The warm glow of the sun has crept into a charming little valley, pushing away the low fog that haunts it at night. In its center lies a village made of towers. Some are made entirely of stone, some of wood, and, if you can believe it, some of bone. And from one of these ivory towers emerges an elderly man wielding a staff, unflinching before the blinding light of the sun before raising his hand and staff and declaring, "Empowered Sunshine!" He roars with such volume that he would put all rosters to shame. A golden, glowing aura seeps out of him, reaching far beyond his tower and blanketing the entire village and valley. "Humph," old Dunchins huffs as he turns to leave, the sky still tinted before clearing in a few minutes.
*Thud*
Derrick's poor head slammed into his low-headroom workstation, spilling his ink well and scattering his draft papers to the ground. "Ahh-" Groaning, he sits up from his ink-laced workstation, his hair and fingers covered in a fine, beautiful, sleek black. He grimaces as he rubs his face at the strange sensation of ink saturating his skin, muttering "Repel Ink" the ink sloughed off from his body, clothes, and deeply stained station, like water off a goose's back. Said ink then falls in to the metal tray his work station is built on stanning the papers that were on the floor. *Sigh* Sighing at the blunder, he slowly picks the dripping papers out of the dark pool, modulating his skill to only remove the fresh surface ink. The documents look fine, if not two colors darker than normal; click "Save Document." A merged skill of "Save Plant" and "Preserve Document" quickly and gently squeezes the extra ink out, creating a constant trickle of ink as the document in his hand slowly folds in odd directions to finally reveal perfectly readable papers.
Pulling one at random he reads his written status.
NAME AND SURNAME
AGE
CLASS
DERRICK FALCONE
6.9 YEARS OLD
[NULL]
FAMILIY SKILL
MATRIOSHKA SKILL
ENERGY POOLS
Farming
Farm Defender
500/500 – HP
Cleaning
Liquid Fighter
300/300 – SP
Masonry
Structure Reinforcer
110/110 – MP
Blacksmithing
Resistance Tree
Regen Rates
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Glass Working
Mana Lungs
HP – 5% A Minute ({1.25-3-Seconds})
Tailoring
Conjoin Material
SP – 2% A Minute ({0.1-Seconds})
Art
[Null]
MP – 1% A Minute ({0.055-3-Seconds})
Carpentry
Engraving Tree
Mutations
Scroll Skin
Diminutive Stature (Negative)
Wicked Hair
Druid Beginning
Flame Proof
[Null]
"Much better," he says. The standard status screen is an obnoxious blue with gold highlights; grey is a much more palatable color that makes the important information stand out. Sadly, he doesn’t have a good way of displaying his statistics, as they are only viewable at church.
Pulling out some fresh parchment from the watertight drawer courtesy of Jill, he begins by pulling some ink from the tray using the "Repeal Ink" reverse. Taking out a globe of ink, he begins by mentioning the church and asking if a scribe could... "bang!" His mussing and writing are interrupted as the front door to his workshop is blown off its hinges. On the other side is a tall, whip-thin man with the presence of a titan. "Hey, Twigs, here's a little secret: doors of such craftsmanship are --"He is interrupted once more as Twigs pull Derrick with a combination of "heavy being" and "gravities pull," hurling him across the room into the tall mans grasps. Grabbing the small package, Twigs dashes for the fields at the valley's far end, his heavy footsteps rattling the nearby towers.
"Twigs, buddy, what's gotten into you, man?" Derrick's voice was a bit tight, afraid of the answer. His smaller stature is thankfully not affecting his voice. He had grown accustomed to being carried since he had acquired "diminutive stature" as a child. The bonuses are quite nice, and the size always felt like a bonus no matter how he saw it. "Family Calls!" he says, his voice sounding more bassy and metallic as the days go by; his laughter sounds like an organ falling down a flight of stairs while playing a catchy tune.
A quaint folk house can be seen in the distance, though Derrick knows it's more impressive from the back than the front. Reaching their destination, Twigs blessedly bled off his speed, using his legs like plows, tearing into the untouched farm land in front of the house. Derrick knew it was a variant skill that converted the speed of contact to growth speed; looking behind him, he can already spot corn spouts from his Twigs slide. Derrick waved Twigs for a moment as he approached the porch, speaking "Spotless Guest," a half-noble, half-cleaning skill he picked up by accident while playing the role of a butler, and continuing, "That has saved me more times than I can remember." chuckling at his plight. Looking away from his now field-dirt-free legs, Twigs replies, "Then don’t play in the dirt so often, you mad fool," before shaking his head at the obviously ignored words of wisdom and knocking on the door as gently as possible.
The door is not sporting a fanciful new crack, and the sounds of dozens of footfalls can be heard inside. But no one opened the door. Derrick shrugged as he opened the door, expecting to see his parents angry with him for sleeping in the towers. As such, he opened up with "Hi mom, Dad, sorry, got carried away with the scroll work again, hehe," hoping to soften the blow. I didn't come; instead, he was showered in a physical wave of glitter and sound only stabbing thanks to "Farmers Ground" working overtime.
"Happy birthday!" echoed in his bones rather than his ears. Derrick fell on his ass, struggling to understand how he forgot his birthday, or more accurately, how his family and friends anticipated and prepared for his forgetfulness. His minor identity crisis was quickly dismissed as he was dragged to his feet by his father. His father was the epitome of buff, a very tall man built like two shithouses slammed into each other at high speeds and conglomerated like transformers. The only visible physical mutation he has is his lack of both hair and eyes, which are usually hidden under his extra-large farmer's hat or the elaborate blindfolds his mom makes for him. Mom in comparison looks small; her four arms doing her no favors, exasperating her already thin frame; her hair has darkened quite a bit yet still has a gem-like luster.
"Come on, birthday boy; it's drinking day!" Except for his own, Derrick's father's voice is the most normal he's ever heard. "Old Fredrick brought us fresh spiders’-wine!" That got a reaction from many of the older kids in the room. When Kole, Fredrick's son, heard this, he pulled out a silk-covered barrel adorned with purple runes.
Looking around, Derrick notices his grandparents at the far end of the corridor, especially the crowded one; seeing them move made him smile. Taking his dad's offer, Derrick got to the backyard, where he could finally see that his family might have invited the entire village. Turning around to ask how they were going to feed everyone, he was abruptly carried by his old man to an elevated platform with twenty-four seats. He was promptly seated in the middle, with Ron and Ross flanking him with tankards in hand. “Welcome.” “Brother.” “Of another.” “Mother.” “Shall we drink.” Finishing there words by clacking the tankards together.