Hallvar fled in the morning like they were being chased.
In a way, they were. It was merely embarrassment and frustration that followed in their footsteps, all the way from the business That Motherfucker ran to a rocky landscape in the north of the city.
It was a farther trek than Hallvar should have accepted, one meant to ride on horseback, but they wanted a few days to think.
In the sober hours of the morning, Hallvar felt angry.
That Motherfucker, the looming man – whoever he was, he tricked Hallvar into a night of—Ugh.
They couldn’t put to words the feeling because nothing happened, other than discomfort and a hangover. But they were put on display and marionetted around for reasons Hallvar couldn’t begin to ask about, that they wouldn’t understand either.
There were only so many things a drawing could convey without words.
It was humiliating and embarrassing, but at the same time it was interesting because Hallvar could tell they were doing something right. Drawing cards or rolling dice that surprised or intrigued the audience.
But it felt—it felt—
They couldn’t enjoy the supposed accomplishment because like everything else in this fucking world, they had no context! Last night was emblematic of the past two weeks – a series of bewildering events culminating in some meager success and a lot of suffering, only to receive exactly zero answers.
They woke up with 2 silvers in their pockets! 2 entire silvers! Even with quick, incorrect math, that was at minimum 180 of the tiny coppers, right? That was… thirty mattocks!
Hallvar proceeded to do bad math as they arrived at their quest destination, some hours away from their home. The quest was to retrieve tiny crystal pieces from a mine, which sounded easy enough.
Hallvar acquired details of the quest the day prior before settling in to relax and draw. They bought a larger bag from the leatherworker, equipped with a pocket for a book, pen, and ink. It had pockets for potions too, so Hallvar leaned into their sense of caution to buy two healing potions.
They weren’t necessary for mining, yet Hallvar felt uneasy at the sheer distance they would have to travel. It was a lot of land to cover if they were injured and needed to return to heal.
Hallvar left their supply bag outside of the mine, bringing only the mattock, their simple cloth bag, and a lit torch. The crystals were easy to find as they glittered in the firelight at a distance.
180 copper could be four travel pens, each a short glass pen set in a wooden grip with a handmade metal cap so it wouldn’t break in transport.
It was almost another healing potion, 20 copper short. Those things were expensive, but life and limb were important too, Hallvar supposed.
They dropped a handful of the crystals into their bag, following the distant glitter deeper in the mine.
How could they earn three sketchbooks worth of money by wearing a blindfold and picking cards? It didn’t make sense unless they were the butt of the joke, somehow.
Wait, how many crystals did they need? Hallvar squinted, thinking at the markings on the back of the flyer. The staff at that business were very helpful in making usable notes for Hallvar to follow.
Seventy, they thought. Seven ✖’s in two groups of three, and one extra. Hallvar remembered because they thought it was a weird way to group things. Fives were the norm in their own culture.
There were twenty-two crystals in the bag.
Hallvar hoped the mine continued deeper, otherwise they would have to figure out how to dislodge some of the clusters on the ceiling. A good rock throw might work, but they could break against the floor.
Ugh, what did Fern think? What could Fern think?
Hallvar arrived back at her house – where she graciously allowed them to stay in – completely drunk and disoriented.
A new, horrible thought crossed Hallvar’s mind. Did the looming man tell her anything? Did he say they were gambling at a brothel?
Hallvar groaned, leaning their head against the cold wall of the mine. It felt nice, but it didn’t help anything. They were throwing a fit for the sake of throwing a fit, which was immature and juvenile.
It took Hallvar a few minutes to get moving again.
Yet, they forged on deeper. The mines knew nothing of their embarrassment and frustration. It was cool and quiet here. Maybe a little smelly, but the dye shop was worse.
Forty. Fifty-three. Sixty. Sixty-six. Seventy.
With a sigh, Hallvar tied off the cloth bag, looping it over their shoulder and head so it was nice and secure. There was a long trek home awaiting them on the outside of this dark mine.
This wasn’t a Tolkien novel. Nothing spectacular would happen to Hallvar if they lingered here and avoided the world outside. No Gollum-ification awaited.
They spotted a glimmer in the distance, a different color than the iridescent purple of the crystals. Curious, Hallvar approached with the torch held high. If it was a rare mineral, it could fetch a nice price. Not that Hallvar was using the money for much.
The glimmer moved.
Another glimmer appeared.
Hallvar took a step backwards, every hair on the back of their neck standing on end. As slow as they could, they swapped the torch from dominant to non-dominant hand, grabbing the mattock instead.
The glimmers moved once more.
A beast the size of a lion stepped into the dim circle that the torch cast, the hard scales on its forehead and back catching the light.
Two of those.
It lumbered along in a reptilian manner. Waddling, ambling. The beast was built like an armored salamander or a particularly fat gecko.
It opened its mouth to taste the air, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth.
There was no thought of running. Hallvar simply felt their body react, sprinting as fast as they could toward the entrance of the cave.
Thudding and fleshy, guttural clicks followed behind. Close, too close, uncomfortably close.
Hallvar would have found these creatures fascinating, if they weren’t trying to kill them. Or chase them.
Maybe they were demonizing some innocent small-mammal hunting monster, like how people hated snakes for—
A maw snapped close around their leg. The teeth didn’t seem needle-like now; there were dozens of sharpened chopsticks impaling Hallvar’s calf.
It hurt, pain radiating upwards as they fell, but surprisingly Hallvar remained calm. For everything that happened to them in this fucking world, they weren’t going to let an oversized house gecko eat them.
Drunk, disorderly, beaten up, dropped in a pond, struggling to do basic tasks, with no friends they could talk to – Hallvar hadn’t gone through two weeks of boring hell to die from a Minecraft axolotl.
They continued to think of stupid comparisons even as they whipped their mattock around, sinking it axe-first into the underside of the creature’s jaw. Hallvar felt the impact on their damaged leg, a sudden pressure from below.
Maybe it was the isolation and lack of entertainment that gave Hallvar a weird combat sense. Even in the dim light of the now-dropped torch, Hallvar knew where the soft spots were based on the armored scale placement, how the flesh bent and folded as the creature opened its jaw in shock.
Godzilla newt could get fucked.
Hallvar reared back and landed the hoe end of the mattock in the same spot, dislodging their leg and letting their sudden body weight help rip the dumb amphibian’s throat open.
It scrambled and fell, fully blocking the second evil mudpuppy from entry. Thank the fates or whoever that this mineshaft was thin and tall.
Maybe it was the adrenaline, but Hallvar immediately understood why the looming man took them to the casino. Luck. Were they lucky? Was that a trait here?
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No time to consider.
Hallvar scrambled to their feet, the injured leg burning in a thousand spots as it took weight. The pain was tolerable. Weird, since in their old life a papercut would have put them in bed for an hour with grief.
They lunged forward, swinging the axe-end downward onto another part of the creature’s throat.
Now that there was less leg in imminent danger, Hallvar watched blood pour out of the damp wyrm, soaking into the stone. They would consider it a success only when the thing stopped twitching.
The other beast didn’t allow for such caution. It leaped over the corpse to pin Hallvar. Their mattock was still held low after the strike, so there was no chance of quick retaliation.
The breath was forced out of their lungs by the weight of the craggy skink, which tried to turn and bite Hallvar’s head off like a frog to a cricket.
Gasping, Hallvar wrenched their hand free to fumble for the knife Fern gifted them.
The monster didn’t have eyes, but Hallvar became aware of a soft dent where an eye should be. A hole in the skull, they hoped.
Something ripped into their side and across their front – a claw as the beast fought for a better grip.
Hallvar yelled in anguish, channeling their pain into a desperate stab with both hands reinforcing the knife.
Yes! There was a hole in the skull; the blade sank through, feeling like a knife into fish meat with only the scales providing resistance.
They twisted the knife and stabbed again.
The third stab missed and left a shallow cut down the beast’s face. Fuck!
The fourth one missed too, but it made Hallvar realize the creature was no longer moving. Or breathing.
Hallvar laid back with a sigh, only to lift themselves up shakily to stab the thing once more. You only needed to watch Zombieland one time for rule #2 to embed itself in your psyche.
They struggled against the weight of the monster, wriggling free over a series of long, exhausting minutes.
What now?
Get to the healing potions, sure. Those looked like a great investment in hindsight. A lucky one, even.
Skin the things? Hallvar mostly knew how to clean the hides from the tannery, and they would probably fetch some money. People bought alligator shoes. Giant gecko handbags might exist here.
Fetch their mattock, also pinned under the beast.
Check that the crystals weren’t all destroyed in the fight.
With a groan at the tedious nature of living post-combat, Hallvar rolled onto their hands and knees and pushed up.
A sick, uncomfortable sensation radiated from their core, as if nerves were randomly signaling pain where no pain should be. Kind of like period cramps but not as localized.
Blood flowed gently down a sloped piece of stone, enveloping Hallvar’s palm in a warm wetness.
They looked down and nearly threw up. It would have been extra difficult, as their stomach was now on the outside with several other organs, hanging and flopping around as Hallvar wavered.
The curve of their… their abdomen skin hung in the way. Hallvar could clearly see their belly button in a manner it was never meant to be seen. Intestines brushed against the floor, picking up dirt and grime.
Hallvar went into shock. Their hands trembled as they did what needed to be done, unable to think about the process. They barely managed to get to their feet, numb to how slippery and hot their organs felt against their fingers.
It all went inside. Healing potion would fix it. Sepsis too. Dirt, magic would clean the dirt off. Right.
They endured. Step after step, counting the movements as something to focus on other than how cold they felt in comparison to how warm their hands were.
It was hard to open the healing potion.
Hallvar eventually used their teeth, hating the iron taste of their own blood.
They downed both bottles and passed out within the span of sixty seconds. Hallvar didn’t have the energy to hope they would wake up again; they were left immediately unconscious in the midafternoon sunlight.
➳ ➳ ➳
This was a lesson in wearing armor.
Hallvar’s was back at home, strewn across a chair in their bedroom. It might have prevented the series of pink-scar dots down their leg, or the sickle-shaped scar running from their ribs across their pelvis.
They’d been so mortified by the night of drunkenness that the armor was forgotten. Anything not directly attached to their clothes – the mattock was tied to their belt – or within their bag got left behind in the rush.
Hallvar was alive, though. Alive and disgustingly dirty, covered in reptile and human blood, which was beginning to reek.
Attached to their back by a few short lengths of rope were two rolled-up fantasy gila monster skins, or at least the soft part from the beast’s belly and sides. It was pretty in hindsight, a mottled white grey with blue spotting.
Hallvar awoke with innards where they should be; however, the adventurer was unwilling to leave without their reward for surviving. The skins were easy enough to obtain, but it took an hour to rid each skin of the fat and lingering muscle.
They took a few more trophies, prying out the sharp teeth since bone needles were a thing, right? And then the claws. Each beast had raptor-like talons on the back feet, presumably to disembowel pinned prey or rip it apart. The claws were impressively difficult to remove, so Hallvar ended up with two hand-sized talons for… something.
Maybe they could be ornamental, if Hallvar ended up with real, professional armor.
It was hard to think of themselves as professional given their terrible performance. No armor. No food or water, even. No map.
The professional label was far, far away; Hallvar existed solidly as an amateur.
This amateur adventurer was wandering toward the sight of smoke on the horizon, following a road to somewhere. It didn’t feel like they were heading south, back to the large city, but what did Hallvar know.
They were clinging to consciousness with dull determination. Every time exhaustion threatened to pull Hallvar down, they recounted each terrible event in their life, in order of occurrence. It sparked enough almost-rage to keep their feet moving.
Was this preferable to their old life?
Hallvar weighed a series of pros and cons before deciding that yes, this was somehow preferable. Here they might not have friends or family or any ability to communicate, but they had agency.
With money, Hallvar could wander off into the woods and live as a hermit. No obligations, no social or academic worries. No stupid politics to consider.
Maybe they would find a dog. A stray that needed caring for. The dog wouldn’t care about the language issue. They could be friends for a long time.
Hrm, dogs died after a decade or so. Probably faster in the woods with no medical care. Maybe Hallvar would find a second dog, after the heartache of the first wore off, of course.
The adventurer glanced off into the woods with hope for this fabricated situation, looking for a cheerful fantasy golden retriever, bounding their way.
They stopped short, turning to face the woods.
Something was there.
Hallvar swore under their breath, reaching for their mattock in anticipation.
They relaxed slightly when the movement became clearer. There was a large animal far off the road, ambling by. It was bear-shaped with a similar coloration to a badger, the tell-tale stripes and snout-shape easy to identify.
Aside from a scoop-shaped nose, this beast sported tusks. Hallvar narrowed their eyes to try and see better, fascinated by this thing.
It was sort of bear-badger hybrid, but with the tusks – and the bristled back – Hallvar wanted to say a bit of boar fell into the mix.
Badger, bear, boar. Hilarious.
Hallvar watched it wander past, delighted to catch a glimpse of a smaller creature. A cub, with darker coloring.
It was refreshing. A beautiful creature in the wild that didn’t want Hallvar dead. The badger thing was living its best beastly life, without interference from humans or the rest of the world.
Their old world had a lot of problems, one of which was humans infringing on natural habitats, destroying biomes, and generally shifting the natural behaviors of animals to include foraging in trash cans and dumpsters. For bears, that could mean death – either by ingesting something dangerous or becoming too friendly with human co-habitation.
Moose did that too, but they weren’t shot for it. Hallvar was struck by the thought of a fantasy world moose, grimacing.
The sounds of a shout drew Hallvar’s attention, gaze shooting to the side where a carriage barreled toward them. It was flanked by knights on horseback, purple flags with a white-green emblem flapping in the wind.
They stood in the middle of the road and hesitated, unsure if leaping under the horse’s hooves would be a quicker death than the wheels of the carriage.
When their body did the dodging for their brain, Hallvar was thrown into the embankment, covering their head for protection.
They scrambled to their feet with a rising fury as the procession passed. This was the second time some gilded fucking carriage almost killed them. And today of all days!
Hallvar picked up a rock and chucked it at the golden monstrosity, not thinking any relevant thoughts about who would be traveling with so many guards and horses.
The carriage stopped some distance down the road, short enough that the second carriage – less gilded, less escorts, but still impressive – managed to catch up.
The emblem was a unicorn head surrounded by fronds of a fern-like plant. Hallvar knew this because it was emblazoned on the horse shirt-thing and the armor of several knights who were surrounding the adventurer with uncomfortable aggression.
Regardless of their raised hands – a hopefully universal sign of surrender – Hallvar was half-dragged down the road and forced to their knees in front of the beautiful carriage.
A mage fussed over a small, petite girl in clothing as gilded as her carriage. It had to be heavy, with what looked to be purple velvet and gold thread embroidery.
The girl had a red mark on her face, slowly healing from the mage’s attention.
Ah, the rock.
Well, she wasn’t the queen, so this girl had to be a princess, right? That would be Hallvar’s luck. People in RPGs begged and fought to meet a princess, while Hallvar wanted to get as far away from this one as possible.
Someone else came from down the road. A man in green and silver, dashing but not nearly as fancy as the princess. Hallvar glanced at the other carriage where a few people stood, watching.
The man said some quiet words to the princess, cooing over her. Ah, her fiancé? He looked far too old for her, maybe in his twenties whereas the princess was still a teenager.
Hallvar frowned involuntarily, earning the immediate ire of the fancy man. There was no point in paying much attention. Hallvar didn’t understand a word of what the rich idiot was saying, other than pointing from the princess to Hallvar in an accusatory way.
Soon, the princess approached. Hallvar watched with what little respect for royalty they could muster. It was hard to react favorably, given the instance of near-death and how exhaustion overrode any coherent thoughts. They also hated being on their knees in reverence to a grumpy looking child.
She admonished them, that was clear. A knight kicked Hallvar into a proper bow, something that threw Hallvar into a state of quiet seething. They wouldn’t react to any of this, they decided. Nothing. No response. No attempt at communication, nothing at all.
Fuck these people.
Hallvar glared at the child as she continued to speak. The tone was grandiose, high and mighty and above the kneeling figure, both literally and socially.
She disapproved, speaking to the fancy man and to a particularly ornamented knight, the one in charge. Hallvar was hauled to their feet and forced to walk.
As the adventurer was taken away, they heard one clear message.
“May my father be merciful in his punishment.”
The blessing slammed into Hallvar like an unseen wave of energy, turning their defiance into confusion and immediate sickness.
They could hear and understand the words of the knights as Hallvar was taken to the end of the caravan and placed into an enclosed cart, full of crates and trunks. There was just enough room for Hallvar to sit, but not enough to move about. One terrible stop and they would be squished by the sliding boxes.
Hallvar heaved as the door closed, but nothing was on their stomach, every drop of energy consumed by the healing.
In the dark of the cart, Hallvar languished.
Sick, a fever rapidly rising, in a constant state of emesis.
Until they could think straight, the glowing pop-up window in their mind would have to wait.