Part II: The Hunt Begins

Five days had passed since my return to Plainside.

We’d spent the better half of the past week tracking. The Butcher of Plainside, as Val and I had taken to calling him, had made precisely no effort to cover his tracks, and neither, it seemed, had his two accomplices. Charred footsteps had journeyed northwest from the levelled town, and even once the soot had faded from the trio’s shoes, broken branches snapped underfoot gave Val and I a pretty clear picture of where they’d headed.

They’d joined up with a main road, travelling west, and though there were no visual signals that we were still on the right track, the locals of the small towns and inns on this road well remembered the “great” Player they’d set their eyes upon—and were all too eager to talk about it. I’d had to remind myself that they didn’t know what the Butcher had done, that they’d be speaking differently of him if they did. Or… I hoped they would, anyway.

The best part of a week later, we found ourselves in the quaint town of Tath. This town, formed of a good four dozen buildings, sat in the lower foothills of the Bladerocks, the great mountain range that separated the Gentle Tundras from the (definitely not gentle) Badlands. But despite being so close to this intimidating region, Tath seemed to boast all the charmingly eccentric qualities of many remote towns in the region—the people wore seemingly permanent smiles, the street merchants began their pitches with friendly jokes, and the buildings were roofed with straw rather than slate, which was an intentional preference for beauty over practicality.

Everyone knew that the best place in a town to hear gossip was an inn, but I couldn’t rid myself of the feeling that this wasn’t why we were going there; Val had mentioned feeling thirsty for ale even more than normal in the past few hours. Me? Well, I wasn’t one to shy away from a good beer, either, so I went along with it.

The inn was larger than you’d normally expect in a town the size of Tath, though that had much to do with its positioning on one of the main roads between the regions. And there was custom enough to warrant this size, judging by the gentle good-natured murmuring that washed over me as we entered, putting me immediately at ease.

‘I’ll start with the barmaid,’ Val said, already hurrying out of earshot before I had a chance to reply. I’d just need to hope she’d assume my order was the same as hers.

I made the rounds by myself, prying into group conversations and approaching those surly customers drinking alone, asking them about a certain trio who passed through town a few days back. Those who knew who I was talking about were only too eager to say that they’d met them, spoken with them, been named the guardian of their future children, and so on; it was hard to believe every word coming out of their mouths.

At some point—I wasn’t quite aware when—Val shoved a pint in my hand, and it was already a good quarter gone before I realised I was drinking it. She was right; it wasn’t half bad.

Mid-interrogation with an older, very drunk, woman—one who had more grandmotherly vibes than “getting sloshed at the inn” vibes—I caught sight of a man staring at me, over the woman’s shoulder. I glanced at him, and the man’s eyes seemed focused elsewhere, but I was sure he’d been staring…

Shaking my head, I moved on, looking for more information on the future whereabouts of the Player and his two cronies. I’d heard plenty of where he’d been, but nobody so far had had any idea where he was going.

Val seemed to have had more luck, though. ‘Got him,’ she said, grabbing me by the arm and wrenching me away from an attractive elf—or human, I couldn’t quite tell what she’d identify as—who I’d been intending to get to know a little better. But there were other priorities, I told myself, with one last glance at her.

‘Got him? The Player? You know where he’s headed?’

Val shook her head.

‘Then why did you drag me away from—’

The sorcerer raised an eyebrow, glancing at the woman I’d just been speaking with. ‘You weren’t her type.’

Of course, Val had only seen me in my… well, in my powerless state, at this point. Let’s not mince words here, “powerless” was about the most apt descriptor for me. But back when I knew who I was, I considered myself actually quite an attractive man, if that wasn’t arrogant to say. It’s not like that came from me; there was a healthy handful of women out there who’d described me as “handsome”, and, no, not a single one of them was my mother. Though maybe she’d have added a voice to that choir if she’d hung about for longer than it’d taken to give birth to me.

Before I could interject, Val continued, ‘I don’t know where the Player’s headed, no. But I have a line on the orc.’

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

‘Where?’

‘Heading Northwest. Back towards Rose Fort. Not with the Player we’re after, from the sounds of it, but I figure he’ll know where to find him.’

I considered this, licking my lips, then nodded. ‘OK. Good. Sounds like a plan. We’ll head off now, then?’

‘In the morning,’ Val replied, stifling a yawn. ‘I’m beat, and I already got us a room.’

‘A?’ I asked. ‘One room?’

‘They only had one.’

‘We’re not sharing a…’

Val’s eyes widened, blinking at me. ‘What? No. Two single beds, don’t you worry.’

‘Good, because I—’

The sorcerer drew in close. ‘Do you see that guy over there?’ she whispered into my ear, apparently trying to make this interaction look like something other than it was.

‘Who?’

‘Over my left shoulder. Corner of the room.’

I glanced, not quite in the direction Val had specified, but close enough to see with my peripherals. It was the same man I’d seen earlier—the one staring at me, but not. ‘I see him. Thought I saw him staring, earlier.’

‘He probably was. You see the mark on his wrist?’

‘You want me to look now?’

‘No. Don’t draw attention. If you didn’t see it, you’ll have to trust me—it was a circle with a line through it. A broken sun.’

Val paused, but if this was supposed to mean anything to me…

‘It’s the mark of the Cult of Ascendancy. We’ve encountered them before.’

‘We?’

The sorcerer shook her head. ‘I. I meant “I”. They’re a dangerous bunch. And if they think we mean the Player harm…’

‘What’s Players got to do with Ascendancy? Ascend to where?’

Val only shook her head, pulling her face away from my ear. ‘Best not to talk about it here.’ She turned back to the bar, and ordered another couple of ales. ‘What’d you think of the first?’

‘The beer?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, what else would I be—’

‘It was nice, yeah.’

‘They use rosemary in the brewing,’ Val said. ‘Rumour is—and I can’t confirm it’s true—there was a witch in these parts who used rosemary to disguise the taste of her poisons. One day, she poisons the product of a local pub. Not one like this, but one that caters to bandits. The nasty kind of bandits, too. They notice the rosemary—who wouldn’t?—but they like it. Adds a nice extra element to the taste profile of the—’

‘Taste profile?’ I repeated. ‘What are you, a food critic?’

‘If the fates had been kinder, I would be. But I’m trying to tell a story, so stop interrupting.’

‘Sorry.’

‘So they like the beer, even with the rosemary, and they drink enough that night that the poison—powerless in small doses—is in their systems enough to kill ‘em. A whole bandit clan, wiped out, in one night. Courtesy of one small-town witch. So this’ — she passed another glass of deep red ale — ‘is called the Witch’s Brew. A recreation, all the rosemary, none of the poison.’

‘Huh,’ I said.

‘Yeah, cool, right?’

‘Yeah, almost makes me hate witches a little less.’

The smile faded from Val’s face some. ‘Oh, Hecate’s torch, don’t tell me you believe all that stuff.’

I damned well did. Witches? These were the types of people even I tried to avoid; there was no knowing what one might do to you, for the simple crime of existing in their presence. ‘When they stop being evil, I’ll stop hating them.’

‘I’d come to expect a little more nuance from you,’ she said. ‘Clearly I was mistaken.’

Val’s mood seemed to have turned, so we drank the rest of the pints in near silence, sat at the bar of the bustling inn. Val downed the last of hers, having drunk it far more quickly than I had, then stood abruptly. ‘We should sleep; we’ll need to leave early in the morning.’

As we left the basement for the stairs, I couldn’t help but feel like there were eyes bearing into the back of my head. Though sleep grabbed Val quickly, I remained awake, staring at the ceiling, unable to shake the idea that we hadn’t escaped the attention of dangerous factions. As the night grew into its darkness, I was just beginning to think that it might have been paranoia, caused perhaps by my insanely low level. But that’s when our room’s wooden door began to creak open.

"Styk"

Level 4 Peasant

Base Stats:

Vitality — 2

Intelligence — 5

Dexterity — 8

Strength — 13

Wisdom — 8

Charisma — 0

Skills:

Knifework — Level 5

Identification — Level 4

Stealth — Level 1

Abilities:

Slice (Knifework) — Slice the enemy for physical damage worth weapon’s base damage and additional damage scaling on [STR].

Stab (Knifework) — Put your weight behind your wielded blade and force the tip through tougher hinds and armour. Damage scales on [STR].

Basic Stealth Attack (Stealth) — Passive. 10% boost to damage when unnoticed by enemy.

Basic Identification (Identification) — Discover basic attributes for a particular object or person. Ability scales with [WIS] + [INT].

Active Effects:

Legacy of Sisyphus:

XP gain increased by +400%