THE MAD ELF
©2021 NED CARATACUS
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Contents
Prologue
1. The Tutorial Level
2. The Same Place at the Same Time
3. “It's My First Day?”
4. But Seriously, Vog This Guy
5. Never Go Into Politics
6. The Healer's Tale
7. Flibbityfloo and Other High Concepts
8. Mall Cop
9. Get In, Loser
10. Not Much, But It's Honest Work
11. Sins of the Father
12. The Mystic's Tale
13. The Master Plan
14. Well, Roger My Jollies
15. The Battle of Route 49
16. Toasted Plastic
17. With or Without You
18. Mea Culpa
19. The Fencer's Tale
20. Pet the Pretty Pony
21. “The Monkey Thought 'Twas All in Fun...”
22. The Dark Lord's Tale
23. To Kobalheim!
24. The Hidden Court
25. The Fanservicey Beach Party Chapter, Now With 200% More Jiggle Physics
26. The Pyrite Palace Incident, Part I
27. The Pyrite Palace Incident, Part II
28. An Enemy of the People
A Day in the Life of God
Thank you for reading The Mad Elf
Groups
LitRPG
~ Dedicated to Liz, my majestic lizard queen. ~
Prologue
For the Liiiiiiiight!
In the Empire of Aries, in the distant world of Luminar—where everyone and their father is an aspiring adventurer—the most common cause of death is “no hit points,” and a monster invasion means just another day off work or school.
Every five years, some up-and-coming evildoer gets their hands on the magical Jade Crown and becomes the new Dark Lord. Three heroes, chosen by the Gods, are sent to defeat the Dark Lord.
The heroes always win, unless we're counting the times they don't.
To the citizens of the four province-kingdoms of Aries—
Ovinium, the Gods-fearing heartland of forests and prairies,
Celsior, the industrial juggernaut ruled by the mysterious House Koschei,
Dunngate, the dry and dusty homeland of the Dwarves,
and Rosencrace, the snow-covered, war-torn country of the Elves.
Sorry, I was rudely interrupted by some flavor text.
To the citizens of the four province-kingdoms, there's nothing heroic about the Dark Lord Cycle. Five millennia of these “epic quests” have brought war and death in the wake of heroes and villains alike.
The great victories and defeats have grown meaningless. Aries cries out for the Cycle to break, so that peace may be restored.
Perhaps the Gods have heard these prayers, for they have answered.
Perhaps the Gods are cruel, because the answer is Era Gualtieri —a thankless degenerate of a 19-year-old elf who couldn't slay a level 1 beef enchilada.
Disclaimer 1: The prologue writer has a significant grudge against Era Gualtieri, and the above comment does not represent the author's intent.
— Ned Caratacus, Author and Narrator
Disclaimer 2: Might I add, the author is a dangerous lunatic, a known Rosie-sympathizer, and not to be trusted. The prologuist is much more intelligent and objective.
— Rimsky Naismith, GU Legate, Prologuist
Disclaimer 3: “Prologuist” isn't even a word. You're fired.
— Ned Caratacus, Author and Narrator
Disclaimer 4: Shaddap and get on with it, ya peepots.
— Branwen Hammersmith, the only character in this book that matters, ya peepots
Chapter 1
The Tutorial Level
[Name The Fencer:]
[E R A _ _ _ _]
“Why do you hate freedom?”
Era wriggled in his window seat, waking from his second midday nap. Though he had yet to open his eyes, he was sure of three things:
There was another passenger on the train—white, early 20s, possibly bald…no, buzz cut, maybe? I'll bet he has a buzz cut—asking him, for whatever reason, why he hated freedom.
The aforementioned second party was angry about something, or at least agitated. Maybe he's asking someone else? Nah, that was in my direction for sure.
There had to be a clever way to ignore this man until he went off to mind his own business. Pretend I'm deaf? Nah, I flinched. Still sleeping? Nah, he'll try to startle me. Sick? That might work better, but I'll have to wake up first.
Era opened his eyes and winced from the glare of the afternoon sunlight, flashing in and out from the redwood trees of the Ramblind Forest. Take it slow, Era. Step by step. Breathe.
There was the hum of the tracks outside. The gray wall-carpeting below the window to his right, the blue patterned seats, the half-empty bag of chips between his knees, the rigid black duffle bag he used as a pillow, his dark green sweater, the specks of balled-up wool that stuck to its surface, the comforting feeling of his long, black hair brushing the back of his neck…and Era was back to reality.
Even if reality sucked, there was always some joy that Era took in coming back, knowing that he was still part of the world, still alive, and could still have a good day if he tried.
“I asked you a question.”
Ha, never mind. Screw reality.
Era turned to see the questioner: a male, white, early 20s, barrel-chested and in a tight blue T-shirt and cargo shorts…He does have a buzz cut! Score!…holding a clipboard to his chest. Dude looks ready to kick me out of a nightclub.
“Hi,” said Era.
“Why do you hate freedom?” asked the man, louder than before.
“I...don't?” said Era.
“That's not what I asked.”
Era drew a long sigh through his nose. “All right, what's your deal? We've only known each other a few seconds, and you have a problem with me already.”
“Are you going to answer my question or not?”
Era glanced at a patch on the man’s chest—a woven badge with a blue wolf. “3rd Legion Warrior Rimsky Naismith” was in heavy white letters.
“Very well, I'll explain,” said Rimsky. “I'm conducting a survey of the political opinions of modern-day traingoers. As for who I am: a man's name is his own property, which you are not entitled to know. It must be earned.”
“Okay, Rimsky Naismith.”
Rimsky's boots hit the carpeting with a thud, and in less than a second, he stood over Era. His nostrils flared. His lips were sealed shut.
“Chill,” said Era, sinking further into his seat. “It's on your badge. Look, I'm not interested in doing this survey, so do me a solid and move along.”
“Why not?”
“Because I'm tired. I had a rough time last night.” That, and this is clearly about my skin color.
“So, what you're saying is that you have something to hide, or worse, that you want to stand between me and my right to important information, potentially about my own safety, and—”
Without breaking eye contact with Rimsky, Era placed his noise-canceling headphones on his ears.
Rimsky's face tensed up like a bleached raisin.
Era smiled as he closed his eyes, drifted back to his nap, and took in a song that made him feel safe and protected, from Łöbøtömÿ Ŵård's new concept album.
Putrefied god meat within the rusty grinder
lacerated into total oblivion
I butchered the Gods, mangled their flesh
and now they're
god sausage, god sausage, om nom nom nom sausage
god sausage, god sausage, mustard and grilled onions
delicious, nutri—
Rimsky yanked the left half of Era's headphones to the side. “Look, Rosie,” he said, “I'm trying to have a civil discussion with you, and you've been nothing but rude to me.”
Era felt a pang of tension in his chest at the second word.
And he's engaged in Full Racist Mode. There goes my nap. Maybe I'll lie and say I'm from Dunngate, hence the tan skin? Yeah right, pretending to be a dwarf at 5 ½ feet. Call him out? Worth a shot...
“You're not trying that hard if you're gonna call me a Rosie,” said Era.
“I mean, you are a Rosie, aren't you? Do you want me to lie and call you something else?”
“Rosencracian is the term we're more comfortable with. Roe-zen-CRAY-shen. Two extra syllables aren't gonna kill ya. Elf also works.”
That's when Rimsky got loud. And close, his face only two inches away from Era's own.
“See? This is what I'm talking about! You lash out at my freedom of speech, and yet you claim not to hate freedom. And all this because you want to get out of doing a survey. This is why nobody takes your people seriously, you know that?”
Era twitched.
I might be in actual danger for a change. And worse, his breath smells like—
“Pea soup,” said Era.
Rimsky grabbed Era by his collar. “What was that, Rosie?”
Damn it. Gotta keep the inner voice on the inside. Now then, how can I make that not sound like I'm crazy?
“Your breath,” said Era. “It smells like pea soup. Just a bunch of pea soup vapors. And it's cold. You seriously told yourself this morning, looking in the mirror, 'Today, I'm gonna chug a buttload of uncooked pea soup and yell at a stranger.' Who does that?”
Rimsky stared at Era, his mouth only a crack open.
Poor guy. Can't decide whether he's offended or confused.
“Excuse me!” said an elderly female voice from the aisle. A conductor.
Rimsky let Era go. “Ma'am, I was trying to do a harmless survey, and this boy provoked me. He's armed. He's got a rapier at his hip.”
Era clenched his hand over the basket hilt of his sword and took in a sharp breath through his nose. Seriously? It's a SCHIAVONA, you uncultured swine! Rapiers have a thinner blade, lack the Schiavona's distinctive cat-ear pommel, and you can't use a rapier for anything but thrusting. Though a moron like you might try slashing with one, and you'd be all “daaah, why is my rapier broken? What's a parrying dagger? Where do you load the bullets on it?”
Fortunately, what actually came out of Era's mouth was, “Yeah, look, I never meant to offend anyone. My rapier's been in its sheath the whole time.”
Gotta pick my battles. If I make any bigger scene here, the conductor might catch on that I'm riding without a ticket.
Also, why am I more offended by the misnamed sword than the racial slur? Questions for later.
“Whatever,” said the conductor. “Look, you need to settle this little dispute of yours in the dueling car like civilized people, or I'm having the both of you booted off at the next flag stop.”
The blood drained from Era's face. The mention of the dueling car jogged his memory. Era had heard of Rimsky’s kind from one of the many blogs he followed—the GU (whatever that stood for). Apparently, they took long trips on the railway system, drawing the types of people they hated into the dueling car through trickery, provocation, and “harmless surveys.”
Some squads of GU goons had to kill a certain number of people every day—and this way, it could be done through legally-sanctioned duels.
Man, I'm too tired to die. I'll just get off at the next stop like she said. What is it, anyway? Ramblind National Arboretum? Wonder what kinda birds they got—
“He has already accepted,” said Rimsky.
Never mind. Love you too, jackass.
Q: Do elves have any inhuman, supernatural powers gained from being born elvish, like living for thousands of years?
A: No. In fact, that's racist. They're a different race of humans, but still humans. So are dwarves.
Q: So the pointy ears don't let them listen to forest spirits?
A: No, that's just stupid. The pointy bit is just extra cartilage.
Q: Okay, smarty pants, then why do they have pointy ears in the first place?
A: In the year 15,000 B.A.L., in the ancient Elvish homeland of Ofucha, elves born with pointed ears were seen as abominations by round-eared elves, and were banished from the Ofuchan capital. A little while later, the eruption of Mt. Nidhogg destroyed the capital, and the round ears went extinct overnight. Moral of the story: Natural selection's a fickle bastard, and your vapid questions drive me to drink, Linda.
— Dr. Augustus Merdthflerdther, Dammit, Linda: Frequently Asked Questions About Anthropology in the Months Before My Extremely Messy Divorce, Endymion University Press
Era rose to his feet, his creaking bones adjusting to a standing position.
(At the request of Era and the rest of the Gualtieri family, I should clarify: the usage of the term “to his feet” was only figurative. Era has one foot, as opposed to two feet. His right leg had long since disintegrated at the knee—more on that fiasco later—replaced by a crude plastic-and-duct-tape peg leg. Using “to his foot” may have been perceived as rude—though, to be honest, Era's been through quite a lot lately, and I doubt one more off-color remark about his missing limb is going to ruffle any—)
(Era's father just hit me with his shoe. I think we should move on.)
Era rose to his foot, and he could feel his creaking bones, et cetera. He and Rimsky trudged down the path to the back of the car.
Maybe I'm not that screwed. Look at this Rimsky dude, anyway. Where's his weapon? Fists? Probably a brawler. Brawlers are just warrior monks with no self-discipline. And he's only level 13!
Said the level 7 fencer. Dammit, Era, this is what happens when you don't keep up with your training.
With a sigh, Era jerked open the steel door to the dueling car.
Maybe I should look at this duel a better way. It's probably for the best that I get to the afterlife early, before I make any huge sins later down the road, right?
You know what? That's actually the worst way to think about this.
&n
bsp; Era could hear a faint hissing sound from his headphones, which still sat on his shoulders. “God Sausage” had just wrapped up the last guitar solo, and Era could pick up bits and pieces of the orchestral intro to “Rotten Bodies for the Goat King.”
He smiled.
Don't overthink it —I got this. Besides, there's always a third path.
The train cars of the St. Darius Intercontinental Railway had two floors, and the dueling car — much to the relief of commuters who didn't want to see someone die every 30 minutes or so —held its fights on the second deck, which was only accessible by a single winding stairway. The dueling area itself was a long hardwood floor, with red and blue circles indicating the starting positions, and separated from the spectator area by mesh wire fencing.
Many activists and politicians, especially in Ovinium, considered the dueling car to be a cruel and uncivilized tradition that allowed promising young people of the Ariesian Empire to kill each other with no legal consequences.
Maybe they were right, but the promising young people of Aries really liked killing each other.
As Rimsky signed the sheets indicating “the party of the first and second parts acknowledge that either or both of those two parties is going to die and waives all relevant laws against murder and/or suicide” at the receptionist's desks, Era caught a glimpse of a fight starting up.
Neverstone: A LitRPG Adventure (The Mad Elf Book 1) Page 1
