**[Day of Draft: Horace]**

Horace was tired. He had spent all night hoeing the field and had to get up early this morning to feed the cattle. The Leaf faction may have made Draft Day a holiday, but nothing was ever that simple. The animals still needed to be fed, watered and cleaned after, so many of his peers who were too young for the draft needed to stay back to work. It didn’t help that the holiday was only for the day, which allowed the foreman to make him work until late under the excuse that he would be understaffed following the draft. His slow, plodding gait continued him forward down the sandy path leading to the city in a slight rebellion towards the supervisor who was vainly attempting to rush the weary farmhands. As a result of the speaking pipes being destroyed near his district's outskirts, all eligible root children were forced to walk to the only city in their district, Keros, to learn of their fate.

Horace was a realist and knew that he would probably be chosen the next or the one after if he was not called this year. His mother would miss him, but his service in the draft would assure she could retire in one of the towns to live an easier life. All he needed to do was survive a month in a rank two dungeon, and she would receive a whole gold coin, enough money to retire frugally for at least five years. His mother's modest sewing skills would supplement her income to last longer. If, by some miracle, he managed to make it through the whole six-months, then he could raise his mother’s status and save her from a life of misery. Unlike children of the branch and leaf factions, Horace knew his odds and was raised understanding his role in the family. It wasn’t to serve his nation or his king. Instead, it was simply to live as long as possible and save his loved ones from further suffering. The compensation did not mean much for a big family, but with only his mother and baby sister to support, his death could make a real difference. 

To keep from dozing off as he walked and drifting away from the group, he started to plan how he would survive in the dungeon. As a result of his certainty in his fate, he was able to consider his approach calmly. Horace had always been a thinker despite his rather brutish appearance and lack of education. Little ever came from it, but it helped him to process. “I have most of the basic weapon skills, so depending on availability, I can fight under most conditions. Maybe if I am lucky, I can get sponsored some basic equipment and start with my primary choice. Then I can get it up to level five to gain a bonus. Ideally, my group will have someone with the ability to attack at range, wish I had more time to…”

Horace murmured to himself for a while until a milkmaid from the neighboring farm yelled at him, “Hey freak! Some of us have enough to deal with without listening to your blasted mumbling.” He blushed and tried to apologize, “So-so-soorry, I stop talking now.”

“Blast it all!” He screamed at himself inside for sounding so stupid in front of everyone. His charisma caused all his intelligence and reason to vanish when around other people, especially pretty girls like her. Fortunately, everyone was too distracted by their own worries to heckle him, and the girl moved on into the middle of the group. Sighing, he decided to continue his preparations and looked at his skills again to affirm his plan.

Skills:

Animal Husbandry: Lvl 6

(bonus: “beastly bearing”: beasts of burden will be kinder dispositioned in your presence and have increased energy)

Axes: Lvl 4

Farming: Lvl 3

Knives: Lvl 2

Load Bearer: Lvl 2

Unarmed Combat: Lvl 1

“Pretty good!” Horace wished he had spent more time chopping wood with the older field hands to level his ax skill, but besides that was very pleased by his accomplishments. Out of all the boys his age, he was the best at plowing the fields and leading the large bison used at his farm. The foreman started rewarding him with an additional share of any damaged crops for his contribution once he reached level five of animal husbandry. That really helped out at home and allowed him to bulk up some in the last year. It did nothing for his short stature, but at least he could hold his own against the older boys now.

Satisfied with his fighting ability, Horace next pondered the complication his charisma posed. He had failed to consider this before the milkmaid had chastised him but knew it could be a severe complication. “I really hope I don’t have a girl on my team.” He knew he wouldn't be able to communicate effectively with his trait and low charisma right away. This would make it difficult to make a good first impression and get the respect he needed for the others to listen to him later on. However, the rules only stated that teams were sent to the same dungeon. There was no requirement to actually work together, although it is usually considered better to do so. If his teammates were awful, then he could always leave once they entered. His status screen would only serve to highlight this dilemma, so he gave it the barest of glimpses as he thought of ways to circumvent the inability to speak socially.

Horace Phillip Stone

Level: 2

Age: 11

Faction: Root

Class: ----

Traits:

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Awkward

(As a result of lower than average charisma)

Tough

(As a result of higher than average strength)

Stats:

Strength: 8*

Dexterity:7

Agility:6

Charisma: 3*

Intelligence: 5

Wisdom: 7

Luck: 4

“Aha! I can practice mumbling loudly or maybe imagining my mom’s face on hers if it's a girl” Horace continued to go various tangents for the rest of the walk, realizing only later how deranged he must have looked.

**[That Evening]**

Horace pushed and prodded his way through the crowd towards the stage. His group had arrived just an hour previous, and he had spent the majority of that time fighting through the throngs of drably dressed peasants to the square. Without pipes functioning normally in rural communities, there were thousands of extra people clustered around the city. Not all that were present had a personal stake in the draft; many used the holiday to travel and see family or shop in stores not accessible to them otherwise. Draft day was one of the few times society's upper echelons gave people of the root faction equal access and consideration. Horace had only been to the city once before and tried to resist the urge to look at everything. It helped that he didn’t have any money to spend.

Reaching the middle of the square, he looked around to find a place where he could clearly see and settled on a place near the left end of the stage where a light post would shield him from being pushed about. The nobles were only just arriving, and the magical ticket contraption stood proud in the center of the stage, drawing every eye to it. The square itself tried to compete with the ticket dispenser's mystical nature, but despite the beautiful artwork and colorful streamers, it paled in comparison. He forced his eyes away to focus elsewhere to ignore the fascinating way the tickets fluttered within.

Before the first names were drawn and noise was prohibited, Horace could hear the people around him theorizing about it. A particularly chatty group of young women caught his attention. “I heard Killian, the god of adventures blessed the cage,” spoke a blond woman as she held up a souvenir amulet as if to shield herself from the younger woman beside her. 

“Well, I heard that the golden glow represents the treasures awaiting the draftees in their next life,” replied a girl standing in front of him, hopefully.

The women all looked at the girl with glances loaded with pity, and one elderly grandmother took it upon herself to correct the young child, “You are both wrong. I personally asked the local priest. He told me Goddess Altera herself, enchanted the cage in her grief over the abuse of her favored class.”

Horace chuckled, listening to the women one-up each other on their knowledge. He had heard the preachers give credit to one god or another and considered each explanation to be horse shit. "I bet it’s just a basic light spell, and there is some mage hiding under the stage controlling it. All to convince us this whole thing is some divine mission." He stopped his internal thoughts from going any farther down the rabbit hole as the announcer stepped on stage. A perfect example of the branch class, the announcer was pudgy with neatly trimmed facial hair and a self-righteous expression. No one in his faction had enough food to become fat, let alone waste money on fancy haircuts. He was lucky enough to have been born with a naturally stocky frame that allowed him to work harder than the spindly starved boys back home.

The man waited expectantly for the first tickets to be pulled by the Duke, and everyone in the square quieted until all that was heard was the expectant breathing of the people closest to him. Horace could hear a boy near him hyperventilating and was not surprised when later the boy fainted as his name was called.

"The older nobles must be tired, weaklings." Horace watched as younger versions of the three regal men standing beside the cage took turns pulling tickets for their parents. After a chubby boy in a ridiculously thick blazer waddled back to his post, a pretty waif of a girl walked carefully towards the cage. Horace didn’t pay too much attention and was, in fact, daydreaming but perked up when mummers started in the crowd. The women had begun gesturing and whispering as the girl who had looked so composed moments previous was now shaking next to the podium.

“She must be in the draft," one murmured.

The blond woman from before responded with glee, her necklace still clutched between scarred fingers, “What are the odds that she called her own name?” They all brightened at that thought since it had been years since the last noble-born child was called in their district.

“Spoiled girl, she doesn’t see us sobbing down here,” the elderly lady stated. Her previously maternal expression had morphed into one of distaste. The women had zero pity for the young noblewoman and were quite harsh in their speculations, but Horace appreciated the situation. He had sliced off the tip of his big toe the first time he used an ax and remembered the shame at disfiguring himself. It is different if someone else wrongs you versus doing the damage yourself. There is no one to shift the blame towards when you were the one responsible.

He could see the announcer and scribes look angrily at the girl. Unlike the masses, they had not reached the obvious conclusion for her sudden breakdown. One of the scribes got her to release her captured tickets, and the announcer read them out. “Aiden William Sayler, Rita Mae.. oh my... excuse me..” Horace watched as a well-dressed woman near the center of the stage collapsed into the crowd after hearing the announcer. He found it a strange reaction to a noble’s name being called. Most of those in the crowd seemed pleased with the added excitement. The announcer’s own stutter during his well-practiced and controlled broadcast let everyone know how unexpected this was. Few present missed the irony of their own city lord’s daughter being called from a ticket of her own choosing. Exaggerated stories of this moment would be told and retold for weeks at the farm. As if the muttering from the crowd brought him back to normal, the announcer squared his bulky frame, gazed harshly at those talking, and continued, “Rita Mae Malory, Horace Phillip Stone, Janice Gail Steele...”

At the mention of his own name after hers, the young peasant grinned. His luck could not have been better. Her misfortune might be the big break he needed. With a city lord sponsoring them, he could actually see himself living instead of just surviving as long as possible. A noble girl was also nearly guaranteed to have magic or high levels, which outweighed any disadvantages she may have. Rita Malory… thank you for your service.