Rhode Mortimer Irving had not particularly, during his short life, thought of himself as a smart person. But, he wasn’t a complete idiot either. So, the fact of the matter was: the earth-man was very aware that he had a Problem with a capital P on his hands.
Sure, he had a medical emergency to survive, and sure, that had to be his most important priority for the moment.
But he also was hearing a lot of key words floating around, words like ‘hero’, and ‘enemy’, and ‘weapon’, and ‘lightning-resistance’. Rhode may have been transported to a strange land, in a strange body, with strange people, from strange species, wielding strange powers; but at least he had the sense to see that he did not like where things were going.
The Sacred Kingdom needed him? Okay, but who the heck were they? Did these people expect him to drop into the middle of a centuries old geopolitical grudge match – just pick a side and start swinging? Why was he supposed to assume they were the good guys? He’d watched movies. These were goblins. He was eighty percent sure that goblins were bad.
No. Rhode had to get out of this place. Out of the infirmary, away from the Royal Army of Sacred, out of the country if he had to.
Then he had to get back home. But was it even possible?
At that point, suddenly his plans started to break down. Was he on another planet? Another dimension? Did he go through a time portal to the future? Rhode didn’t know anything for sure! And with all this talk of levels and whatnot, everything that he did see was reminding him so much of geeky computer games that he wasn’t sure what to think. He needed information, desperately.
There were three teams of weird, fantasy goblin-people who were in charge of making sure that Rhode would do whatever it was that Sacred wanted him to become. He understood what they were, better than they did: they were contract consultants, the worst kind of scum the world had to offer. While his first introduction was to the scholars of Wavelton & Broox, his healers belonged to some kind of cross between a church, and a for-profit clinic for rich people. And while the wizard-college people may have been in charge of his education, it was the Benevolent Fratremnity of Hornupant’s clergy, slash, interns which he’d spoken to most so far.
Rhode watched and listened as his caretakers changed his sheets. He paid attention when they changed shifts. He encouraged them to speak further on subjects which would seem like common sense to them, but utterly alien to him.
Matters like magic. Or standard rates of exchange for national currency. Or geography.
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But he had to be careful about how he spoke. He didn’t know what these people would do if they realized he might try to escape, and wasn’t interested in finding out. But it didn’t help that his hypoxia beat him down, or that his sleeping condition was eating frightening chunks out of his days. Still, he read between the lines. He understood just how high the expectations had been for him, and recognized the signs of stress, painted over the faces of all the people who were telling him that everything was okay, or that there was no reason to hurry. Even in another world, a fool could see what that meant.
So, to summarize, Rhode Mortimer Irving was alive and alone, and his existence was expensive. And being trapped inside of that oversized freak body? There was nowhere to hide, no way to blend in, and frankly he’d keel over and bite the dust the second he tried to run away anyway. And, as long as he was complaining – well, his bed was uncomfortable, the food was bland, his bracelet was apparently both murderous and psychic, and the lady who washed his undergarments was an undercover spy for the Second Prince. Ha!
So, considering everything, on the day that he met Goodman Eloft of Selt, it was safe to say Rhode Irving kind-of figured he was (emotionally speaking) holding up pretty well overall.
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“So, this is my room,” the homunculus indicated. He swept his great arm about either side to show that yes, he did have plants.
The Prince’s spy had stopped searching under his mattress with fairly little warning, and hoisted up a basket of blood and phlegm-stained linen. She smiled a dazzlingly kind old-lady smile and pushed past Rhode into the hallway.
“And that’s Missus O. Bye Missus O!” Rhode leaned a bit heavier on his sword for support, and slumped down onto the bed. The wood groaned as it splintered a little. “She’s great,” the hero huffed, closing his eyes.
The healer was wearing a thoughtful expression. Instead of responding, he set his bag down on a nearby stool, and then made a circuit around the room inspecting the greenery. “We probably should remove this one, and these,” he pointed. “We don’t want pollen in the air, and a Dale-Corpulent is a better curative aromatic, anyway. I’ll ask if they can get you some.”
“Magic flower?” Rhode whispered. His arm slipped down and hung off the edge of his bed. Why was he so tired?
“It reduces inflammation in the tissue, yes… Goodman Rhode! Please, I need you to stay awake for just a few minutes while I examine you, please!”
Reluctantly, Rhode sat up. He smacked his lips and yawned until he was overcome by a violent fit of coughing.
Brother Eloft stepped over and tugged at one of his sleeves, then tilted his head at Rhode. “They told me that you’ve got a status bracer. I’ll need your consent to access it.”
“Am I allowed to say no?” Rhode asked carefully.
“You may,” the physician replied suspiciously.
The two men stared one another down. Then Rhode rolled up his cuff and exposed a piece of silver-filigreed jewelry, fitted around his bicep. The design was angular, with interlocking square lines which reminded him of circuitry, and at the center was a milky orange stone that gave off the ominous illusion of a shadow swimming just below its surface.
Eloft reached to touch the gemstone, and in his other hand he clutched a paper talisman urgently. There was a brief moment as his eyes rolled up into his head and his lips moved that Rhode worried, but then the moment passed and the priest appeared to be fine.
The man looked flabbergasted, and maybe even scandalized. “Do they know that your bangle is insane? That thing is a high level, independently self aware information spirit. It’s halfway to relic quality. Where did they get that?”
Rhode shrugged. “I think they know. They tuned it down a bit after it – well, anyway the wizards say it’s safe now. You get used to him.”
The goblin’s mouth hung open slightly incredulously. Rhode took a sip of tea from off of his dresser, and wondered if it would be possible to ask someone in the palace to sneak him a beer.