There comes a point in every sincere interaction that the experience crosses from sweetly sentimental to uncomfortable, and that is especially true amongst men raised by a generation of emotionally stunted man-children.

Damien’s father, while a decent bloke, had been the prototypical boomer - privileged, entitled, more than a little chauvinistic, and completely, hopelessly blind to his faults.

One of the many poor life lessons he had taught Damien, without ever intending to do something so direct as to teach, was that boys did not cry.

Men certainly didn’t.

And so, despite enjoying the catharsis of crying and the non-judgemental hug of a relative stranger, he found himself extricating himself from Voril’s embrace, wiping snot and tears on the sleeve of his shirt and muttering apologies.

“No need to apologise,” Voril rumbled amicably, his own eyes showing signs of his own tears. “Sometimes a good cry is all you need to get on with the rest of your day.”

Damien did feel better, but years of not-so-subtle indoctrination could not be erased with a single embrace. He could almost feel his father’s disapproving glare spanning the gulf between the afterlife, the real world, and Sam’s imagined world.

Over Voril’s shoulder, he could see that Sofia had returned. She regarded the pair, both ostensibly absolute pillars of manly manliness, with a wry smile.

“And you say I’m emotional?” She quirked an eyebrow at her father, who chuckled.

“Nothing to see here, Sofia,” he joked. “Just two grown men having a good cry.”

Oleg and Layla had crossed the precarious bridge that joined their island to Voril’s, and they now stood not far off, their own faces betraying their amusement at the situation. It did not seem like amusement at their crying so much as amusement at the awkwardness of its aftermath.

A kind of post-hug walk of shame, Damien thought.

“What news, Voril?” Oleg asked, defusing the tension with a deft change of subject.

“All’s quiet,” the bigger man replied. “Too quiet.”

How many times had Damien heard that in movies? How many times had he and his friends immediately chimed in with “too quiet” after Sam described a room, cavern, or village as quiet?

In the movies, and in Sam’s games, come to think of it, the line was almost always followed by a -

The arrow came out of nowhere, arcing up and over Voril’s smithy in a kind of slow motion that should have given Damien ample time to step out of the way. Or perhaps it moved at full speed, and he only interpreted it as slow motion. The latter certainly made more sense as the arrow unerringly angled down and took him in the chest.

“Fuck-a-roo!” he barked, using one of his father’s favourite epitaphs. “Fucking fuck!”

“Get down!” OIeg and Voril shouted at once, each of them moving to shield their daughters from the next arrows to fall. A half dozen black-feathered arrows soon quilled the loamy turf of Voril’s front yard.

The pain was exquisite, and, for a moment, Damien thought it might just overwhelm him altogether. He’d taken his fair share of high shots or bone-rattling hits in his time on the field, but nothing really prepared you for the delicious agony of having an arrow lodged precariously close to your heart.

Close?

Looking down, Damien was horrified at the sheer amount of blood ebbing in steady pulses from the wounds. His tunic was already half-soaked in blood that looked black in the ghost light that illuminated the island, and the bleeding showed no sign of slowing.

“Fred…” a muffled voice called to him. “Are ye okay?”

It was a voice heard from the depths of the water, although he could see Oleg’s lips moving not two metres away.

Had the world started spinning?

“It’s bad,” he could hear Voril say in the distance. “It’s really bad.”

What is? he thought, absent-mindedly running a finger through the hot, sticky blood that was still flowing unabated from the wound.

“Layla, go fetch ye mother!” somebody barked.

He heard weeping.

“Blast it all, where are the guards!”

“Get down!”

Detached voices talking nonsense.

Arrows rained down from above, their black-iron tips strangely beautiful as they drifted down towards him, a deadly rain.

He heard a shout and a cry from somebody nearby. Felt a sudden weight fall across his belly and chest.

Why is Voril hugging me again?

But the big man’s arms did not enfold him in an embrace. He seemed to be resting across Damien’s lap, a trio of arrows jutting oddly from his back.

Funny, he thought. I don’t remember seeing those there before…

Figures moved from behind the blacksmith now, shadows resolving into tall, gruesomely constructed monstrosities with tusked maws, misshapen faces, and grey-green skin the colour and complexion of mouldy oatmeal.

“Who are those guys?”

His voice sounded so far away as if he were hearing it played back through a speaker somewhere down the street.

Do I always sound like that?

He saw Oleg rush to meet the three newcomers, each of whom was of a similar size and build to the innkeeper. Where each of them held crudely made swords and axes, Oleg swung a great hammer in broad, clumsy arcs. The strangers hooted and snarled as they hopped and lurched to avoid Oleg’s attacks but made no move to return his attacks in kind.

The edges of Damien’s vision were being slowly consumed by tiny pinpricks of darkness. It had not been noticeable at first, so small were the bites being taken, but now he could see the way they seethed and multiplied, slowly but surely moving in to consume the entirety of his witnessed world.

Get out of here, he thought numbly. I’m watching the show.

Sofia’s face - her beautiful, perfect face - blotted out the combat.

“Outtatheway,” he slurred. “I’m watchin’ Oleg.”

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Her wide eyes shone with tears, and her freckled cheeks were adorned with droplets of dark blood, but seeing her still stirred something in him.\

Why was she crying?

“Get up, you bastard!” she shouted, her breath hot in his face. “Get up and help him. They’ll kill him!”

“Kill who?” he asked dumbly. “I’m tired. Somebody turn the heat up.”

He gestured wildly in the direction of the inn. “I need my cards.”

“What?”

“My cards,” he repeated, emphasizing each word as if speaking to an idiot. “I can’t play without my cards. I think they’re in my room.”

She slapped him. Hard.

“Ow,” he replied sullenly. “What was that for?”

“Get. Up.”

These were the first words he had heard in some time that weren’t all muffled up in cotton wool. They struck with the force of her slap and left his ears hot and ringing.

But he was so tired. So cold. He didn’t want to play anymore.

Idiot! Play your cards!

He shook his head. He wanted to lift his arm and push Sofia out of the way so he could see the fight, but they weren’t listening to him. Both arms lay flaccid and useless at his side.

Gods, Voril is heavy. Why won’t he get up?

The blacksmith remained unmoving, his considerable weight pinning Damien’s equally useless legs to the ground.

Play your cards!

He shivered. When had this place turned so cold, and why was he viewing the world through a peephole?

Cards…

He used to play cards with his friends. Not solitaire or poker, those came much later, but a silly little indie card game called Hand of Fate. It was kind of like somebody had tried to cash in on the popularity of Dungeons & Dragons and Magic: the Gathering at the same time, throwing elements of both games at the wall and hoping they’d stick. Silly game, that.

But it had been his world for a while there. Each new booster pack had been a temporary reprieve from the miserable Loch Lomond weather, the constant bullying, and the drudgery of classes taught by teachers who were little more enthusiastic than those they taught.

Whenever his mother had come home from shopping (I miss her. Where is she?), she’d bring him back a booster pack. “Don’t tell your father,” she'd say with a conspiratorial grin. “You know how he feels about your games.”

His Dad had not been impressed by Damien’s friends or his hobbies. In fact, both had been a constant disappointment for the man - a dyed-in-the-wool meat and potato farmer whose imagination couldn’t even extend to watching a TV show with the a of the supernatural.

He’d never once tried to talk to Damien about Hand of Fate, and he certainly hadn’t offered to play with him. His mother had tried to understand the game, bless her, but she was only a few steps removed from her husband, and talk of fairies, elves, and dragons may as well have been Latin to her.

But she’d bought him cards and…

Where’d the light go? Why is it so dark?

And

Play your cards.

He’d had so many cards. He threw most of them out when he’d left for his first contract, but he kept a few of the more expensive ones in a box in his parents’ back shed. “For a rainy day,” he’d told himself; a white lie to cover up the hint of sentimentality that had driven him not to dump the whole collection.

Play…

…the…

…card.

He had so many cards. There were combat manoeuvres, equipment cards, monsters, legendary abilities, and…

the

card

He was so tired. He could sort it out in the morning. He just needed sleep. He just needed

to

sleep.

In the moment before sleep took him into a deeper place; a place from which there would be no return, he remembered.

1. Powerful Strike

2. Cleaving Blow

3. Parry

4. Shrug it Off

5. Threaten

6. Shield Bash

That had been the hand he’d picked before he’d gone to confront those things in Oleg’s inn. Mostly combat spells, but a few defensive and social ones, just in case.

His mind, so close to grinding to a permanent halt, plucked up one of these cards and, in his mind’s eye, played it.

“I play Shrug it Off,” a younger, gawkier Damien said, a shit-eating grin painted across his pimply face. “It negates all damage from the previous hit, and I immediately get to play an attack card.”

Carl hooted in excitement. “Oh yeah, baby!” he shouted, gripping the back of the chair he straddled and making it buck like a wild bull, “Fred the Fighter is gonna fuck you up, Sammy boy!”

And Sam, who played every villain, but always wanted them to win, managed to act angry. They all knew he wasn’t really their enemy, but he played the part well. Grasnikh had been a fine foe - one who had taunted them across multiple encounters - but it was all going to end here.

“Surging to his feet, Fred the Fighter takes up Dukayne and…”

He paused to roll the dice. Tanya held her breath, and Murray seemed to be praying. His character was down and bleeding out.

“...and I plunge it into Grasnikh’s heart. As he slumps forward, I lean in and whisper in his ear, “I told you I’d pay you back.”

And Sam had responded, his voice deep and dramatic. “With a shuddering sigh, Grasnikh the Decapitator breathes his last breath, his lifeless body falling to the ground. All around you, orcish raiders throw down their weapons, shrieking and howling in grief at their leader’s passing. They outnumber you and the good citizens of the village, but ancient law dictates that they must surrender to their chieftain’s killer. What do you say?”

“I turn to the orcs, placing one foot on Grasnikh’s chest, and shout, ‘Leave this place, orc scum. Your master has been defeated by Fred the Fighter, and your time in these lands it as its end. Leave with your lives, and never return, or stay, and face the wrath of Dukayne.”

That exchange had happened more than a decade ago, but it played out in crystal-clear clarity in Damien’s head as his fast-fading subconscious played the card once more.

Shrug It Off (2 AP)

As a reaction to taking damage, you may play this card.

Reduce the damage taken to 0. You may immediately play an attack card.

Once combat has concluded, you immediately take damage equal to the triggering damage -1.

image [https://i.imgur.com/mf7dz0M.png]

The world suddenly surged back into view. The darkness that had obscured his vision was scorched away, the listlessness that had gripped his limbs fled, and the malaise that had sought to pull him down into darkness retreated.

He felt pure adrenaline pulsing through his body as the card worked its magic, turning a lethal arrow into something he could push through. Where before the arrow had nicked his heart, now it merely rested painfully in the muscles of his left shoulder.

Sofia gave a cry of surprise as he bellowed a shout of anger and pain, pushing aside Voril’s unmoving form and coming to his feet. Dukayne seemed to leap from the ground and into his open hand.

Oleg was still on his feet, thank God, but the innkeeper had several nasty wounds on his arms and chest. The three orcs were toying with him and had not yet noticed that Damien was back on his feet.

The card allowed him to make an attack, but he wasn’t going to be satisfied with that. He was going to chain a few things together.

First, he called upon the Physical Strength buff from Prayer of Strength. He could feel his already muscular arms becoming thick with additional bulk as he strode towards the three snarling monstrosities.

“Powerful Strike!” he shouted as he swung his blade, not caring that it sounded like something a character on Pokemon would shout out. Dukayne cut through the orc’s armour, flesh, muscle, and bone, sending his upper half toppling to the ground in a pool of hot blood and glistening entrails.

The remaining orcs turned to face him, their hideous visages twisted with hate.

“You!” one of them snarled. “You killed our chieftain.”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” he snarled back. “I’ve killed a lot of ugly cunts in my time.”

They came at him as one, a pair of skilled fighters attempting to flank him.

“Uh uh uh,” he scolded them. “I wasn’t done.”

He didn’t shout the words this time, instead simply envisaging the cards.

His Shield Bash struck the taller of the two, hard steel smashing into the thing’s startled face with the satisfying crunch of breaking bones.

Before they could regain their composure, he struck again. Cleaving Blow!

Dukayne cut across the pair of them in a low arc, opening bellies and spilling their guts out onto the blood-slickened grass. Gurgling in surprise and pain, they both flopped to the ground, lifeless.

“I thought ye were dead!” Oleg marvelled, leaning heavily on the blacksmith’s hammer he’d been flailing about.

“Not dead,” Damien replied, hoping it sounded cool. “Just catching my breath.”

And then, having forgotten the last line of Shrug it Off, he fell back to the ground, unconscious.

Fresh blood began to pour from the wound anew.