“No thank you. You lie to your friends too much.” To his horror, the woman walked over to the boat and picked up a sack. “And these are our coins. Why did you take them?”
“Wartime requisitioning,” he snapped, hastening over and removing the sack of lucre from her grasping, gloved digits. “A small fee to contribute to the coffers of the holy revolution.”
“Yes, but you didn’t want that revolution to happen,” Mata pointed out. “So it looks an awful lot to me like you’re using it as an excuse to steal.”
A cold, nameless dread began to creep up Hatecraft’s spine. His appendages numbed, as the air in the cove seemed to grow malign, and arctic, almost gelid to his frantic inhalations. “What did you say?” he whispered.
“We read your diary. We know you wanted to be important, so you came here to research the old one, and try to get people to do what you told them to do. Then you found the monster, and IT did what you told it to do. And that’s when you killed the old priestess and the librarian.”
“How...” Elpy rubbed his forehead. His diary! He’d completely forgotten about that aggravating tome during the relocation of his quarters to a location more suiting to his magnificence! “So what? You’ve only sealed your fate!” He hissed, striding forward to admonish the woman, ignoring her inscrutable arrogance. “With one word to my faithful they would engage in your agonizing and ultimately lethal defenestration!”
“I’m sure that’s very bad, but Zuula’s talking with them now, and showing them the book. I don’t think they’re very faithful any more. They’re pretty mad, to be honest.”
Hatecraft’s mouth snapped shut. He looked up at the wooden ceiling above, noting for the first time the creaking of footsteps on the church floor above. Many footsteps. And just audible above them, a low, ugly muttering. The sort of muttering simple rural fisherfolk do when they find out that their savior and prophet is just a pathetic basement-dwelling ‘nice guy’ with some kinks involving calamari.
“Who are you!” He bellowed into the unblinking woman’s veiled face. “Take off your mask!”
“Mask?” She said, as she tilted her head quizzically. “I wear no mask.”
Silence, for a long moment.
“You’re, er, you’re wearing one right now,” Elpy pointed out.
“Oh, that. Technically it’s a veil.”
Elpy had had ENOUGH. “Great Cmpylyah’s Curse on your Constitution! Dark Bolt!” he screamed, blasting her backwards with eldritch lightning!
A red ‘99’ escaped into the sky, and she staggered, and fell to one knee. Elpy ripped the veil away from her face—
—to look upon charred wood. “Ah. An animator,” he sneered, kicking the crippled puppet to the sand. “So that wasn’t a lie, at least. Clever. I would hunt your real embodiment down, but my chronological excess is approaching its end, in this approximate location. I think I shall employ the egress, and leave you to enjoy the consequences when this town’s inevitable doom approaches, whether it be from eldritch consequences or more mundane genocide.” He hopped on the boat, gave three knocks on its side.
The water churned, then stopped. Hatecraft frowned, and knocked harder.
“No, don’t go anywhere,” The charred wreck of the mannequin said. “Not after we went to all this trouble to come to you.”
With a surprised warble, the beast burst from the water, trousers rent and dripping.
And to Hatecraft’s astonishment, he was followed by three dripping, weed-covered, unnatural little forms...
*****
Threadbare charged out of the water, dropping the stone that he’d used to weigh himself down when he walked along the bottom of the lake.
Beside him, Garon did the same time. From his back, Madeline pointed at the really big fishman they’d run into under the boat. “Back off, scaly!” She shouted.
Threadbare opened his mouth to say something to Hatecraft, but water came out instead.
This could be troublesome, he thought, as Hatecraft shrieked and threw black lightning at him. Fortunately, the little bear was small and nimble.
Your Dodge skill is now level 8!
He needed to get his mouth clear, and the guy wasn’t giving him time to do it. So Threadbare decided to try one of his little used tricks. He leaped forward, onto the boat, and hugged the guy’s outstretched arm. Golden light flared...
You have healed Elpy Hatecraft for 110 points!
Your Innocent Embrace skill is now level 12!
...but Elpy had a surprisingly good will, for someone who had so thoroughly failed to resist his own urges. Or maybe Threadbare just needed more practice.
Your Fascination skill was resisted!
“Get off! Evacuate!” Elpy screamed, shaking his arm. But the little bear’s strength was much more than the cultist’s. Threadbare spat water into his face, trying to clear his voice for speech.
“Fevered Strength!” the cult leader hissed, and Threadbare’s arms slipped as the thin man bulged with muscles. Then the little bear was flying backward, hitting the wall of the cavern, and bouncing to a stop.
“Dark Chant!” Hatecraft roared, as he grabbed a gaff hook and leaped out of the boat. And from everywhere and nowhere, from the place between the worlds, carried on ineffable winds from places no man was meant to see or hear, came words that were terrible in their strangeness.
“IO! IO FORTRAN! CMPYLYAH RPL WEBQL NPL FORTRAN!”
Even Threadbare, with his strong mental fortitude, felt his sanity escape as the chant tore at his mind...
Meanwhile, on the beach, Garon and Madeline faced off against an eight-foot, scaly being. It had the head of a catfish, with glowing green eyes, and a blubbery layer of fat over way too many muscles. Initially freaked out over their appearance, it now seemed to be getting angry. “WRRBLGLRGLE BLAH!” The thing spat, standing legs akimbo, hiking its shorts up and putting up its dukes.
“Burninate it! I got yer back!” Madeline yelled. “Endure Faia! Manipulate Faia!”
Garon hosed the fishman down with water, as he tried to speak.
“Oh.” Madeline said. She’d kept her mouth shut no problem underwater, but the plush toys... well, they WERE pretty porous, weren’t they? “Uh oh.”
Then Garon twisted and jumped to the side, as the fishman kicked at them, and Madeline, with her substandard ride skill, went flying. “Mothafuckah!” She ate sand, and picked herself up, just as the chant started. “No!” She howled, as the alien words ripped through her head... “Not again!”
On the other side of the cavern, Threadbare winced, as a Dark Bolt ripped through him, sending a red ‘47’ into the air. Then Elpy was upon him, stabbing down with the gaff hook. Threadbare dodged again, tried to clear his throat, but couldn’t. His friends were losing heart, as the dark words ripped sanity from them, he saw blue numbers flowing up and away, way too big in Madeline’s case. He had to stop that. But how?
The gaff hook caught him square on, impaling him through the gut.
Your Golem body skill is now level 22!
Your Toughness skill is now level 16!
Max HP +2
The bear grabbed the spear, and started to pull himself up. Elpy shrieked, and started battering him against the stones, the beach, and anything else he could reach. It damaged the little bear, but the golem kept up his inexorable climb.
And as he did so, the answer came to him.
“I don’t know if this will work,” Mata said, in her creaky, mildly-charred voice, “But this is my Emboldening Speech.” Elpy froze, and looked toward the dummy. “This man and his monster have been doing bad things and lying to the people they should be helping. So let’s stop them. There’s no way he’s tougher than the ogre, and you did great on that.”
Your Emboldening Speech skill is now level 8!
To Elpy’s horror, the puppets straightened up, and the sanity escaping them shrunk and slowed. His abomination, however, clutched its skull, as the dark chant continued its work. The beast never HAD been immune
to the blasphemous insanity-over-time spell.
Then furry paws seized Hatecraft’s fingers, and pain ripped through his hand as bone snapped. Fevered Zeal granted strength, yes, but at a cost to constitution. He hurled the spear, and the bear free...
...and the bear threw itself off the spear, yelled “Fancy Flourish!” In a still-waterlogged voice, caught the wall with strong legs, and fell to the ground. He landed on both feet and whipped the spear around in a dazzling display.
Threadbare smiled as he saw a green ‘12’ escape from Hatecraft. He smiled more as skill-ups flew by.
Your Fancy Flourish skill is now level 7!
Your Work it Baby skill is now level 31!
Too many foes! Hatecraft started toward the dolls on the beach, charging them while their backs were turned—
“Fight me,” Threadbare invited. “I challenge you!”
Your Challenge skill is now level 4!
Hatecraft wasn’t distracted. He kicked at Madeline, but his foot came nowhere near her, as the challenge debuff threw his aim off. She dodged, and shouted “Call Faia!” Red fire, not properly eldritch at all, licked up from her hand and hit him in the crotch. Hatecraft staggered back, shot a look at Threadbare, who was holding up the gaff hook.
“This is sort of a blade, isn’t it?” Threadbare asked, his throat finally clear of water. He studied the double-sided spear blade carefully.
“What?” Hatecraft wheezed, batting at his burning balls.
Threadbare brought the spear down hard on a rock, so hard that the little teddy bear bounced into the air.
CRACK!
The spear blade broke off. Threadbare walked over and tossed it into the air. “Animus Blade,” he said, as it whirled. “Invite broken spear thing.”
Your Animus Blade skill is now level 9!
“Technically it’s a gaff,” Hatecraft hissed, his grammar offended at the improper education displayed in this plebian plushie.
“Yeah, it’s a gaffe all right!” Madeline yelled. “And you made it! Whoops!” She went flying backward as the abomination managed to boot her a good one. “Ow!” then “AGH!” as the dark chant swelled, and another blue number ripped from her skull. “Little more encouragement here boss?”
Threadbare charged Hatecraft, as the reverend recovered from his roasting and seized up a board with a nail in it. The two fought, claw to wood, as the little bear shouted emboldening speech after emboldening speech.
Meanwhile, Garon bit at the catfish thing, ripping its pants and tearing into its scaled flesh. But the thing was tough, and though it was slow, the few hits it managed to land popped seams and burst stuffing.
Garon needed his skills, and he couldn’t get to them, his throat and mouth were choked with water. His superior air capacity worked against him. The Dark Chant wasn’t hitting him so bad, at least, it seemed like high dragons were resistant to that sort of thing, but even with Threadbare’s speeches it would soon take Madeline out of commission unless they could shut down the cultist.
Then Garon felt a familiar weight on his back, after he danced around the catfish man’s latest lunge. Madeline.
“Gar, do you trust me?” The wooden doll yelled.
“Gurgleglub! Blarfle!” Garon spat water, and settled for nodding.
“Good. Bloodsuckah!” And Garon froze, as he felt tiny fangs rip into his neck...
Across the way, Threadbare staggered as Hatecraft broke the club over his head. The nail ripped his hat off, and tore a wide stretch of his hide open. The cloth flopped over his eyes, and he staggered back, temporarily blinded and feeling the blackness come on as the stuffing spilled from his head. “Mend Golem!” he yelled, three times to be sure.
Your Golem body skill is now level 23!
Your Toughness skill is now level 17!
Max HP +2
Your Mend Golem skill is now level 3!
You have healed yourself for 65 points!
Your Mend Golem skill is now level 4!
You have healed yourself for 68 points!
Your Mend Golem skill is now level 5!
You have healed yourself for 68 points!
“G-g-g-golems?” Hatecraft spluttered, staring in disbelief. His calves were a bloody wreck, but Zeal and fear kept him on his feet. “Inconceivable!”
“Yes. Golems,” Threadbare said, raising his bloody claws again. “Surrender. I don’t want to kill you. But you have to stop all this.”
“Burninate!” Came Garon’s bellow across the way, and the fishman roared as he cooked. “Ow ow ow!” Garon yelled, until Madeline scooped the flames from him and threw them away.
“Mend Golem,” Threadbare threw his way—
Your Mend Golem skill is now level 6!
You have healed Garon for 74 points!
—but the moment of inattention cost him.
“Dark Bolt!” Hatecraft screamed, and threw eldritch lightning at the wounded teddy bear...
...lightning that crackled and faded away.
Your Magic Resistance skill is now level 7!
“All right, then.” Threadbare waded in, claws swiping, watching his skill rise as Hatecraft backed up, hit points slashed down bit by bit.
But the pastor sneered, and grabbed up the haft of the broken spear. “Unholy Smite,” he said, and dark energy flowed into the improvised staff.
Then his eyes went wide, as a tiny little squeaky voice shouted from the stairs. “I can do stuff like that too! Holy Smite!” yelled Fluffbear. And with Mopsy warbling a battle cry, the mounted bear charged him from behind.
“There you are!” Threadbare sighed, as he tag-teamed Hatecraft, ducking under the man’s erratic blows. “Where’s—”
Fifty pounds of the gods’ perfect killing machine emerged from the shadows of the stairwell and pounced on the distracted fishman’s back.
Pulsivar had his priorities, and if he was gonna kill anything down here, it was going to be the guy who smelled like baked fish, okay?
The dark chant faltered and faded, as the enemies finally fell.
And when the angry mob of former cultists worked up the courage to head downstairs, they found a pile of battered toys doing their best to convince Pulsivar that he probably shouldn’t eat the dead fishguy.
He might be eldritch, after all. That shit could be contagious.
“You survive!” Zuula said, emerging from the crowd of cultists. “Good. Had devil of time convincing Pulsivar to go into dark basement full of bad words.”
“Yeah, what was that chanty thing? It sounded nasty,” Fluffbear squeaked, raising her voice to be heard as in the background the congregation took turns kicking Hatecraft. All but a few of the women, who were sitting next to the fishman and crying.
“Some cultist stuff, I guess,” Said Garon, whistling. “Ah. Thanks for the amateur tracheotomy,” he told Madeline.
“Anytime,” Madeline burbled, and grinned. It had taken some doing to gnaw through to his flooded throat and let the water drain, but it had paid off.
“Oh, let me fix that,” Threadbare said.
“No need, said Garon. “Blood is...” he clutched his chest, where his hidden pouch full of gold coins was. But his words trailed off, as impulses he’d never felt before told him whoa now. “Actually why don’t you fix that. Yeah, no need to waste gold—” his eyes opened wide. “I leveled! Sweet Nurph, I get plus twenty five to stuff? Oh fucking wow!”
“Right. That settles that,” Madeline said.
“What?” Garon asked.
“Tell ya later.” She patted him. “Oooh, got a few levels myself. Vampaiah level five, good to seeya again.”
But Threadbare wasn’t listening. He was too busy watching his own level-ups scroll by.
You are now a level 11 Cave Bear!
CON+10
WIS+10
Armor+5
Endurance+5
Mental Fortitude+5
You are now a level 4 Duelist!
AGI+3
DEX+3
STR+3
You are now a level 5 Duelist!
AGI+3
DEX+3
STR+3
You have unlocked the Parry skill!
Your Parry skill is now level 1!
You have unlocked the Swashbuckler’s Spirit skill!
You have unlocked the Swinger skill!
Your Swinger skill is now level 1!
You are now a level 8 Golemist!
INT+5
WILL+5
You are now a level 7 Ruler!
CHA+3
LUCK+3
WIS+3
Threadbare stared, sitting down hard. “My goodness. Wait, swinger? Is swinging good?”
The women around the fishman’s corpse cried harder, for some reason. “This is neither the time nor the place, okay?” Marva said.
“Er, right. Status. Help... Ah, that’s what it does. Ropes and chains and things. Okay.” He frowned. “Chandeliers? I’m not sure what those are.”
“Big piles of pointy wood that stupid vampaiahs hang over their heads in theah castles,” Madeline said, strolling over. “The smaht ones use metal.”
“Oh. Well I can swing from them really easily now,” Said Threadbare. “I suppose that might be useful.”
“Zuula relieved that you skill all about dat particular usage of de word.” She said, heading over to the group. “What you do here?”
“I tried to get him to surrender.”
“He know de score. Cult angry. Dey just kill him anyway. Why you kill fishman, dough?”
“Well, he attacked us,” Garon said. “If he’d surrendered I would have let him back down, but then, well, he got Pulsivar’d.”
Pulsivar burped. His breath smelled fishy, but he still cast envious looks at the fishman’s corpse. The guy had been delicious, and the bobcat wanted him some more of that.
“I have a question,” Missus Threadbare said.
“Sure. What’s-” Threadbare froze. “Hold on. A spirit wants to talk. Speak with Dead.”
The world shifted. The former cultists went silent, and shifted uneasily, looking at the somewhat even creepier cave. After an awkward couple of seconds Daav cleared his throat. “We’ll uh, we’ll just take the bodies up, and uh... be off, shall we? Yes, why don’t we.” They beat feet upstairs, bearing Hatecraft and the fishman with them.
Threadbare Volume 2 Page 25
