All of them did want to go to the Titanmarked Fields, which supported her earlier claims of excellent character judgment that not even Zimley Boe had heard before. Construction abandoned nails mid-hammer, Plundering stopped writing zeroes next to an entry for “ornate wooden desk - upstairs,” and everyone else climbed out of the pool with the intention of relying on the heat of battle to dry them off. The doors and windows of the compound poured forth officers and crusaders like a middle schooler's science volcano. Perceiving that, some of the Infernos proposed they simulate a real volcano, but Plundering objected. That would lower property values.

Inorrea pointed the way, and the host followed that bodacious beach thief as she bounced across ledges and roofs for an entire block before they yelled at her to slow down. “It takes time to navigate these crowds,” Eten said.

“Yeah, and I'm having trouble greeting all of them. Hello, sir. Isn't this fine weather? Hope it stays around. Hello, ma'am. How's the husband? Oh, I knew no one as lovely as yourself wouldn't have been snapped up by now. Watch where you're heading, youngsters!” Gary Whitecrest wiped his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief. “It's a tiring obligation.”

“Courtesy rewards itself,” Hilliarde Feablas said. “Greetings, madam. Pardon our haste, but we have an appointment. That is a fine handkerchief you have, Gary Whitecrest. Hm? AR? Those are not your initials.”

“Why would they be? I lifted the thing from one of these chumps.”

“Really now.”

“What's the harm? They're just NPCs.”

Darlotte Glofal cleared a route to Gary and Hilliarde with a few refined elbows and inspected the item in question. “Well! This game must be very unlike any I know if the artists exhaust themselves to create handkerchiefs as tasteful as those to put in the pockets of undistinguished townsfolk. I will never believe that, not even if you offer me an alt for it.”

Information Gathering's non-Inorrea members began scanning the crowd for anyone who looked player-characterish while she pointed toward their destination, first with one hand, then with both, alternating, faster and faster. Differences in philosophy threatened the cohesion of that ministry till a helpful slayer cleared up the fog of enigma enshrouding Gary Whitecrest's booty.

“Hey! Has anyone seen my handkerchief? My sister gave it to me and I'd really like it back. Anyone? It has my initials on it. AR for Alvin Renzis.”

In response to those shouts from somewhere in the great press of the city streets, Quircy Rau Enzet Lashed NPCs out of the way, snatched the handkerchief from Gary Whitecrest, scrambled up his tall stuman back, and sat on his shoulders while she waved the handkerchief and crowed, “Here's your hanky! Want it back? Meet us on the Titanmarked Fields. Bring your friends and weapons, because Commandment of Hero and Holy Legend Army are here, and we don't listen to our consciences. I can't speak for Always Leveling Titan or Paradise the Enchant. I will anyway, though. They're just the same. Ohohohohoho!” She kicked her makeshift horse in the side and steered him in the direction Inorrea gestured ahead of a wave of manpower, though not so much a wave as a collection of specks in melting ice cream the eater hopes are chocolate or mint chips. Even so did the invaders make their way through that mostly fluid mass of men and women to the edge of the city while an incensed defender took a route he knew well.

The army formed up on the road outside, straightened up, and marched, and what a spectacle was that column. Giants trod next to dwarves for comedic reasons, vampires floated beside rock stars, and blonde human hunters stalked alongside blonde elven hunters. Fantasy games need hunters. They passed several local hunters on the way carrying their bows and crossbows over hill and dale, sometimes stopped by Evan Wheelwich or Alvin Renzis, who spoke while gesturing at the foreign force. Otsk V. Zops observed those conversations, unnoticed, maybe, unless he had found something more to his taste to do. Sometimes those slayers nodded, sometimes they shook their heads, and always the officers and crusaders judged themselves able to take those guys.

Hills and dales are well and good for dwarves and wizards, but the new era fantasy nature of Slay Every Dragon asserted itself farther on. Fruit trees and waving wheat gave way to a plain that grew other crops, magic and mystery among them. Streaks and webs of throbbing colors, red most of all, spread along the ground in clusters as if some god had practiced his pitches by throwing balls of divine energy from heaven at reality itself, shattering the fragile glass of the world. Visible mists drifted this way and that in response to no wind felt by mortals at an altitude low enough that travelers could touch them if they extended their arms, but felt they should not. Columns and shrines, huge, magnificent, wrought from marble and obsidian appeared in the corner of the eye but disappeared when looked at straight on. As to the nose, whiffs reached it of some scent forgotten, far unlike the scents of busy elevators and stadium bathrooms which no one was able to forget despite great effort.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“Titanmarked Fields,” Inorrea Vacationer said to rub it in the face of anyone who had questioned whether she knew the way, though such people probably doubted her bare assertion as well. Proof, however, presented itself. Glowing swords, glowing bows, glowing chakrams, and glowing whips wielded by men and women with hairstyles too improbable for the common crowd attracted every eye. The slayers had arrived. Dozens of them, or between two and three dozen anyway. The two sides stared each other down, and Alvin Renzis started sweating.

He stepped forward, an earnest young man with dark hair and a baldric slung over his jacket that was green with gold trim and black buttons. He kept one hand on the hilt of his sword while he wiped his forehead with the other. “There, uh, certainly are a lot of you. Um, hi, and welcome to Slay Every Dragon.”

“Hi,” every invader said at once, which failed to reassure him. Something about how the force of their combined voice rang louder than an elephant's trumpeting, perhaps.

“Yeah, well, I was thinking, you know, if you're looking for a fight, maybe it would be fun if, more fun I mean, if maybe we made the numbers a little . . . more . . . even?”

“Raaaaaagh!” Ivar broke out of line and charged to the fore beside Quircy Rau, and he had not come with empty hands. He held overhead a massive wheel which he slammed in front of Alvin's startled face. A frame contained that wheel so that it could spin freely, and also included a little pointer that extended over the wheel's face. The circumference of the wheel had been divided into sections, each marked with a name such as Hilliarde Feablas or Oberon. “We of Plundering, brave souls all and eager for renown, fashioned this device to settle questions of loot. Use it now for another purpose. Spin the wheel and see which group yours must fight next.”

Quircy Rau sidled around and viewed the front of the thing. “Handy. I'm happy to give Plundering two cheers for this one. Yay! Yay!” Each cheer got one raised fist, though the politically acute noted she closed her eyes for the second one. Was she sending a subtle message? “Don't take this as a criticism. That's an order. Don't take it that way! This is nothing but a little Quircy curiosity. Why is there a polar bear painted on it?”

“I am unsure,” Ivar said. “The idea has haunted me since I know not what battle. Perhaps our strength and tenacity, as Luerre Voine had it, demanded this as a sign.”

“Eerie. Are you sure it doesn't represent adorableness? Well, either way. Ready to spin the wheel, Alvin?”

“Technically!” He gulped and tried again. “Technically, when I asked for my, uh, the handkerchief Serena gave me back, in the city, you said to meet you. Here I am. Can I have it back? Please?”

“Certainly. It's only, well, there have to be stakes, don't there?” Quircy held up the handkerchief, dropping it and snatching it back up over and over. “Here's what I was thinking. If you guys win, I give it back. No complications! If we win, I'll give it back. After sneezing in it.”

“Awww!”

“Are you kidding, Al? That'll increase its value ten times over!”

“Stop being weird, Evan,” a slayer Beowulf identified as Stanley Sten Stonell said. But Evan refused.

Alvin recovered from his disgust and resumed negotiations. “Is there any room for negotiating here?”

“Yeah, but honestly, it's probably just going to get worse. Like do you want every loser to promise to vote for the winners in upcoming popularity polls? I thought that one up just now.”

“No, that's OK. I accept the, uh, terms, I guess, as they are. First up, hey Skay, you want to go first?”

A handsome young slayer with short black hair that pointed backwards as if to protect him from suprise attacks at all times and a cloak that surely hid weapons and secrets beyond reckoning nodded and approached.

“He looks so strong and popular!”

Fusberta's exclamation accorded with the sentiments of the host, and Beowulf confirmed that the enigmatic foreign prince, Skay Pact Elizonas, did well in every sort of tier list, especially the ones created for him to top. “How Good at Chess This Slayer Is,” for example. Obviously he was the best. An event story had established that.

Three other slayers followed him. Stanley Sten Stonell first, second a girl wearing a tank top and the raised goggles obligatory for certain styles of mechanic types or, in her case, elismiths, and third a tall redhead who spun a double-bladed sword in his deft hands.

“Listeria Adan and Adrian Regard Pensen,” Beowulf said.

“The same,” Adrian answered. He grinned.

“He looks somewhat strong and popular.” Fusberta hit the little dot in the center of the dartboard again.

Alvin swept his hands toward the wheel. “You have to fight, so you get to spin. Unless you don't want to. In that case I'll do it.”

Skay Pact Elizonas glided past Alvin, though not like Ruthven or Dracula who actually glided, placed a hand on the wheel, and set it moving with one smooth motion. The polar bear became a blur of outstretched paws, and the ministers of Plundering admitted Quircy may not have been entirely wrong about their design's cuteness. The wheel slowed, and to what did the pointer point?

“Hilliarde. Um. Feeblus?”