Chapter 3

A Scoundrel's Gambit (A Tale from the Shriveling Scoundrels)

The wavering flames of the torches projected distorted, eerie shapes across the moist walls of the room where Prince Snivel strategized military operations.

The air was thick with the stench of sweat, stale cheese, and the ever-present goblin musk.

Before Snivel, the diminutive leader of the Shriveling Scoundrels (also known as Sniveling Scoundrels) , sat his most trusted advisors: Grovel, the elder with a cunning glint in his rheumy eyes, Nibbles, the information broker whose ears twitched like a startled bat, and Scamper, the war master whose battle plans often resembled a particularly chaotic game of marbles.

"So," Snivel squeaked, his voice high-pitched with worry, "this 'Mad Fister' – what do we make of him?"

"A nuisance," Grovel rasped, his voice like dry leaves rustling in the wind. "A human barbarian with fists the size of pumpkins, according to the whispers."

Nibbles, his nose twitching furiously, piped up, "He defeated Gorstag! In single combat! They say he beat him to a pulp with his bare hands!"

A collective gasp went around the room. Gorstag, Grothmog's prized Gnasher, reduced to goblin paste? It seemed impossible, yet the rumors were swirling like a dust devil in the Wastelands.

Scamper slammed his fist (or rather, what passed for a fist on a scrawny goblin) on the table, scattering a map of the surrounding territory. "We fight! We defend our territory! This human won't push us around!"

Snivel, however, felt a cold dread pool in his gut. Grothmog was a tyrant, yes, but a predictable one. This Mad Fister, with his unpredictable human ways, was a wild card. He could be a threat to everyone, Grothmog included.

"Fight?" Grovel cackled, a dry, humorless sound. "Fool! He'll squash us like overripe grubs! We need to be… strategic."

Prince Snivel nodded, a slow, cunning smile twisting his lips. This Mad Fister, with his growing reputation, might be the key to their freedom. "He's already ruffled Grothmog's feathers, hasn't he?"

Nibbles, his beady eyes widening, chirped, "Exactly! Grothmog will be gathering his Gnashers, preparing for war."

A vision of Grothmog's snarling face, surrounded by his elite guard, flashed in Prince Snivel's mind. They wouldn't stand a chance.

"So," Snivel continued, his voice laced with a dangerous glint, "while Grothmog and the Mad Fister bash each other's brains in, what do we do?"

Grovel's smile mirrored Snivel's. "We make an offer. We submit to the Mad Fister, pledge our allegiance."

Scamper blinked, his battle plans forgotten. "But… but he's a human!"

"Exactly," Grovel rasped. "Grothmog will focus all his efforts on the Mad Fister. If this human wins, Grothmog is toast, and we'll be in good standing with the new king."

"And if Grothmog wins?" Snivel asked, the question hanging heavy in the air.

Snivel already had his answer. If Grothmog won, he would be too busy consolidating power to bother with the likes of the Shriveling Scoundrels.

"Then," Grovel finished, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "we become the Mad Fister's most loyal, most cunning advisors. And who knows, maybe one day, we'll be the ones whispering in the king's ear."

A slow, hungry smile spread across Snivel’s face. Yes, this Mad Fister – he might just be the key to the Shriveling Scoundrels' rise to power.

********************************

Meanwhile, far from Guster's makeshift camp, whispers of his exploits were carried on the wind, snaking through hidden alleys and bustling taverns, reaching the ears of those who watched over the world from the shadows and the seats of power.

In a Bustling Tavern:

A rowdy crew of burly adventurers clustered around a tankard of ale, their bellowing guffaws bouncing off the tavern's cozy, low-hanging ceiling beams.

One, a hulking fighter named Borag, with a beard that could rival a troll's mane, slammed his fist on the table, sending a spray of ale flying. "The Mad Fister, you say? Punches goblins into oblivion? Sounds like a worthy opponent!"

His companions exchanged wary glances. These were mercenaries, not heroes. There was a difference between facing down a drunken goblin and a madman rumored to have slain a Gnasher.

"And the rumors say Grothmog's offering a handsome reward for his head," another interjected, a sly glint in his eyes. This was more their speed – coin for a challenge.

"A handsome reward, you say? Grothmog the Vile doesn't throw coin around lightly. This 'Mad Fister' must be a right menace."

Borag's booming voice echoed through the tavern, momentarily silencing the boisterous crowd. The other adventurers, all turned to their hulking leader with expressions ranging from skepticism to cautious interest.

"Aye, a handsome reward," Grimstone grumbled, wiping ale suds from his bushy beard. "But Grothmog the Vile doesn't put a bounty on just any goblin-basher. He's a nasty piece of work, wants things done right."

Flick, his nimble fingers perpetually fiddling with a deck of worn playing cards, chimed in, "Right you are, Grimstone. Heard whispers of this Mad Fister fella being… unnatural. Supposedly ate a goblin whole, then used its own club to beat the rest of the tribe into submission."

Elara, her dark eyes narrowed, adjusted the quiver slung across her back. "Goblins are a nuisance, but a whole tribe? That's some serious muscle, or some dark magic at play."

Borag, however, remained undeterred. He slammed his tankard back down on the table, the wood groaning under the impact. "Magic or muscle, doesn't matter to me. A challenge is a challenge, and a fat coin purse is a fat coin purse. We've faced worse, haven't we?"

Anya, the group's sorceress, scoffed, a playful flick of her wrist sending a small fireball sizzling harmlessly across the table. "Goblins? Please. Anyone with half a brain can handle those green runts. Tell me he's grappling with trolls or wyverns, then maybe I'd be interested."

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Borag chuckled, a deep rumble that vibrated through the tankard in his hand. "Anya, you and your fancy magic. This Mad Fister might not be slinging fireballs, but raw power is a dangerous thing in the wrong hands. Besides, Grothmog hates anyone who upsets the goblinoid trade. This guy clearly ruffled some feathers."

The others exchanged another glance, a silent agreement passing between them. They were a band forged in the fires of countless battles, surviving on their wits, skills, and a healthy dose of recklessness. This "Mad Fister" was a name whispered in hushed tones across taverns and marketplaces, but they weren't known for shying away from the unknown.

Flick, a mischievous glint in his eyes, tapped the worn deck in his hand. "Alright, Borag. Let's say we're interested. But before we go hunting shadows, how about some details?"

Elara nodded in agreement. "Knowing our prey before we face it is half the battle."

Grimstone grunted, a hint of grudging respect in his voice. "Aye, that's the smart way to do things."

Anya, her eyes narrowed and focused on the flickering fire, added, "And rumors are like smoke rings, Borag. Pretty to watch, but disappear quick. Who knows if half the stories are true?"

"Maybe there's more to this story than meets the eye. And besides," she nudged Borag with a sly grin, "a little magic might be just the thing to even the odds against a Gnasher, wouldn't you say?"

Borag, with a hearty laugh that shook the rafters, slammed his fist on the table once again. "Fine, fine! You lot and your fancy tactics. But don't expect me to wait around all day if someone's got a good story to tell."

Flick grinned. "Good. Then buy us another round, and I might just have a tale or two about the Mad Fister you won't want to miss." He winked at the bartender, a silent message exchanged. "And maybe, just maybe, a map or two that could point us in the right direction."

***************

Across the kingdom, in a grand castle:

As the sun's golden rays enveloped a majestic castle across the realm, a knight and a noble exchanged the latest updates in muted, secretive murmurs.

Sir Gareth, a veteran knight with a grizzled face and a weathered cloak, frowned as he listened to Lord Alistair, a portly man with a keen eye for potential threats.

"Goblins are one thing," the knight rumbled, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "But such a powerful entity… interfering in this world? Unnatural strength… stories of him consuming monsters… We need to investigate, before things spiral out of control."

"Indeed," Lord Alistair agreed, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Send our most discreet scouts. We need to know what this 'Mad Fister' truly is and what his intentions might be."

In a Hidden Temple:

The ancient temple lay lightless. Untouched for centuries. A forsaken sanctum.

A lone figure knelt within. Swathed in tattered robes knelt before a shimmering vortex of eldritch energy.

One of the Oracles. A shadowy cabal. Brutal keepers of arcane realms.

Their charge? Police mystical forces. Maintain a twisted equilibrium. By any means necessary.

A solemn vigil. Far from light. Far from the uninitiated.

Disturb the balance? No mortal meant to wield such powers.

A ripple of disturbance had echoed through the portal, a distortion in the flow of magical energy. This anomaly originated from the area where rumors of the "Mad Fister" swirled.

With a flick of their wrist, the Oracle channeled their power, summoning a lone adventurer kneeling in a hidden chamber within the temple.

This adventurer, cloaked and silent, was their most skilled operative, their weapon against the unseen threats that lurked in the shadows.

"Agent Wraith," the Oracle spoke, their voice a mere whisper that resonated with power. "An anomaly has been detected. A surge of unnatural magic… a creature… the whispers call him the 'Mad Fister.' We need you to investigate. Determine the nature of this threat. Is he a pawn… or a harbinger of something more sinister?"

The cloaked figure, known only as Wraith, bowed their head in silent acknowledgement.

The fate of the world's magical balance rested on their shoulders, and they would not falter. Their mission was clear: seek out the Mad Fister, and unveil the truth behind his bizarre power.

********************************

----------------------------------------

Guster surveyed the fallen form of Gorstag with a mixture of triumph and hunger.

His belly rumbled like a distant thunderstorm, reminding him it had been far too long since his last square meal of slightly singed field mice.

"Well, they do say you are what you eat," Guster mused, prodding Gorstag's massive gut with the toe of his boot. "And I could use a little extra muscle on these bones."

A wicked grin split his face. Culinary possibilities danced through his mind. Each possibility was more extravagant and stomach-churning than the last.

First, he'd need to butcher this bad boy. Guster licked his lips in anticipation as he retrieved a sturdy branch, fashioning a crude but effective bludgeon.

One mighty overhead swing planted it squarely into Gorstag's battered face, reducing what remained of his nasal cartilage to a fine crimson mist.

"Tenderizing the meat," Guster nodded with satisfaction. A few more whacks, and he'd have himself a two-ton slab of Beaten Baddie Beef, ready for the grill.

Speaking of which...Guster's gaze fell upon the smoldering remains of last night's campfire. Perfect! He stoked the glowing embers, occasionally tossing on a wad of dry grass to get those flames dancing nice and hot.

As the fire roared back to life, Guster set to work butchering his culinary masterpiece, humming a jaunty little tune reminiscent of his days flipping patties at the Whistle-Stop Diner back home. Admittedly, old Edna's secret burger sauce held a few less...visceral components than Guster was currently working with, but hell, who was he to judge?

With surprising efficiency, he stripped the bulk of Gorstag's meat, piling the crimson slabs onto a makeshift spit constructed from a few sturdy branches and what he hoped were vines instead of entrail-length dental floss. Can't be too careful in these parts!

Guster made a mental note: Next Skill Point goes into Butchering. Maybe then I'll stop slicing off so many knuckle chunks.

As the sun set, the aroma of sizzling flesh wafted through the clearing.

Guster busied himself basting the makeshift roast, utilizing a combination of oozing viscera and the contents of an extremely ripe...well, best not to dwell too much on what that particular puddle used to be.

Guster inhaled deeply, savoring the unmistakable scent of cooking meat. It smelled like Gorstag had been a particularly pungent fellow in life, having seemingly cultivated a taste for ripened ogre cheeses and fermented goblin yak milk. But Guster wasn't one to complain. Hunger was the best seasoning.

As he settled in to wait for his magnum opus to finish cooking, Guster's keen senses picked up a strange fluttering in his peripherals. When he glanced over, a ghostly window had appeared unbidden, the words seeming to shimmer with an otherworldly luminance:

Butchering Amateur (Lvl 2)

Reward: +5 Butchering Speed

Well, whaddya know? Those rusty old skills were finally paying off! Guster chuckled to himself as the succulent aromas overwhelmed him once more.

By the time the twin moons peeked over the horizon, the majority of Gorstag's carcass had been thoroughly roasted to a perfect golden-brown crisp. Thick ribbons of sizzling fat cascaded down the makeshift spit, sputtering delightfully against the crackling flames.

Guster wasted no time tearing off a juicy chunk, shoveling it into his mouth with reckless abandon.

The flavors exploded across his taste buds like a musky, gamy supernova. Definitely an acquired taste, but one he found himself acquiring startlingly quickly.

As he decimated the remains of the Fallen Brute Platter, a familiar warmth blossomed within him. It rapidly intensified, as if someone had stuffed a furnace behind his ribcage.

Just as Guster wondered if he'd bitten off more than he could literally chew, the feeling crescendoed into a blazing inferno of power.

His muscles bulged with new vitality. The aches and pains from his recent clash with Gorstag melted away, leaving only a reinvigorating surge of vigor in their wake. It felt...glorious.

When the searing light finally faded, Guster found himself surrounded by a constellation of spectral windows:

Ding! You are now Level 24!

+10 Max Health

+5 Strength

+5 Durability

+10 MP

New Passive Skill Unlocked: Culinary Mastery

[ Consuming masterfully prepared dishes grants increased stat boosts and a random chance to unlock hidden abilities. ]

Guster blinked in amazement, scanning the dazzling displays with unbridled glee. This crazy world just kept getting better and better!

He leaned back, idly gnawing on what he hoped was a surprisingly meaty femur as the lessons of his freshly minted Culinary Mastery ability took root. Who knew all those years slaving over the griddle at the Whistle-Stop were actually forging the delectable path to ultimate power?

One thing was certain - if murderous, cannibalistic gluttony was the key to unlocking this world's deepest mysteries, then Guster was about to become a master chef in the darkest culinary arts. Bon appetit, indeed.

( The adventure continues! If you're hooked, hit that 5-star button and let others know There's more to come...)