “I’m kind of busy!”
Jake crawled down onto the driver’s seat. He pushed the body aside and grabbed the reins, not sure what to do next. Two goblins rode along next to the train of horses and jumped from their wolves onto the traces of the stage. They began pulling at the harnesses, attempting to slow them. “They’re trying to stop the stage!” he yelled again. He was sure that if the stagecoach stopped, they’d be easy meat for the goblins, but no-one seemed to be able to do anything.
With a sigh Petra rose into a crouch from where she was squatting and, with a remarkable display of balance, aimed her pistol at the goblins pulling at the horses. She fired, and one fell, clutching its shoulder; a remarkable shot considering her previous efforts. “Someone else’s turn now,” she shouted, sitting back down and starting to reload her gun.
No-one seemed keen or able to do anything about the goblins stopping the stage, and Jake felt the carriage begin to slow. Oh shit, he thought. Now we all die. He looked around desperately for something to throw at the goblin but could not see anything. Even if I could, I bet I’d need the ‘Throw’ skill to do any good, he thought sourly. In desperation he looked at the Party screen and his character sheet side-by-side, hoping he’d missed some special skill. Nothing. But hold on. At the bottom of the ‘Drunken Bums’ screen was a button that had been full of light. There was a faint ‘ding’ sound, and it rapidly drained, greying out. ‘Therapeutic Bonus’ flashed once then went dark, giving no hint as to what it was. What could be any worse? he thought and flipped back into Real Time.
Detlev and Grim glared at each other, whilst Jake crouched low over the reins, hoping not to be noticed. Something was going on, something that picked at the edges of his mind, something that prodded at him and urged him to do something. “You kicked my dog,” accused Detlev. “Then threw him off the roof.” The dwarf frowned. This was true, he acknowledged to himself, and this was yet another debt he had to pay before he died. He nodded agreement to Detlev then got up off his knees, clutching his axes to his chest. With a bellowed war-cry he ran towards the front of the coach, leaping towards the goblin as he reached the edge of the roof.
“Feeeeeccck!” he screamed as he flew over the driver’s seat, over the first set of horses, and over the goblins head, before landing on his face in front of the stage and being promptly run over by the horses. The remaining goblin watched the dwarf fly over his head, mouth wide, and was so surprised he fell off the traces of the carriage. He, too, was trampled by the horses.
The strange feeling receded, and Jake sat up straight in the driver’s box. “If you want a job done properly, you do it yourself,” he muttered. He had no clue how to drive a carriage but figured pulling on the reins might do something.
-----
A couple of miles further on the goblins finally gave up. The stagecoach had travelled insanely fast and had slewed all over the track, driving wolves into the trees whenever they’d tried to pass. None of the goblins could approach it, and so they gave up in disgust. Petra and Detlev had clung to the roof swearing and shouting in fear, and Jake was just concluding that he was worse than useless at driving, when the horses had become so tired, they’d slowed of their own accord. Finally, Detlev climbed down next to him and took over the reins, congratulating him on his driving skills before pulling the stagecoach to a stop.
As Jake relaxed, a pop-up screen appeared before his eyes.
Skill learnt – drive like a Mutha.
You can drive any vehicle – after a fashion. You have one speed - insanely fast - and have no idea how to stop. Anyone trying to board a vehicle you are driving has a significant chance of being knocked off their feet and injured. Any actions attempted from a coach whilst you are driving have their difficulty doubled.
Surprisingly, the passengers were less than happy that they’d been saved. One had a nasty cut on his arm from the goblin that had gotten into the coach and blamed them for the wound. Others bemoaned lost trunks, books and other sundry items; one had even tried to insist that Jake cover his losses. A possible stabbing by Detlev was avoided when Fred had suddenly appeared, trotting along the track, uninjured, and been met with open arms by his owner. Somehow, he exuded an air of smugness. Grim appeared thirty minutes later, also unhurt from his fall (one of the boons of being in a ‘Drunken Bums’ party, Jake suspected), except for a small wound on his lower leg that looked remarkably like a dog bite. Both Fred and Grim regarded each other with unbridled hatred.
While Grim and Fred exchanged death glares, Petra was on top of the coach checking out the driver. This was the polite term for ‘emptying his pockets of anything valuable’. She shook her head at Jake when she saw him watching, but he wasn’t sure whether that was to confirm the driver was dead or bemoan the poor takings. “Nice driving,” she said, jumping down from the coach.
A fat man in a green velvet jacket got out of the coach and bustled up to her. “Are you in charge?” Petra smiled and seemed to be on the point of admitting that, yes, she had been in charge of his valiant rescue, and any reward (promissory notes only) would be discreetly received. The large man continued. “If you are, I demand compensation for the loss of my belongings and the emotional torment you have inflicted on me! I am Thomas Gilbert, attorney at law, and good friend to the duke! If you don’t satisfy my demands at once I will see you in court!”
Petra’s smile disappeared instantly. This was a horse of another colour entirely; she did not want to come to the attention of the judicial system. Again. “Oh no, not me, I wouldn't know what to do if I was in charge,” she said widening her eyes and trying to look seven years old. “I hardly did anything, just lay on the roof shaking with terror. I think the man you want to talk to is over there. Shall I fetch him?” She waved in the direction of Grim.
When the attorney looked over to where Petra was pointing, he saw a bare chested, heavily muscled dwarf spattered with blood and holding an axe as though he was strangling it. There was a network of scars on most of his torso, and his beard was thick and braided with small white bones, probably the leg bones of rats or other small rodents. His bloodshot eyes were fixed on an innocent little terrier crouched in front of him, eyes bugging and the muscles in his jaw twitching with repressed violence. The anger he gave off was palpable, and when the dwarf’s psychotic gaze swung onto him, Herr Gilbert took a step back. “No, no, think nothing of it. It was an act of war, an accident, I’m sure it couldn’t be helped.” He fled back to the stagecoach, slamming the door behind him.
Happily, not all the passengers blamed the adventurers for their lost belongings. One, a lay priestess of some obscure hospitaller order, got out bandages and salves and rapidly dressed the few wounds they had sustained. She also gave Petra a damp cloth to clean the dried vomit off her jacket. “Not a good look,” she muttered. She then turned a professional eye on the deceased driver and confirmed Petra’s diagnosis of ‘death as a result of having three large arrows stuck in his chest’.
“I’d tie him to the roof,” she said, getting into the stage. “Otherwise, he’ll fall off when you go round the corners.” She closed the door after her.
That left the four heroes standing outside staring at each other in the rain. “Guess we’d better drive then,” said Detlev. There was a brief argument about who would sit where; the passengers refused to open the doors to let the Adventurers in, so they all had to climb on top of the coach. Again. Only three spaces were available on the driver’s bench, and the others wanted Jake as far from the reins as possible, so he had to cram himself in the corner opposite the corpse, with Fred-the-dog cuddled up to him for company.
Life really sucks.
-----
That evening the Adventurers were feted by the patrons of the coaching Inn they had discovered a few miles further along the road. There’d been a bit of a fuss when the battered coach had first drawn up outside the Inn, and the local Road wardens had been summoned to see the damage and hear the complaints of the passengers. Luckily, the Sergeant in charge was a sensible man and dismissed the grumbling of the other travelers, sending the Adventurers into the hostel, ordering the landlord to give the heroes ‘whatever they wanted (within reason)’. The proprietor met them with open arms, sitting them at a large table in the centre of the dining room and giving them large bowls of stew. Ale was placed in front of them, and a basket of cheese and bread supplemented the meal. Locals flocked the table, buying them drinks and getting them to tell and retell the stories of their bravery. The town of Birdulberg had not had as much excitement for years.
Some hours later, Jake was staring moodily at his eighth beer and listening to Grim and Detlev exaggerate their bravery in fighting off the goblin horde, complete with actions and yells. No-one mentioned flying dogs, falling off the coach or their horrendous hangovers. Petra was in the corner playing cards and attempting to fleece a poor local of his cash, top three shirt buttons undone to distract him as she dealt cards off the bottom of the deck. There was something itching at Jake’s mind, and after a moment he pulled up his party overlay, reading it a little blearily then stopped. He re-read it. There, at the bottom of the page. All alone at the bottom of the page. In parenthesis. Italics.
The ‘Drunken Bums’ effect may be re-triggered by the group carousing together again.
Oh shit.
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