Outside of the [ territories ], the world behaved normally, or as normal as a magical, system-controlled world could.

It was a rough but enjoyable hike from Kiran’s cabin in the evergreen forest to the lowlands of Amnasín, back to the coastal woods and rocky outcroppings and marshes.

Hallvar appreciated the freedom they now held, the ability to wander and build their own life, their own path. Sure, the Guild was waiting at the end of the road, but earning a fair and decent pay was easy with [ territories ] around.

They wondered if that was a privilege of heroes, though; if heroes had some advantage that others did not. Were the [ territories ] unsurmountable for other adventurers? Was Hallvar lucky in a world-smoothing way, that their path remained stumble-free and paved with riches?

They laughed at the thought. No, if anything, [ unique skill: bad luck boon ] guaranteed that Hallvar would face difficulties.

As nightfall drew close, Hallvar found a good spot to camp, setting up their bedroll around a nice fire. Having a companion beast – or a companion anyone – would be better for safety.

In the end, Hallvar had to have faith that their [ skill: shared land ] would prevent most problems. It was either that or simply not sleep.

They awoke to a gentle huffing sound and a damp thing touching their face.

Once conscious, Hallvar remained as still as possible as the creature sniffed their hair and clothes. The thing’s cold, wet nose almost as shocking as its presence, but Hallvar wasn’t stupid enough to move quickly.

Perhaps it thought they were dead and were just investigating.

Hallvar cracked an eye open once the beast moved away from their face, catching a dog-sized mound of grey-purple fur. The purple wasn’t vivid, merely an undertone of the rough, fluffy thing.

That wasn’t relevant to the scenario, but Hallvar found themselves focused on the colors when every other braincell wanted them to scramble upright and run.

A much larger sound, like a grunting snort, came from a short distance away. The beast – a small, baby beast – loped away to join its mother.

It was a badger-bear-boar thing. A kjerrborn, as they were called here.

Hallvar played dead, eyeing the kjerrborn as they investigated the periphery. The cub was taller than their knee but shorter than their hip. A large baby, which followed around its larger mother.

The queen kjerrborn had to be Hallvar’s shoulder height, if not taller. It was hard to measure accurately from a sleeping position on the ground, yet Hallvar was certain the beast would look down at them, if not look them directly in the eyes.

They moved slightly to watch the kjerrborn depart with her cub, fascinated by the complexity of these creatures. [ skill: shared land ] certainly saved their hide again, but the kjerrborn’s omnivorous nature and lack of natural competition helped too.

The pair looked healthy, well-fed. Desperate bears-things might attack a human, but these two kjerrborn were fit. They had no need to feast on a sleeping human in its nasty clothing with sharp weapons, not when the land provided.

bad luck boon 3% chance failed

Hallvar’s leather bag was ripped, their possessions spilled out. They were grateful to find that the sketchbook was unharmed, firmly tucked into a special pocket.

Before the memory of the kjerrborn faded, Hallvar sketched their likeness on a full page. The big mother with large tusks and a stiff-bristled back and the little cub, whose stripes hadn’t grown in yet.

The torn bag signaled the end of Hallvar’s meandering path. They couldn’t wander towards interesting looking trees or check out a nearby stream anymore. Unless they wanted to carry everything they owned by hand to the capital, it was a straight path to the town on the [ territory ] border.

Was it a village? Town? Were there numbers or requirements in this world for those labels?

A few hours later, Hallvar knew the answer. A post was a stopping point for travelers along a road, and this particular one was called Claylake Post, named for the large sedimentary lake contained within the [ territory ].

Claylake Post was surrounded by tall evergreen trees that were interwoven into a natural wall, undoubtedly the work of a landwise. The growth was reinforced by a spiked metal fence to help deter climbing beasts.

Hallvar didn’t know how frequently the [ territory ] reset or respawned or however it worked, but it was clear that beasts of all sizes wandered by Claylake Post on a daily basis.

The settlement only held a few true buildings and a covered pavilion where adventurers and soldiers were prepping to enter the wilds. The blacksmith was working outdoors at their forge, but they were more than willing to pause to sell equipment.

Hallvar remembered their orders, asking for a one-handed axe with a top and back point. That was easy to fulfill, though as the blacksmith watched Hallvar hem and haw over buying a shield, they suggested a dagger with a wide crossguard instead.

A shield was the better option in almost any circumstance, but Hallvar felt weird about carrying one. Maybe it had to do with their still-new class choice. Shields were pretty heavy equipment. Were beastmasters more suited to leathers?

They conceded the dagger, making a mental note to ask… uh, Viktor for training. Or someone to train with. Hallvar still found it difficult to envision the guildmaster helping with anything personally, though Kiran more than hinted at his prowess in combat.

The next building belonged to a general store, stocking any number of sundries and necessary equipment for an adventurer. Hallvar purchased foodstuffs and a waterskin before hunting down a new bag.

Unfortunately, none of the ones on offer fit what the adventurer needed. They did find heavy thread for simple repairs; the blacksmith had metal needles too. What was this half-decent dexterity doing if Hallvar didn’t use it?

The more Hallvar thought about it, the sillier they felt. They were supposedly a hero, yet they found themselves seated under the pavilion, half people-watching, half-sewing. Was this what the royals had in mind? Were the other heroes doing such mundane (yet satisfying) tasks?

Their prior spoils of war – the sharp tarrusmaw teeth – reminded Hallvar of porcupine quills or corset boning, so they dulled the ends and used the teeth as reinforcement around the slash in the leather. It created a woven patch, one direction thread, the other teeth, and it worked rather well.

A half-dozen adventurers milled about. Hallvar didn’t take note of every single one.

They certainly noticed the one who startled them by thumping a sword down inches from their feet. It was comical how Hallvar looked up slowly, squinting first at the giant butcher-blade then at the large adventurer grinning down at them.

“We thought you were dead, Foreigner, but you’re sewing!”

Oh, it was Buster from the Guild. Hallvar opened their mouth to speak but Buster turned to shout back at a few others, habitually ignoring the Foreigner.

“Hey, over here! The Foreigner’s alive!”

They were soon joined by Septum and one of the argumentative mages from the sketchbook.

“Oh, how do we ask him what happened?” A reasonable question from Septum.

The mage chimed in. “He has a sketchbook, or did, so we could certainly draw something to convey our point. The question becomes: what symbols suggest the passing of time and location?”

Their new stats and combat training made Hallvar a little spicy. “An hourglass and a map but asking will be quicker.”

Any other reactions were drowned out by Buster’s loud cheer, which drew the attention of the entire pavilion.

“Yes! We liked you before as our meek little Foreigner but now we can talk! This is great news.”

“You lifted the curse? Do you have the details of its process? It is equally horrifying and fascinating to consider a curse that stripped language from the unfortunate recipient.”

The mage’s priorities were clear.

Hallvar felt weirdly overwhelmed, like their forced linguistic isolation accidentally turned them into an introvert. Or maybe it came from spending all of their talking time with Kiran and Kiran alone.

Regardless, they hesitated to reply to the enthusiastic questioning.

Septum sensed the discomfort and spoke. “Give him air, Tyrus. You’re not even researching curses right now. We’re already lucky that Grim didn’t bear-hug him.”

“Tyrus-” Hallvar looked at the mage first, then to Buster. “-and Grim?”

Allegedly-Grim smiled brightly. “Yes, and Ikraam.”

That must be Septum, the most sensible of the group who continued the niceties: “And you?”

It was their second introduction in this world, and Hallvar felt they could fumble it at any moment.

They replied after a pause. “Hallvar. It wasn’t a curse, by the way.”

An intrigued oh from the mage was cut off by Ikraam. “We wanted to get a drink before heading in, would you like to join us?”

After a nod, the group headed to the final real building of Claylake Post – the inn.

Although most adventurers carried bedrolls or other camping equipment with them, there was nothing like an actual bed for a night – or at least a comfy bench in the tavern. There were many more adventurers here, eating and drinking their fill before heading home or braving the [ territory ].

Grim and Ikraam headed to fetch libations, refusing Hallvar’s coin on the basis of a celebratory drink, which left the adventurer with the mage Tyrus.

Hallvar easily led the mage into explaining what curses were – special magic that generally limited attributes, abilities, or skills in a way that was much more permanent than a debuff. By the time the others returned, Tyrus was well into discussion of how curses could be implemented to affect physical or mental capabilities beyond the scope of current skills or attributes of the victim.

“So what was it, if not a curse?” Grim asked, setting a drink in front of Hallvar.

“Augh,” they answered dimly, taking a sip of the drink instead of talking. It was some form of grain-tea. Huh, Hallvar hadn’t considered that magic would mean gently alcoholic drinks didn’t have to be the standard, like in medieval times in their world.

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“It was… complicated.” They conceded.

“Complicated isn’t a helpful answer,” Tyrus stated curtly.

“What my friend means,” Ikraam began, sending a pointed look toward the mage. “-is that we are all curious and would love more information, if you can share.”

Hallvar’s face went a little blank with thought.

They understood a bit about their situation. Not much, only what Kiran trickled into conversation.

There were five heroes. Hallvar was one of them, a missing one. By talking about it openly, Hallvar would attract a lot of attention. Kiran advised waiting until they were in the Guild before discussing details.

These were Guild adventurers… and all three of them had been kind and helpful to Hallvar before now.

Sighing, Hallvar dug around in their bag for their pen and a scrap of paper, tucked into their sketchbook. They waved off Tyrus’ nosy face as they wrote details on the paper.

Don’t draw attention. System problem: heroes are supposed to talk to royals immediately. I didn’t, which fucked up language.

They passed it over to be read, waiting a beat before adding on verbally. “Seriously, don’t gossip. I want to make it back to the adventurer’s guild before my whole life goes to shit.”

Grim managed to keep his opinions inside, but he grinned broadly at Hallvar, almost like he was proud of them.

Tyrus took the news surprisingly well. “That makes complete sense, though I still want to know exactly why. He- Your kind are historically noted for having unique system features.”

“I can’t tell you much more,” Hallvar replied weakly. “The system gave me one line, which I had to infer a bunch from. The only reason I know what I wrote down is correct is because of the odd shimmer-shake from the system.”

“The Approval,” Ikraam provided.

Hallvar resisted calling that the most ostentatious bullshit they ever heard.

They must have looked confused, because Ikraam explained more. “The system can’t give you information that you haven’t learned, so if it needs you to follow certain directions or wants to encourage you into a specific action, it uses the Approval.”

“It can’t cheat,” Grim chimed in more simply.

“Cheat?”

The big guy nodded. “Yeah, say there’s two people competing. The system can’t give one person all the answers and ignore the other person. That’s cheating. So if it really wants that one person to win, it uses the Approval to guide them, and the person has to think their way into the best decision.”

That made sense. Hallvar wasn’t sure why there was a no cheating rule on a system, but they did remember something along the lines with their luck. Maybe the system just didn’t like cheaters.

“Can I ask questions?” Tyrus was polite in his query, sliding the paper note back to Hallvar. They folded it up and pocketed it to burn later, just in case.

“Yeah, just don’t—”

“I will be subtle,” the mage insisted.

Hallvar waved at Tyrus to tell him to carry on, drinking their tea while they listened.

“I read somewhere that your kind has a specialty that’s overt at your… arrival. Do you have one?”

Grim provided his own question too. “That, and I still want to know where you’ve been.”

The supposed hero made accidental eye contact with Ikraam, who smiled gently at them. “I can ask my question afterwards.”

Hallvar had to get used to this treatment. Apparently, heroes were akin to celebrities, given their rarity and potential.

“Endurance, which I don’t entirely understand. Though I have a frustrating relationship with luck.”

They decided less information was probably better, in terms of the rock incident. “I nearly died to a pair of tarrusmaw then spent a few weeks working for a former knight.”

“Tarrusmaw?” Grim questioned, trying to hide his disappointment. “They’re soft-skinned and slow.”

Hallvar’s brows knitted together in irritation. “I had no combat training, a mattock, and a strength of 6. Our beasts tend to avoid humans, so I was unprepared.”

“Those were your first kills?” Ikraam said, some approval in their voice.

The hero glanced around while they hid behind their drink again, catching the surprisingly patient Tyrus with a hand half raised. Was he waiting for his turn?

“Yes?”

“May I tell you about my theories on the oth- the heroes and their specialities?”

Hallvar looked to Ikraam for guidance; they nodded.

“Go ahead. I only know their classes.”

“I passed them by to the north a week ago. All four were traveling together and stopped at a tavern, where they sat near me. For whatever reason, people talk freely when I appear to be reading, so I caught their discussion.”

Grim and Ikraam were very interested now, which made Hallvar uneasy. Was this the life that they could expect later? A lack of privacy anywhere they travelled.

“Of the four, I know the least about the mage. Based on the others, I suspect only one hero has an advantage in each attribute. The fighter is logically strength, especially with no weapon skills. He spoke at length about wanting to spar with various beasts.”

“The archer would need dexterity or agility, so I suspect one of those attributes is their focus. The leader had a large sword but spent an inordinate amount of time trying to persuade various people, party members included, to agree with him. I think he may possess high charisma. It was hard to listen to him.”

Tyrus had enough awareness to keep himself safe, but it fell on the low end of a normal adult. He struggled with some social cues, which meant charisma bids against him often failed. Even when spoken plainly, to Tyrus the words of a high charisma person sounded belittling or acted as if on a stage.

To some people, honeyed words were sweet; to others, they were just sticky and weird.

“The mage had several books in her possession, so her specialty should be intelligence. She paid little attention to the others. Awareness and constitution would be unusual attributes for anyone to specialize in.”

Hallvar tucked that information away for later. It made sense, but they didn’t know what to do with it. In a combat situation, maybe it could help, but fighting the heroes didn’t seem likely.

“Endurance is a useful attribute for combat,” Ikraam added politely, circling back to discussing the Guild’s own hero. “It affects resistances against elemental magic and the ability to fight through afflictions. Besides lack of ability, the main reason adventurers fall in combat is from exhaustion, which endurance helps prevent.”

The supposed hero thought for a moment while Grim and Ikraam debated more about endurance in combat. They hazarded a question, unsure if it would make sense to others. “Is- How do you deal with defense? That’s usually an attribute where I come from.”

“Defense?” Grim was puzzled, the same look Kiran had when Hallvar asked a non-worldly question. “Unless you have magic or a skill that protects you, defense is what you wear or hold. A shield or armor, sometimes swords are defensive. There are no numbers for it.”

“You can’t make your body more defensive without magic or skills?”

Ikraam answered this time in a patient, gentle tone. “Skin rips the same whether you are a baby, an adult, or elderly. It might damage easier when you are old or very young, but there are no stats that prevent damage to our bodies.”

Well, that was one thing RPGs got wrong.

Hallvar was wondering what other video game standards were incorrect for Aestrux’s system when a sudden notice pressed into their thoughts.

bad luck boon 3% chance success

+1 luck

“Shit,” Hallvar swore automatically, their curious expression dropping into dread. The threat had to be within this building, within this room, or else the system wouldn’t have bothered them, right?

They noticed a set of heavily armored soldiers at the door, accompanied by a tall, blonde man in fancy clothing who glared Hallvar’s way. That motherfucker again.

Hallvar spoke to their concerned guildmates with a sense of dry resignation. “You may want to distance yourself from me in a few seconds. I don’t know how much trouble is coming my way.”

“What’s wrong?” Grim asked, peering around as Hallvar did to spot the problem. The fancy man did not stop glaring so he was easy to find. “Oh, that guy? Is that an executioner sword? It’s way too long for his reach.”

Tyrus cocked his head at the blonde man, already storming toward their table. “I thought you didn’t know the heroes? That’s the charisma one.”

“What?” Hallvar started, but the blonde nightmare was prepared to make a scene.

“You!”

Hallvar grunted, holding onto their drink for comfort. Or something non-deadly to throw.

“You vulgar coward! How dare you flee after harming the princess! Now I find you here, drinking and laughing as if you’ve done no harm to the Crown!”

The hero continued lambasting Hallvar, but they found it very difficult to pay attention. His speech style was archaic, antiquated, which probably meant that was how nobility or royals spoke.

To Hallvar, someone who a few months ago spent most of their free time streaming supernatural dramas and the occasional cartoon, the formality was not only ridiculous but impossible to take seriously.

It was true, however, that the fancy man was incredibly charismatic. Hallvar couldn’t look away from the pretty idiot as he shouted and scolded, drawing the attention of every single person in this room.

Wavy blonde hair, irrationally dark-blue eyes, the beginnings of a mustache and beard not unlike one of the Musketeers or the guy who said as you wish in that one movie. Cary Elwes, that was the name. A little nick on his throat from a straight razor.

Sure, charisma forced attention, but not always to words.

Hallvar was contemplating how arrogant one would need to be to gild the hilt of an executioner’s sword – a bludgeon pretending to be a sword according to Kiran – when the ranting stopped.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

At least those words made sense.

Two soldiers awkwardly hovered behind the noble hero with their hands resting on sword hilts. Though everyone in the fucking tavern stared either at Hallvar or the fancy man, Hallvar’s eyes flickered over to a group of three beelining for the angry brat here.

A bow, a staff, handwraps. Great. The other heroes.

Hallvar focused back on the fancy man, who was puffed up with perceived righteousness.

They sighed and answered with apparent resignation. “I stopped listening. Do you four always travel together? Or am I just this lucky?”

Hallvar’s 6 points in charisma failed to save them from the inevitable clash.

Enraged, the fancy man drew his massive sword in a surprisingly fluid move. In a flurry of commotion, Hallvar found themselves still seated but surrounded.

Grim and the brawler hero both had a hand on the fancy hero’s sword, which held a sharp edge only in the last 15 inches of the blade. It was an executioner’s sword, intended to be used on criminals, so the fancy man probably felt justified in his actions.

Ikraam glared daggers at the aggressor from a prepared stance, and from Hallvar’s seat, they could see actual throwing knives strapped against Ikraam’s leather armor.

They spoke first. “If you raise your sword to them, you raise your sword to us. We won’t allow you to bully our guildmate, hero.”

“Bully?!” The leader sputtered, attempting to shove the brawler away. Grim’s grip did not falter once as he prevented the man from fully arcing his sword.

“Leon!” The archer called out to the hero from a safe distance, habit for anyone who used long-range weapons. “Settle down, you’re causing a scene.”

The fancy man, now Leon, eventually let his sword fall back into place once the brawler locked a hand onto his wrist. “Do you not remember him?”

“Them,” Hallvar corrected casually, as if they had nothing to do with this conflict.

Once Ikraam settled into their seat, Grim stepped back but he remained standing and wary. The archer moved forward to give a similar sign of dismissal to the brawler who wandered off to grab a drink.

Leon grasped at any thread he could think of, turning toward the soldiers with an air of authority. “Guards, arrest him. He injured the princess at the jousting tournament.”

“Them,” the archer and Hallvar corrected simultaneously, sharing a strained glance.

The soldiers remained awkward, looking at each other for a beat before addressing the command. “Hero Leon, I—we can’t arrest people without proof or at your word, and you cannot order us to do so. We’re here for your protection, not in your service.”

Hallvar didn’t feel lucky, just annoyed. They weighed the benefits and drawbacks of pressing more of Sir Leon the Hero’s buttons, deciding to remain quiet for now.

While many of the patrons eyed the quarrel now and then, most of the attention faded once the physical combat fizzled out.

The archer moved close to Leon’s side, which in turn put them close to the seated Hallvar. It seemed the archer had some sense in them, as they spoke softly, too quiet for the soldiers to hear.

“I remember them, yes, but they’ll be executed if you bring it up. Do you really want to kill someone over a scrape on a kid?”

“She is the princess!” Leon insisted.

“She is a child.”

Leon continued glaring at Hallvar, who met his gaze easily. It should be distressing how frequently Hallvar ended up glaring upwards at an authority figure.

Sighing, the archer addressed Hallvar. “Did you mean it?”

They answered slowly and carefully, without openly confessing anything. “Did you ever get mad as a kid and swing a stick or throw a toy and break something by accident?”

The archer nodded, facing back to Leon and gesturing at Hallvar. “See?”

Without another word, the infuriated Leon turned on his heel and left, both guards and the archer trailing in his wake.

Hallvar caught sight of Tyrus at another table, chatting contentedly with the mage hero as if nothing dramatic was happening. Weird time to network, but if it was successful, who was Hallvar to judge?

The adventurer relaxed into their chair, back already sore from holding tension for so long.

“So…” Grim began, almost coy in his nosiness. “Do you want to give more detail about where you’ve been recently, or?”

“If you don’t, we’ll tell the guildmaster.” Ikraam’s threat was teasing. “I think we should tell the guildmaster anyways, but you can be the first to inform him, hrm?”

Hallvar groaned and leaned forward to thunk their forehead into the table. “Do they sell liquor here or is that not allowed?”

After a silence of pointed response, the adventurer gave an actual answer. “My best attribute is endurance, but my skill boosts my luck over time. That life-or-death encounter earned me another point.”

“What does that have to—”

Hallvar held up a hand to shush Grim, speaking into the table with a muffled aggravation. “My theory is that when your luck gets high enough, you become the system’s plaything. Every fucking instance of bad luck has led me to an important person or event.”

“For hypothetical example, if I threw a coin-sized rock at a carriage going quickly down a road, I could luckily strike the foot-sized window with enough force to not only break through, but – hypothetically – hit the occupant inside.”

Ikraam made an understanding sound, though they had to lean over and whisper an explanation to Grim.

“Wow,” was all the big guy replied.

They didn’t have time to exchange more words, as the brawler approached the table with a ton of drinks in his hands.

“My party abandoned me, so drinks are on me!” He set down several beverages, some of which were the same tea, but a couple others in clear glasses smelled more like whiskey.

“Oh, look, the liquor I mentioned,” Hallvar pointed out drily.

“Yeah!” The brawler took that as a request, handing one of the clear glasses to Hallvar. “Sorry Leon is… Leon. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. We’re good, though!”

With that apology sorted, the brawler picked up his own glass and held it up, giving a funny rhyming toast –

“Here’s to a long life and a merry one; A quick death and an easy one; A pretty love and an honest one; A cold drink—and another one.”

Grim cheered, they clinked glasses, and Hallvar downed their whiskey in one go.

“To good luck, next time,” they grumbled.