Chapter 9
The interior of the Fleet Fox was warm and bright with lantern light, and a large hearth sat at the far side of the room, crackling merrily with licking tongues of flame. Trails of a vague, roiling haze of what smelled like tobacco smoke hung in the air as I entered behind the zombie gate guard. The smell of beer - ale, I guess - and sweaty bodies and roasting meat was strong, and in spite of the fact that I was on a different planet in a fantasy world, I was reminded of a bar in Toronto we’d once played. It had been an odd place to play, but was apparently popular in the area. It was small for a live performance, but intimate in the way the low stage put you more at the centre of the audience than at its head.
It looked a bit like this place, broad and open with rough wooden tables and exposed ceiling beams. There hadn’t been much room for a crowd, but It was nice, and I liked it. We had even done a few acoustic renditions of our songs to suit the mood. I remembered how shitty we all felt when one of the other bands had accidentally set the stage on fire when a cheap bit of electronics went sideways.
There’s a sort of comradery-slash-competition thing that exists between bands playing the same venue, so when someone acts like an ass, the whole lot of us feel it indirectly as a kind of community. The whole place had to be evacuated, and the fire had been put out quickly, but I’ll never forget the look of the forty-something tattooed woman who owned the place, her fingertips just touching her bottom lip as she quietly cried. No one had been hurt, and the bar had insurance, but for her she had almost watched something she loved burn to the ground. What a strange memory to have now, on another world, in a tavern that was mostly populated by zombies.
Indeed, the living dead were everywhere. I counted eight, some shuffling and uttering low moans as they roamed idly about, bumping into random objects or people, then course-correcting in an entirely new direction. Others were simply sitting down upon wooden benches and chatting casually with each other or a few of the patrons that were actually alive. My HUD began to populate with its characteristic little glowing circular indicators hovering above all the zombie’s heads, and my minimap was filled with purple dots interspersed with a few white dots identifying NPC’s.
As I shifted my focus from one to the other, I saw that they were all Undead minions of Gerard Val Torn. They were also, like Tally and Squish, individually named. I saw Madeline, Cedric, Selena, Bradley and even one guy named Todd. He looked to be wearing attire that was slightly fancier than his compatriots, and he sat in front of an abacus type thing. His class was listed as Zombie Minion, Accountant (Chartered).
One zombie named Pamela, whose class said Zombie Minion - General Contractor, Bar Wench Edition, was shrivelled and desiccated with wisps of what was once red hair that sparsely populated her patchy grey scalp. She was dressed in what looked like nearly-pristine renaissance fair barmaid cosplay. She shuffled between tables, her movements stilted and awkward, yet somehow she managed to keep her trays of drinks and food perfectly balanced. It was kind of like watching one of those kung-fu monks performing the undead version of Drunken Boxing. One of the shuffling, moaning, more classical zombies - a guy named, I shit you not, Prick Richard, bumped into her as she deftly wove around a long table, and she hissed and snapped at him with rotted teeth.
It was all pretty weird. Weird like someone set up a franchise restaurant next to a mediaeval mausoleum, and the dead had risen for wing night on a Tuesday. Squish snorted derisively and gestured for me to follow him through the small crowd towards two figures with the white dots of NPC’s, near the end of the bar which dominated the far wall, beside which was a large open door that led into the kitchens. One of the NPC’s, seated upon a tall stool to compensate for her diminutive frame, had to be the ‘tree witch’ Tally had called Quicklily. She wore long green robes that were poorly dyed and faded, and a leather cord around her neck hanging with what looked to be fangs or claws, and a series of feathers, both mundane and colourful. In spite of her size, she had a sort of rock-steady presence that radiated outward from where she sat. She was slightly smaller than the goblin had been, with olive skin and long, curly dark hair shot with its first strands of grey. She had a round, sun-weathered face and vivid green eyes that were at once vibrant and stone-steady.
It seemed to me like she had probably seen some shit. Her occupation was in the field of Druidry, as it turned out. Druidry is a word, I promise. Anyway, the HUD identified that indeed, her name was Quicklily, and she was a level 9 Grove Keeper, which Sage said was a Druid class specialisation that emphasised defence, crowd control and support skills. When I examined her by focusing further, the HUD showed an active buff called Natural Serenity, but I was too focused on the situation to ask Sage what it was. Another little icon beside her name was in the form of a black sword crossed with a quill. When I mentally hovered over the icon, it read “Adventurer’s Guild Representative (Spade’s Rest).”
The other figure was undeniably striking. He was a slender, impeccably clean shaven man in his mid-to-late twenties. Even being a boring straight dude, I had to admit that this guy was male-model good looking. He had pale skin, and short, well groomed black hair. His eyes were stone grey and shot through with tendrils of white, and he had a statuesque jaw and full lips that wore a wry smile. What was most striking about him was the suit. It was straight out of 1920’s New York. It was black and exquisitely tailored to fit his slender frame perfectly. Beneath the suit jacket he wore a vest with an almost imperceptible white pinstripe and a silk tie that reminded me of the Roman imperial shade of purple. Atop his head was a spotless black bowler hat with a matching purple hat band, tilted just enough to be cocky. He stood, suit jacket open, leaning languidly over the bar, smoking an actual fucking cigarette.
I was low-key awed by how out of context this guy was; how utterly surreal this all was. I was in the middle of a classic, smoke-filled fantasy tavern with a gnomish druid and a 1920’s new yorker , surrounded by contractually obligated zombies. It was like someone had mashed up the video for Michael Jackson’s Thriller with a Game of Thrones episode. As Squish and I approached, Gerard exhaled a lazy river of smoke up into the air and watched it wind and roil towards the high-beamed ceiling. The HUD identified him as Gerard Val Torn, Level 8 Nobleborn Necromancer. He let the smoke drift away lazily as he turned his head, and his eyes flickered from Squish to me. A finely manicured eyebrow rose slowly as his gaze moved over my tattered clothes, then up to my god-damned antlers.
“Hello, Squish,” he said, greeting the zombie affably, though his eyes never left me. “What have we here?” he asked. His voice was soft and dark and held, yet again, a British accent. This one was much softer than Tally or Squish, more refined, like that animal documentary narrator guy, just younger. Why the hell was everyone British on this planet? It was like the Empire from Star Wars - just inexplicably British. Ah well, I thought inwardly. It makes about as much sense as a zombie temping as a wench. Squish spoke up.
“Gerard,” said Squish with a nod in greeting, leaning on the bar with Genevive slung over his shoulder. “This one came down the northern road, straight out the night, looking, well, like this,” he gestured at me and my dishevelled, slashed attire and fucking majestic crown of antlers. I sighed. He went on,“Says he scrapped with a goblin. Says he met a god too. Don’t seem like a bad sort, just…odd. Didn’t seem right to toss ‘im out or, you know, do ‘im like a goblin. Figured we should bring ‘im by, let you check ‘im out.”
Gerard the Nobleborn Necromancer had a strange expression on his face as he looked at me. His emotions seemed to flicker between surprise, uncertainty, and finally determination. I blinked in confusion. I’d never had an effect quite like that on anyone before. I tried a placid smile that I hoped looked harmless. “Uh, hey Gerard,” I said awkwardly, scratching my head. “Your…employees told me you’re a Necromancer. That’s pretty…awesome.”
Gerard didn’t reply immediately, instead turning to Squish and patting the rotting former Marine’s shoulder. “Thank you, Squish. You were right to bring this one to me. I’ll take it from here.” Squish simply nodded and then looked over at me.
“Never did catch your name, lad. Got a bit caught up reigning in that shitstain what calls himself my Captain,” he said matter-of-factly..
“Oh, right. I’m…Luck. Nice to meet you, Squish. Same to Tally.” I added. He looked at me for a moment, his dead expression unreadable, then he shrugged.
“Aye,” he said simply. “Perhaps we’ll be seeing you about. With your leave, Gerard,” He said, awaiting a nod from the Necromancer before he turned to weave his way through the other occupants before stepping out the door. I turned to regard Gerard and saw him wearing an odd smirk as he looked at me.
“Luck, was it?” He asked. “Are you aware of the irony, friend?” He raised a brow.
“Irony?” I asked, slightly puzzled.
“Your kind,” he said in an amused voice, looking at my attire again. “Always bring luck. But no one can quite tell if it’s good or bad.”
“My kind?” I asked cautiously. I became vaguely aware of the many ways people might abuse my name. Shit. I hadn’t considered that. I made a silent vow to slay anyone who shamed themselves, and me, by using puns. I shelved that thought for now, and tried to put myself in Gerard’s shoes, which were considerably nicer than my own, I noted.
I considered the oddity of my appearance. I was dressed in some pretty weird clothes that were quickly becoming rags, and I had come out of the night alone, from a direction known only for a mine and the camp where my spastic little goblin nemesis must have originated. I had no supplies, I appeared unarmed due to my recently acquired weapons being in my inventory, and I had a pair of god-damned antlers. My appearance at the gates had also occurred on the heels of an omniscient stalker-god voice proclaiming the advent of the Great Game and the coming of the Unproven; who were the players. I figured at this point that there would be little use in trying to hide my bizarre origin story. I suspected Gerard and Quicklily were not idiots. I noted Quicklily’s silence, and saw the woman gazing at me steadily, measuring.
“Your kind - godlings,” said Gerard, drawing my attention back to him. The ember of his cigarette glowed briefly as he pulled in smoke. He turned his head away to release it, and continued. “Unproven, what have you. I heard the voice of that pompous fuck Vedict A’tohl announcing the Game, same as everyone. What’s surprising is your appearance here, of all places. This, my friend, is an absolute backwater of little significance, and Lily and I are only here chasing off goblins for the Mayor, to whom a favour is owed by our Guildmaster. Godlings like yourself are supposed to gravitate towards larger towns and cities.” A look passed between him and Quicklily before he turned back to me. His gaze was steady and intent. “You…arriving…here means things are likely to get…complicated. In what way, we can only wait and see.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then right on cue a new notification flashed onto my screen, the golden text popping into existence in the centre of my field of vision. Shit, I thought. Here we go.
The notification shrank and slid to the far right of my HUD, and where I now had two quest timers, the new one reading: 6 days, 17 hours, 43 minutes. That creepy stalker-god voice returned, this time in my head, giving a description of the new quest with his characteristic soft, dark intonations. Gently glimmering subtitles accompanied the voice, scrolling slowly alongside his dark, deliberate speech.
You've received a quest.
The Battle of Spade’s Rest
In recent years the Blackmarrow Goblins of Upper Antellion have begun to grow restless. The complacency of the nearby humans has made the goblins bold. Their numbers have grown, and their ranks swell with warriors desperate to prove their worth and receive the Red Blessing of Felgash, called the Insatiable - foul god of Goblinkind. Goblins are well-known for devouring the flesh of their victims, but this ritual is different. The Red Blessing is awarded to warriors who return from battle with a heart freshly carved from the chest of a living victim.
The council of black-souled goblin shamans are said to consume the hearts after marking the warriors with a splash of corrupted heartsblood. The power of the blessing varies depending on the potency of the Flow that inhabited its owner and the whim of the ravenous god. Warriors who please Felgash may be granted the Greater Blessing, which entails a twisted transformation into a considerably more menacing and cunning creature, the Hobgoblin.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
The nearby camp of the Blackmarrow Goblins have sent out their scouts in preparation for a raid on the unlikely town of Spade’s Rest, which is woefully undefended. Should the goblins destroy the town and slaughter the townsfolk, they will have a foothold for further incursions to the south, and a wealth of flesh to offer up for the Red Blessing. Assist the Adventurers Gerard Val Torn and Quicklily in defence of the town, or seek out the Council of Shamans to betray the townsfolk and join in the slaughter. The gods bear witness. The choice is yours, Unproven.
Note: This is a timed quest. This is a mandatory quest. This is part of the Meta Questline. Completion of this quest will result in the following rewards:
* 1 Uncommon Chest.
* 1 Rare Chest.
* 500 gold pieces.
* 500 Faction Points with either the Blackmarrow Goblin Alliance, or the United Antellion Adventurer’s Guild, depending on player choices.
Fuck. Well, so much for my first real quest being a fetch quest for five herbs or something. Nope, I would be joining in the defence of an entire town from a horde of goblins bent on carving fresh hearts from the still-living townsfolk. It figured. My mind started to turn over the implications of the quest as I dismissed the description. I was torn from my anxious reverie by the odd look Gerard and Quicklily were giving me. Whoops. I must have looked like an idiot staring off into space for the past minute or so. That was pretty awkward. “Oh, uh, sorry. I…fought a goblin earlier today and I sort of zoned out thinking about it. It sucked,” I said, with a sigh. I looked between them, and I spoke with genuine regret.
“Look, I’m really sorry about dropping my shit in your laps. I didn’t know my just showing up would cause anyone problems. I know you probably don’t understand, and maybe this sounds unbelievable from some random guy with antlers, but the…gods… didn’t really ask me about coming here. They just took me from my home and threw me into this Great Game shit. I was just a normal guy up until a few hours ago. I don’t know anything about this world, other than I need to do what they say if I want to get back home.” Gerard studied me for a moment then looked at Quicklily again. When she spoke, her voice was lower in pitch than I expected, and she continued to regard me implacably. She was decidedly unimpressed when she spoke.
“You're always odd, at first. Strange clothes, funny way of talking. You'll grow fast; some of you take to magic right quick. We can usually spot the nasty ones easy enough. Cruel with their power, quick to sacrifice others in order to get what they want. Some are like mad dogs with no rhyme or reason to their savagery, and it’s nothing for them to murder a man as soon as shake his hand. Putting them down ain’t easy." She looked over at Gerard. "If we want to kill this one, we’d be better served doing it sooner than later.” She took a long drink from her mug of ale, then set it back down and smacked her lips. “While he’s weak.”
I could feel my eyebrows raising as she finished. “Wow, that went straight from hello to murder in no time. I thought druids were supposed to be nice. Necromancers,” I said, looking pointedly at Gerard. “I expect that shit from you guys.”
Gerard raised a brow and exhaled a long stream of smoke up into the air. “I believe you’ve managed to insult us both separately and simultaneously, godling.” He otherwise ignored what I’d said and looked back at Lily. “What about the blessings? The way you tell it, it’s not all bad. We grow with them, and we need it if we want the job done under these new…ah, circumstances. If what you’ve told me is true, we need his kind to clear the dungeons. You’ve made it very clear what happens if we don’t contain them in time.”
She shrugged. “There’s that,” she said, with absolutely no enthusiasm.
“Look,” I interjected. “I don’t know anything about what… blessings or whatever, I can offer the two of you, but one blessing I seem to have is that the…gods…give me some knowledge alongside their ‘requests.’ Or uh..’quests’ you might call them.” I said this last in a deadpan tone. “They just gave me one of these quests. Like, just now. It says a goblin raid is coming in seven days. They told me to choose: help you or hurt you.” I let this hang as I looked between them. “I’m choosing to help. I might sound like an asshole, but normally I'm a pretty good guy. I don't usually kill things, but I can kill goblins. I did it today, I can do it again. I was just as you see me now.” I gestured to my tattered shirt and jeans. “With nothing. I took its weapon and killed it.”
It hadn’t been quite that simple, but the facts remained true. I pulled the goblin short sword from my inventory and dropped it onto the bartop with a dull thud. “I’ll kill goblins for you,” I finished grimly. After having heard the part of the quest description involving the Temple-of-Doom style fucked up act of harvesting living people’s hearts, I was all in anyway. These were real people living here. Real people with real lives, who, before my coming had mostly enjoyed a relative peace free of goblins greedy for fresh hearts. If I have to risk my life, at least it’s for something real, I thought. If I had to die for this insanity, at least I could go out doing something Abi would have been proud of, even if she never knew it.
Fighting here was the right thing to do, morally, and I had to do these quests regardless of the conviction of the two adventurers. This was a Meta Quest as well, which meant it had to be completed to fulfil the game’s victory conditions. Only, I couldn’t do it alone. Not even close. I was one little rogue, and it didn’t sound like it was just a handful of goblins coming. I needed Gerard and Lily, and I needed to get stronger, quickly. I had 6 days, 17 hours, 36 minutes to do it.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Gerard, flicking a glance at Lily. “Certainly goblins have been more active of late, but they haven’t yet come in any significant numbers. There hasn’t been a full-scale raid on any northern settlements in nearly a decade. While I admit a goblin raid that coincides with your arrival would be unsurprising, we just met you, Luck. How do we know you’re not raving mad? You came from nowhere, bloody and beaten, claiming to have met a fucking god, of all things - we’ll get to that story in time, trust me. Do you see how all of that might be a tad suspicious?” he asked pointedly.
I sighed. He had a point, and I probably looked the part of a madman with my weird clothes and antler-crowned head. “I did meet a god. He had something like six names. One was ‘Embermantle.’ He was an asshole. Who do you think gave me these fucking antlers?” I asked in exasperation. “I can understand you not trusting me, or the gods. I don’t trust the gods. They completely fucked me. But, I think you heard the voice today, and I assume you felt the World Spell thing too.” I looked between them.
“I don’t imagine anyone missed that giant laser beam. The British stalker-god said that change is coming. If you can’t trust me, then trust this: they called this a Game. Tell me, what’s more exciting for an audience of divine assholes - Squish picking off a few goblins with Genavieve, or an entire goblin raid bent on harvesting hearts from townsfolk being defended by three adventurers and a pair of zombie gate guards? This is a show for catastrophically outsized egos; they’ll do whatever is the most entertaining for them. That’s what I’m really here for, Gerard, and so are you and Lily. To entertain them. This is the stage. We’re the actors. Only, we do our own stunts. Unfortunately for this entire realm, everything else is just collateral damage.”
“I say we kill him,” Quicklily said casually from her perch atop the stool. “You could use your unnatural power to raise him from the dead,” she said matter-of-factly, and eyed my leafy protrusions. “Another happy little zombie. Maybe you can get this one work at a petting zoo.”
“Jesus,” I said in exasperation. “You’re stone cold, lady.” I was tired and hungry, and it had been a seriously fucked up day. My social filter and my patience were gone.
“I assure you, boy, stone can get very hot,” she said evenly. As we gazed at one another, our level gap suddenly seemed much more pronounced. I was maybe treading on dangerous ground.
“Veilark’s balls, Lily. You’re not going to kill him, and we both know it,” said Gerard into the tense silence that had fallen between us. “You may be the surliest, most stubborn woman I know, but you’re not one for unprovoked murder.” She let her eyes linger on mine a moment longer before she turned to Gerard and pointedly took a long drink from her ale.
“You know just how to sweet talk a woman, Necromancer,” she said after lowering her mug with a thump onto the bartop. She wiped her lips with her sleeve. “Fine, but he can earn his keep and prove his worth. If the goblins are really coming, they’ll have scouts about. This one can do some scouting of his own and hunt us some goblin spies. What say you to that, godling?” she asked as she turned to face me again, her gaze stoney.
“There’s a few things I need first,” I said, gesturing to my ravaged attire. “Basic supplies, something to wear that isn’t a blood-stained rag, maybe a good knife and a whetstone. I have some gold, I don’t need charity,” I said. “As soon as I get what I need, you can start counting dead goblins.” I looked at her steadily, hoping my false bravado wasn’t too transparent. “What I need right now, more than anything, is a meal and a place to sleep.” She just shrugged in reply and gestured broadly.
“You’ve found it,” she said simply. She quaffed her ale, gathered her faded green robes and hopped down off the stool, moving past Gerard and I towards the door. “Necromancer,” she said to him in parting, then gave me a last look. “I’ll see you tomorrow, godling, and we’ll all see what kind of luck you bring.”
I sighed. I had done this to myself. God-damned puns. I turned to the pale Necromancer in his spotless suit, and I could feel my exhaustion showing. I had been on this planet for one day, and I felt like I already had a million things to do. “Do you have something called a ‘Shrine of Elaris’ here?” He studied me for a long moment.
“Tomorrow,” he said simply. “First, food and sleep. I don’t know what you want with a ruined temple, but you can’t pray if you’re dead.”
***
An hour or so later I lay in the dark atop a straw mattress, staring up at the wooden planks of the ceiling above. It wasn’t overly comfortable, but my stomach was full, and the bed beat the floor, or the dirt for that matter. The room had cost me 7 gold pieces, including meals, for the week. Pretty cheap. At least I thought so. A single tankard of ale had been only a few coppers, after all. I assumed lodging and food was affordable in order to make it more accessible to players in their early stages of the game. The room was small and unadorned, but well-kept and clean, with a single bed, a small wooden table, a lantern, and a small wooden chest for belongings. I sighed as I lay on my back in the dark, staring upward with slow anxiety creeping in. I had been dreading asking Sage this question since I lay down and realised my predicament. “Sage?” I asked internally.
Yes, Luck? she replied. She had remained silent throughout my encounter with Gerard and Quicklily, but responded almost instantly in her calm, attentive voice.
I took a breath. It always sucked talking about this, no matter who I was talking to. There was always shame, like I was a god-damned broken toy. Or crazy. I began hesitantly, “Okay, so on Earth…and here too, I guess, I have these two…conditions.” I said tentatively, pausing before I went on. “Things can get pretty hard if they aren’t treated. I didn’t even arrive with my wallet, keys, or phone, let alone my…uh, medication.” My heart sank as the final world left my lips. It felt like I was supposed to be ashamed of a deficiency; like I had fucked up and broken myself.
I had enough social awareness to have seen how people treated me differently when they knew, so I mostly didn’t tell anyone. People are quite accepting, philosophically, but they're terrible at hiding their discomfort. So, fuck all that. To spare myself and everyone else, I just didn’t talk about it. In spite of the reality of my conditions, I’ve never acted like a crazy person; I’ve never been unhinged or lost control of myself, so if I simply didn’t explain the situation, no one would even know. It was a lot easier that way. Contained. Something I could deal with alone. It’s not like I could hide it from Sage, though. A single day could make a difference, and in this place that difference might get me killed. Sage responded almost immediately in a reassuring tone, as though this topic had been anticipated.
Please don’t worry, Luck. The bio-monitoring software that came with your neural implant is capable of treating both conditions. You shouldn’t notice any difference from what you experience with your regular treatment. You may rest assured that your sponsor has a vested interest in maintaining a certain level of performance in their player, and thus would gain nothing from forcing you to go untreated, especially when medical care for those conditions is readily available. The mental stresses of playing the game are already significant without including treatable pre-existing conditions. Other players will have received similar considerations.
“How compassionate of them,” I said quietly. I was tired. “Thanks, Sage.” I was relieved, but not entirely. It was unsettling knowing that I was effectively at the mercy of my captors to maintain my basic mental health. I guess it figures, I thought. I’m in an rpg-style death game, and my overlords are more concerned with my cognitive functioning than they are with the value of my life. They wanted me fighting fit, but only so I could perform. Like a fucking racehorse. I sighed. I didn’t even comment on the mention of my ‘neural implant.’ I remembered the scrolling DOS-style text I’d experienced after the World Spell had hit me. I had already figured they were in my head in a very literal sense, and Sage’s reminder went into the same mental pile as all the other crazy shit from today.
I rolled onto my side and pulled the simple homespun blanket up over my shoulder. As I lay there staring at the wall, I felt very alone, in the dark, in a strange room on a strange planet, so fucking far from home, I didn’t think about killing the goblin, or meeting a god, or the god-damned professional zombies. I didn’t think about being on a fantasy world in a living video game. No, I thought about Abi. I thought about her very-blue eyes, which she inherited from me. I had always been inexplicably proud of that fact. I thought about her missing tooth and her freckles. I thought about her long blonde hair, so pale that it literally shimmered in the sun. I thought about her laugh, and how she sounded when she hugged me and said “I love you, daddy.” I tried not to think about who was watching as I wept silent tears. I felt ashamed of my weakness, even if the tears were more sorrow than fear.
Think what you want, multiverse. Laugh if you want. I missed my little girl more than I’ve ever missed anyone before. You try living with the best part of yourself cut ruthlessly away without warning. You try laying alone in the dark a million miles away from home with no concept of when or how you’re ever going to get back again. You try it with the knowledge that your absence is a betrayal to the one person you love more than anyone or anything, in any world, anywhere. You try it with tears unshed. I fucking dare you.