Claire snuck through the bushes, not daring to make a sound as she slinked through the night. She hadn’t the slightest clue as to the length of her journey, but the moon, which had started beneath the horizon, was halfway across the starry sky. Like the ever-nude sun, the lunar deity was unaffected by the dungeon. She wore her usual pointed hat and carried her usual asteroid belt as she slowly drifted through the aether—the same routine she enjoyed on every other night.

Claire, on the other hand, was engaged in something much less habitual. The weary halfbreed combed the forest in search of a place to rest. She avoided the clearings, knowing that they would be unsafe, and sought a shelter with a half-decent roof. While she didn’t find any more abandoned houses, cover itself was plentiful. There were holes all around, mostly built for mice and other small critters. The soil was soft enough that she could have easily dug her own home, but she refused. Her arms were still sore from her escape and a fresh hole was too obvious. She had no doubt that the birds would investigate anything unnatural they crossed.

It took a little bit of searching, but she eventually stumbled upon a larger den that matched all of her requirements. It was a single-holed cave beneath a particularly tall maple, the entrance of which was perfectly hidden beneath a small shrub.

Crawling inside, the halfbreed leaned against the wall and hugged her mace to her chest as she reflected on the day’s events. It had been a long and productive day. She had escaped her father’s grasp, explored a famous dungeon, and even grown in active combat. All three achievements were goals on a longstanding bucket list, made with her eyes cast beyond the manor’s fences. She was thoroughly satisfied with the grand adventure, but while her mind was tired and content, her body was still brimming with energy; every level had refilled her reserves and pumped her full of fresh vigour, and she had gained more over the course of the day than she had in the last two years.

Recalling the sheer extent of the change, Claire popped open her status and casually looked it over. Halfbreed had gained ten levels and her rogue class was already at twenty. Unfortunately, she had invested all the resulting ability points into her strength stat. She wasn’t entirely satisfied with the outcome, but neither did she think it particularly egregious. There was always a case for brute force.

Repeating the statement three times in her head, she ignored the counterargument in the back of her mind and examined her new skills. She was rather curious about Envenom, but its time in the limelight was short-lived. Her eyes were too busy focusing on the entries under her racial umbrella.

Lashing Tailstrike

Why are you reading this? Common sense clearly dictates that you cannot use this skill without a tail.

She could feel her brow twitching as she scanned the taunting entry, but she kept her mouth shut and moved on to the other.

Quadrupedal Bloodrush

A cursory investigation reveals that you do not have four legs. You cannot use this skill either.

“Then why give it to me in the first place?” Claire pinched the bridge of her nose as she complained. The skills were derived from her parents’ traits. At least half of them should have been usable—most halfbreeds took after one half of their blood, but Claire was a rare, dysfunctional variety that drew equally from both. “Why don’t I have a tail anyway?”

It wasn’t her first time asking herself the question—she wasn’t surprised that she lacked a tail as pretty and elegant as her mother’s, given the state of her father’s ugly stub, but she should have had something. And yet, there she was, two-legged and tailless as neither of her parents were.

Ears drooping, and a sigh in her throat, she begrudgingly moved on and inspected some of the day’s earlier entries. She wasn’t keen on the box’s insults, but neither did she want to end the night on a pair of utterly dysfunctional abilities.

Club Mastery

Acquiring this skill has taught you that sharpened weapons are better than blunt ones. Please stop making stupid excuses and sharpen your club. Watching you is giving me an aneurysm.

“Well, that’s too bad, Box. You’re just going to have to live with your aneurysm.”

Sword Mastery

The way of the sword is one of elegance and grace. And while you are not particularly proficient at exhibiting either of these noble qualities, your past experience with the blade has allowed you to clumsily apply the necessary techniques. Unfortunately, the reacquisition of this skill is incapable of reawakening one of your few latent talents. You will just have to live with never becoming a Sword Dancer.

“Did this stupid thing just do what I thought it did?” she grumbled. “And when did I even get Sword Mastery back?” One of the frog-based weapons had certainly been longer than the others, but she hadn’t thought of it as a sword. It was more like a longer dagger. Or perhaps a spear with a tiny handle. Definitely not a sword. Just a tool for stabbing.

Dagger Mastery

Did you know that not every problem is meant to be solved by repeatedly stabbing it in the face?

“There’s nothing wrong with stabbing things in the face,” she said, before glancing at the next entry.

Digging

There is truth to the saying that it is sometimes necessary to get your hands dirty. That, however, does not mean that you should take the statement literally. Please note that while this skill will improve the speed and efficacy with which you dig, it will do nothing for your inability to take note of useful details in your surroundings.

“What are you talking about, Box? I’m great at paying attention to details.”

Envenom

Firstly, you are not good at paying attention to details. Consider, for example, repurposing a raven wing into a shovel blade. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, it is unwise to ingest random liquids you know nothing about.

“How about you stop lecturing me and tell me what the stupid skill does already?” grumbled Claire.

The words were followed by a brief delay, with the text scrambling into a trio of dots and then a fresh description.

Envenom

This skill consumes MP to create poisons you are familiar with. Poisons made with Envenom degrade rapidly out of combat.

“Stupid box.”

Thrown Weapon Mastery

Congratulations, you have finally learned that projectiles exist. All you need to learn now is that it is necessary to retrieve them.

The halfbreed took a few moments to stare at the box before opening her eyes wide. “Wait a second! Where’s my spear?” She immediately checked her back, her thighs, and her luggage, but the long-ranged dagger was nowhere to be found. “Of all the things to lose.” She buried her face in her hands and groaned. “Shouldersnake was right. None of this would’ve happened if I just put those stupid birds out of their misery.”

Sighing, she slowly fell forward, collapsing into the compacted dirt with her ears at half-mast. The soil was nowhere near as soft as her bed, the rags that adorned her frame were itchy, and worst of all was the cave itself. It was far too cold and damp. There were no maids to magically manage its climate, nor any to help her into her nightgown. Everything was wrong. And yet, her body had somehow caught up with her exhausted mind. Her eyes drooped, her reflexes slowed, and her thoughts grew hazier and hazier as the night called her into its embrace.

But then, just as her consciousness was about to fade, she caught wind of a distant rustling. Something was approaching. She could hear its feather-light feet as it crawled through branches and down the tree’s trunk and its quivering snout as it sniffed at the air. It was a small creature, likely four-legged based on the cadence of its steps. She couldn’t see it, but her ears soon confirmed that it stopped just outside the den.

It retreated when Claire pushed herself up but approached again each time she lowered her body.

Pausing briefly to collect her thoughts, the halfbreed laid down, closed her eyes, and consciously slowed her breathing. The tiny monster fell for the bait without delay. It snuck into the cave with practiced steps and walked right into her trap.

She sprang to her feet. Swinging her antlered knife, she aimed for the source of its breath with all the might she could muster.

“Eep!” The beast nearly jumped out of its skin, narrowly avoiding the swipe with a panicked hop.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Claire furrowed her brow as she looked it over. It was a tiny canid—a small fox with a strange three-coloured coat. Most of its body was orange, but its limbs were dyed black and tipped with the same opposing white that marked the bottom of its neck. But while its pelt had certainly grabbed her, she found its position far more curious. The mutated dog was standing on the ceiling. Its body was glued to the upside-down floor as if it were only natural.

“Wait, uhm, please don’t kill me! I’m not tasty, and I swear I wasn’t trying to do anything bad!” cried the critter.

Though groggy, Claire put on her practiced blank face and slowly tilted her head. “Why do you know how you taste?” She swung her blade as she spoke, but the intruder ducked out of the way.

“Uhm… I mean, I don’t, but please don’t eat me! I’m really bony and thin, and I doubt I’d be good in anything except maybe a soup or a stew.”

The claim was followed by a moment of silence. The vixen was tense, but Claire was too tired to focus. Unable to stop her mind from wandering, she pictured a tureen painted in a fox’s image. White hot steam drifted from within the imaginary container as a gloved hand lifted its lid and revealed a medley of meat and vegetables. Carrots, tomatoes, and red peppers were the main features, floating alongside perfectly seared cubes of flesh. As one maid ladled her a bowl, another offered a neckerchief made from something fluffy and orange. Its taste was unlike any of the awful grasses and breads she had endured. Every spoonful was bursting with a rich, creamy flavo—

“Eek! I didn’t mean that! I’m sure I’d taste terrible in soup too, so please stop imagining it!” The talking ingredient placed both front paws on her head and shut her eyes as she trembled at full force.

“Why are you so obsessed with how you taste?”

“I’m not!” barked the fox. "I don’t care how I taste! I’m just scared you’ll eat me!”

“I didn’t consider it until you suggested it.”

“Then why the heck did you just try to stab me!?”

“I was going to kill you,” said Claire, matter-of-factly.

“That doesn’t make any sense!” shrieked the fox. “W-why would you want to kill me if you weren’t going to eat me!?”

“Experience points.”

“E-experience points!? I’m just a normal, everyday fox. I’d barely give you anything!”

“Normal foxes don’t talk.” Claire narrowed her eyes. “And they also don’t follow people around all day.”

“Oh, crap! I mean, uh, I was barely stalking you! Er, wait, no, that’s not right either.” The furball stood up on her hind legs and covered her lips with her front paws. “Uhm… I mean uhhh… m-meow?”

“Aren’t foxes supposed to yelp?”

“How am I supposed to know!?” The shout gave way to a tired whisper. “I’ve always just talked.” She buried her face in the ground, the tension draining from her limbs. “Whatever. I give up. Can you just get it over with already? Oh, and bury me under a tree and carve Sylvia into the bark when you’re done. Make sure you bring me some fish every once in a while and maybe some flowers too while you’re at it. Roses would be nice, but I really like lilies, especially the white ones.”

Claire stared at the fuzzy, orange critter as it rambled, her ears on its heartbeat and her eyes on its face. “I won’t kill you if you agree to my conditions.”

“You will?” The pseudo-dog’s ears perked up. “Wait, you’re not going to make me show you where all the other foxes live so you can kill them instead, are you?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Claire as she stifled a yawn. It was in poor manners, but she was too tired to care.

“Aaaahhhh!! I didn’t mean to say that out loud! A-and it doesn’t matter. I can’t take you to the others anyway. I don’t even know where they are right now. We scattered because the steelwings started bullying us out of our homes.” Sylvia huffed and crossed her paws. “They’re so mean, I swear.”

“The altered ravens?” asked Claire, with a tilt of the head.

“Yeah! They suddenly showed up out of nowhere a few hours ago and started dumping water into all our burrows for no reason. They’re all flooded now, so we have to find places to live while they dry out.”

Claire paused briefly before answering with a nod.

“So uhmm… what are your conditions?” asked Sylvia.

“Answer my questions and get out.”

“Oh, that’s it? Okay! I’ll answer everything I ca—hey, wait a second! Did you just say I had to get out? There’s no way I can leave right now! All the steelwings are being super annoying and mean and attacking literally everything they find!”

“Not my problem,” said Claire.

“Come on! Can’t we try and work something out? Please?”

“No,” said the humanoid, with an annoyed glare. “I’m not about to let some weird talking fox hang around me while I sleep. Leave. Unless you want me to tie you up and throw you in a corner.”

“Uhmmm… I guess that could work?” said the fox. “But it depends on how long you’re gonna sleep.”

Claire shrugged. “No idea. It can be three hours, or it can be sixteen. Depends on the day.”

“Sixteen is way too many!” complained the fox. “What if I need to use the bathroom?”

“Use it before I sleep.”

“But I’m gonna need to go at least twice if you sleep for basically a whole day!”

“Then leave,” said the halfbreed, with a shrug.

“I can’t! I’ll die! And I can’t answer your questions if I’m dead!”

“Answer them before you go.”

“I’m not answering anything unless you let me stay overnight!”

“That just means we’re back to where we started.” The halfbreed rolled her eyes. “If you want me to let you stay, you’ll have to let me tie you up.”

“Can’t you just trust me?” pleaded Sylvia. She opened her eyes wide, made her ears flop forward, lowered her face, and looked up at the rogue with a teary gaze.

“No,” said Claire flatly. “And knock that off. You’re not a dog.”

“N-No? Aww… Everyone else always says yes when I do that.” Sylvia flopped forward lethargically. The bout of depression lasted for a grand total of three seconds before coming to an abrupt end, with the fox shooting to her feet. “Oh, I know! It must be because I haven’t introduced myself yet!” She stood up on her hind legs, brought the tip of her tail to her heart, and placed a furled paw on top of it. “I’m Sylvia Redleaf, Llystletein Woodfox. I just had my coming-of-age ceremony last week.”

Claire stared for a few moments before heaving a sigh. “I can’t believe I’m playing along with this nonsense.” She reached under her cloak, grabbed her dress, and bent her knees. “Claire Augustus, lady of Cadria’s first ducal house and a ritual mage in service to Builledracht,” she said for the thousandth time. The last part was no longer valid, but she was so accustomed to the designation that she had forgotten to exclude it.

“Wow! I’ve never met one of Builledracht’s mages before.” Sylvia took a step forward, glanced at Claire, and then slowly took another. “All of ours serve boring Gods like Ka’ahruus and Primrose.”

“I would have rather served the God of the Hunt or the Goddess of the Harvest than the God of Curses,” mumbled Claire.

“Oh... oh! I think I’ve got an idea! I’ll swear in Flitzegarde’s name that I won’t hurt you while you sleep! And then you won’t have to tie me up!”

“That doesn’t work without a ritual,” said Claire.

“But you’re a ritual mage, right? Can’t you just use your magic?”

“I was a ritual mage.”

“Right. I forgot the library does that to all the torches,” she said with a nod. “Oh yeah, what race are you anyway?” The fox pawed at the trial-goer’s features. “Your eyes are kind of like a gator’s, and you’ve even got the scales to match, but your ears are really freaky. They’re kinda deery or rabbity, but neither of those seems quite right. They’re not round enough near the center, and you’re way too blue.”

“Stop touching me.” Claire grabbed the fox’s face and pushed her away.

“Are you a halfbreed?”

“Does it matter?”

“Well, uhm… no. But I really want to know. I’ve never seen anything like you before!”

“Okay, I don’t care,” said Claire with the faintest of smiles.

“Aw, don’t be like that! I’m a halfbreed too, you know?”

“Good for you. Now shut up and let me tie you up.”

“It’s true! I know I look just like all the other foxes, but it’s true! I just take after my mom. I bet you can’t guess what my dad was!”

“A rock?”

“C-can rocks even have children?”

“Of course not. Are you stupid?”

“Then why would you even bother suggesting that?” huffed the fox as she pawed at the scales on Claire’s forearm. “My dad can’t be a rock if rocks can’t have kids!”

“Didn’t I just tell you to stop touching me?” The larger halfbreed brushed the furball’s paws away.

“I couldn’t help it! Your scales are just so smooth and delicate,” said Sylvia. “Wait, I guess that means you can’t be a gator, doesn’t it?”

“Shut up already. Guess again and I’ll kick you out.”

“C-can’t you at least give me a hint?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What if I told you my dad’s a wood elf? He’s really, really weird. He tries to act like a fox even though he isn’t one, and one time, his friends, some other torches, even tried to drown him because he wouldn’t knock it off,” said Sylvia, as she poked at the side of Claire’s head. “Wow, your ears are really fluffy. They’re almost as fluffy as mine!”

“For the last time, stop touching me!” Claire snarled as she shook the fox off her head.

“I was just trying to be friendly.”

“You wanted me to trust you so I wouldn’t tie you up while I slept.”

“W-well uhm, yeah, but I—”

“No buts. I don’t need you attacking me in my sleep. Let me tie you up or leave. Now.”

“Okay, okay, fine, you can tie me up,” said the fox begrudgingly. “Just give me a second to uhm… excuse myself.” The blabbermouth ventured outside, returning to present her front paws after about a minute. “I’m ready now, but uhmm… c-can you please try not to sleep for sixteen whole hours? I really don’t think I’ll be able to hold it that long.”

“Not my problem.” She tied a few secure knots before plopping the animal in a corner and returning to the spot that had become her makeshift bed.

“Good night, Claire!” said Sylvia, far too happily for a captive. “Sweet dreams!”

“...Good night.” Glaring at the stalker one last time, the exhausted bird killer closed her eyes and drifted into the land of dreams.