“Betcha ain’t gon’ mess with me again—tell ya that much, ya ornery cuss!” I shouted, letting my accent bleed through a bit in my excitement. I often tried to downplay it—but now seemed as appropriate a time as any to let my natural charisma have a bit of the limelight.
I knew there had to be a way to defeat it. As had been pointed out by Otho, this was the first real fight in the Trial. If this thing was designed to typically test teenagers, weren’t no way I couldn’t figure something out if I paid attention long enough. At least, assuming these teens weren’t like Marvel super heroes or something. Still, probably didn’t have super hero brains, at least.
Naw…they’d have, like, seventeen year old brains, wouldn’t they? I had ten years on ‘em, and while I wasn’t exactly a genius—I had life experience. And more importantly than that, I had work experience. I’ll tell ya, nothing gets you thinking outside the box like trying to figure out a shortcut for your job so you could ditch out early on a Friday. Sorry kiddos!
It had just been about timing. If the beast had to go solid to attack me, and the shield seemed to force it to go solid on a connection, all it took was waiting for the precise moment to strike—and a lot of luck. So, when it had made that last strike on the shield, I’d acted, jamming the spear into its foggy jugular with all the speed and strength I had left.
I examined the beast I’d conquered, sitting up so I could peer closer at it. In this state, hell, it didn’t look that threatening at all. Just a big ol’ part-canine-part-fog-part-flashing light monster. Pitiful.
The creature jerked in place and I will admit, I let out a bit of a yelp. But, it was just its death rattle of sorts as it suddenly started dissolving, the mist flecking off of it and disappearing into the twilight until there was nothing left but the spear, which tumbled to the earth with a wet plop. I grabbed it up and shakily got to my feet.
“Damn hell!” I groaned, taking in a shuddering breath as the pain from the wounds burned fresh. “I need to find some Neosporin, stat.”
The last thing I needed was to accidentally get some bog water or…pond scum in these cuts. That’s how you get typhoid…I think.
It was quiet now, just me and the arena with its flickering blue braziers of magical illumination in the twilight of the swamp.
“Well…” I said aloud, my voice echoing a little in the empty expanse. “What do I do no—”
The voiceless voice entered my mind suddenly—and once again, I jumped.
Lo, the first toll of the Trial has been observed.
The Boglands takes note of your willingness to vanquish your foes.
To which domain would you like to dedicate your kill?
The Bog?
Yourself?
Or to none at all?
Well, shit. There I was, standing in the center of this Mortal Kombat rip-off arena, covered in blood, beaten all to shit and looking like I just lost a fist fight with a very irate barbed wire fence—and now I needed to dedicate my kill? Fine, then.
“I’m dedicating this to myself,” I said, hearing the clear exhaustion in my voice.
Instantly, I was hit by something that felt like…wet lightning—like a slimy shock.
SSSSSL-ZAP!
My body went rigid, and I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew I hated it. However, the sensation faded after a moment, and when I opened my eyes (I hadn’t realized I’d even closed them) I was looking at something wholly unique. Myself.
Well, sort of.
Much like how Otho appeared, a faded white and blue specter of Leo Trask floated in front of me. Except the only thing that was clear was my face. The body of this particularly handsome poltergeist was fuzzy, like out of focus-like. I shrugged. Whatever, then. Add it to the pile of things I don’t understand, I suppose.
The son of the bog has chosen himself to receive the bounty. The voice continued. What would he advance?
Above the image of me, words began to form in the light. Hovering near my head was the word, ‘NÁKVÆMNI,’ to the outside of my out-of-focus-ness, written twice—one on either side of my body—was ‘STYRKUR,’ and across my waist-area the word ‘FIMI’ floated. There were also two ’auras’ surrounding the whole figure in a halo-ish pattern and were the only color save for blueish-white. One was red, and was labeled with the word ‘LÍFSÞRÓTT’ (the one I’d been calling ‘leaf’s throat,’ maybe?) and the other was dark—I thought that maybe it would be black if not laced with the blue-white of the overall…filter? In any case, this one was labeled as ‘GALDUR.’
Well, hell, I already knew one of those. I felt pretty proud of myself. As I was standing there, bleeding, considering the nature of these strange words, they began to change, modifying themselves to my understanding. The one near my head swam in place for a moment before settling on ‘ACCUITY,’ STRYKER became ‘BRAWN,’ ‘FIMI’ turned into ‘DEFTNESS,’ while the red aura became ‘VITALITY.’ Curiously, the one labeled GALDUR didn’t change, even though I waited an extra few moments.
“Well…huh,” I said aloud. “Guess since I learned the term, it doesn’t change?”
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
But—and this was a big ask on my part—why were they there? Different individual statistics wasn’t a foreign concept to me—not by a long shot. This was indeed like one of those classic RPGs, so I understood it well enough. It was just that…well, it wasn’t that I was precisely bothered by it, but it seemed sort of…limiting, you know? Only five things that made up who I was. Perhaps I was a bit rankled by the idea, I suppose. I felt like I was a bit more of a complex creature than what this was suggesting. I mean, I was more than five things—I was sure of it.
“How do I, uh, select one…or what have you?” I asked what I hoped was the voice, peering at these individual labels. “If you could help a little?”
I didn’t have to wait long before I received a response.
The son of the bog has five Stig with which to redeem to his Sönnun—his Proof.
“Proof? Stig?” I wondered. “What is this now?”
Rather than the voice returning, I noticed that Otho suddenly bubbled into being from the attavita, appearing right next to the ghostly version of me projected in front of me. I let out a laugh, cause I couldn’t help to think that, because of the fact that both images were in the ethereal blue and white, they looked liked brothers.
“What’s this, then?” Otho wondered, looking from me, to the other me, and back. “Ach! Boy! Ye did it, then? You defeated the Betri?”
“Sure did, friend,” I said, flashing as much of a grin as I could through the pain. “Now, though, I’m just puzzling out how to…advance myself or whatever. Say, you know what a Stig is?”
Otho looked back at the spectral mirror of me and let out a grunt.
“Hm,” he said. “Never done one of these then, have ye? Not to worry, boy! Ol’ Otho can sort ye straight away. Stig are something like markers, used to raise certain aspects of yerself.”
“Oh, so it’s like…a point system?”
The figure turned back to me.
“Don’t quite know what ye mean by that, boy. How many Stig did ye get, then?”
“Five…I think?” I said.
“Five?!” Otho erupted, eyes going wide. “How’d ye manage to get five on one beast?!”
He shook his head, leveling his gaze at me.
“It’s still the early stages of the Trial, boy! Five! By the Bog… What a laugh! Bog taking pity on you, I suppose, due to your general lack of experience.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Could you just tell me how best to navigate this, though? We can argue over my apparent favoritism later.”
“Sure, sure,” Otho said. “Well, if that’s the case, and ye’ve got five whole Stig, then ye could put one in each, suppose. That’d be the simplest method—take the guesswork out of it.”
“Alright,” I said, mulling it over. “Alright, yeah. That sounds like a plan.”
“No, ye plum!” Otho suddenly snapped. “‘Was merely gauging yer mettle, boy! Don’t…don’t take the easiest path. Sure, ye’ll have an even climb, but if ye got yerself five Stig…it’s an opportunity best not to be wasted.”
His shoulders drooped.
“But, ye ain’t gonna listen to me, ‘course,” his voice sounded tired and he looked real pathetic right there. “Nobody listens to ol’ Otho—always the same, each and every time. Ask for suggestions, then disregard ‘em ‘cause ye think ye’ve got a better handle on it.”
“Huh?” I wondered, staring at the almost-there man. “Why wouldn’t I listen to you? I don’t know shit about fuck, Otho—I’m asking for your guidance, because of just that.”
“Aye, and all claim the same until the time comes to redeem to their Sönnun—then it’s ‘I suspect it makes more sense to do this,’ or ‘Don’t listen to Otho, he’s the Gycklare!’ That sort of thing.”
“Z…ee…clara?” I asked, definitely butchering the pronunciation of whatever the fuck that term was. But the moment I tried to say the word, the understanding of it flashed into my mind. Gycklare—Jester. Damn, Marshlore you ol’ devil. This was working out great for me. There was more to it, something that I’d likely need to know down the road—at least, that’s the sense I got from the way the information was parceled out. But, what I did know, was that this wasn’t just a motley fool, or what have you. The Jester specifically here was a title, a role of some kind. For what and by what metric it was assigned, I had no earthly idea. But, I also got this vague, negative sensation when considering it, so that was something to figure out as well.
“Well, hey, now, Otho,” I said, letting my voice soften. It was clear this guy had been having a rough time, so I figured I should cut him some slack. “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout this place. Least of all with the…jzick…lar? So, whatever you say, I’m inclined to listen.”
“...really?” Otho said after a moment, lifting his bearded face to rest his gaze on me.
“Really,” I grinned back at him. “I’m liable to accidentally kill myself if I just start poking around on my own. Tell me what your suggestions are, and I can tell you right now: I’ll do ‘em.”
This seemed to have an overall positive effect on Otho’s mood. He straightened, a determined smile wavering on the edges of his face—from what I could see under the wild tuft of facial hair anyway—and then nodded.
“Right,” he said. “Well, then, boy, let’s get yer Stig sorted and get ye back on the path.”
He paused.
“Just thought of it…” he said, turning back to the empty space where the beast had once been. “How’d ye kill it? The Betri Will o’ Wisp.”
“Oh…” I said with a shrug. “Weren’t nothin,’ really. Baited it into making itself solid long enough for me to jam a spear in its brain.”
Otho balked, his eyes growing wide. He turned from the space, to me, and then back again.
“Well, boy…” he started, shaking his head—though I noticed he was grinning. “Think I know where ye picked up so many Stig, then.”
“Yeah?” I wondered. “Feel like sharing?”
“Aye,” he said. “Normal amount for a Betri Will o’ Wisp—’specially the first go on a leg of the Trial—is one, sometimes two Stig at best. That’s if ye get real clever.”
I noticed he got quiet as he trailed off, the pupils of his eyes getting fuzzy for a moment. What was he doing? Aneurysm?! Shit! Wait—no, he doesn’t have a body…Jesus, calm down, Leo! It must have been a ghost thing. After around ten seconds, his eyes returned to normal—well, normal for him, anyway—and he nodded again.
“As I suspected,” he said. “Ain’t been done in a manner like that in quite some time.”
“What hasn’t been done…in some time?”
“A Flourish,” he said.
“And that is…?”
“A manner of doing, boy! Like I said.”
“Doing what, though, Otho?” I wasn’t sure if I liked this revelation through kernel dynamic we seemed to be establishing.
“Conquering challenges, ‘course,” he said. “Flourishes are considerations for when Stig are being assigned. Ye can usually get one for a particularly interesting manner with which the killing is achieved. Moreso with Trials, that. I just looked at it, and it seems I was right: ye got one Stig for the beast’s demise, one Stig for doing it faster than the previous participant, one Stig for the manner in which ye killed it—that one’s an important one: the Flourish. Then, ye got two for overall Flourish in the Trial challenge. That’s five. Make sense?”
“Sort of, I suppose,” I said. “But what was so weird about the way I did it?”
“Eh? What ye mean, boy?”
“Well, I just mean—pardon me for being dense here—but, how was killing the thing the only way it could be killed considered a Flourish?”
I could not wrap my mind around that specific aspect. The thing couldn’t be hit unless it was solid, right? Had I missed something? Or were the powers that be that watched the Trial just chuffed about seeing me stab the thing’s brain out?
“Well, ye used its strength against it, lad,” Otho said. “Not sure how much clearer I can be on that. Didn’t go the usual route.”
“What’s the usual route?”
Otho gestured to the perimeter of the arena we were still in. “Mistfire,” he said simply. “Most people just lead the beast to the braziers and then hit ‘em with the contents. Mistfire eats them Wisps right up. ‘Course, suppose ye didn’t know that, on account of being from…elsewhere.”
He smiled sheepishly.
“No, Otho,” I said with a sigh. “No, I didn’t know that.”
I shook my head.
“Alright…so, how about we figure out where to put those Stig?”