[140 DMG to Braindeer 1 through 32]
It would very well have been the coolest thing Era had seen in his life, had 32 Braindeer not come running through the obstacle to—
[Braindeer 1 through 32 — Trample]
Oh, deer.
[One week later...]
[CURRENT ROSTER:]
[Era / Fencer / Level 25 / HP: 2190 / MP: 240]
[Liv / Mystic / Level 27 / HP: 1958 / MP: 450]
[Noah / Healer / Level 23 / HP: 1350 / MP: 520]
May 25th—Era's 20th birthday. Being that the heroes had spent the whole week on the roof of an old barn, trying to fend off the same herd of rabid braindeer, he figured it was probably not the best of times to bring it up.
Seven days of uninterrupted braindeer slaughter had brought in a good share of experience points—“enough to turn a slug into a samurai,” in Era's words—and Liv had long since conceded that this was probably for the best. Only a few beats had been missed from Raphael's training requirements. Liv had even found time between attack waves to whip out her laptop and complete the apology letter to Martha Vance. She typed, “Sorry I had to save five children from being murdered by your stupid fascist son by killing him. I would suggest making this tasty snack to feel better,” and included a completely plagiarized crème brulee recipe from the internet to fill the rest of the page count. Raphael hadn’t specified a damn thing about academic integrity.
As a small relief, Steve had snuck past the herd to join our heroes in the barn. Granted, the monkey skeleton was fragile, useless in battle, could provide no words of encouragement, and only knew magic relevant to auto repair, but he was a good listener.
It was Noah and Liv's shift to rest in the haystacks below, while Era and Steve stood on the roof, careful not to come within sight of the 237 braindeer waiting patiently at the bottom. Due to their exposed brains, the monsters had a deep-seeded fear of splinters, and passing through the old wooden barn door was right out.
“These guys have a deep-seeded fear of splinters,” said Era. See? “Maybe we could get some old rotten boards from below, and scatter 'em.”
Steve tilted his head.
“That would startle 'em a bit.”
Steve shrugged.
“We can...” Era kneaded his forehead. “Vog it, I dunno. I was gonna say run, but they'll just kinetic-blast us back into the barn, and we need that EXP. So, it's either run out, weapons drawn, and die screaming, or stay in this barn our whole lives. Lose-lose situation. I dunno, what do you think?”
Steve picked his nasal cavity.
Era plopped backward onto the roof, sending a few shingles tumbling off the edge. Once they fell, there were a few startled squeaks (yes, braindeer squeak, now shut up) from the herd, followed by the roar of several kinetic blasts, kicking up the dusty remnants of what used to be barn shingles.
“That can't be right,” said Era. “There are never only two options in a situation. Have you ever heard of Lutero Gualtieri, Steve? Philosopher, tactician, war hero, cookbook author, my ancestor?”
Steve raised his right paw to examine a spider dangling from a thread on his finger.
“Well, he came up with the 'Third Path Method.’ There's always another option to take—it's not always the right choice, and it's never obvious. But it's always there if you need it. So, what the hell am I missing here?”
Steve ate the spider.
Era sighed. “Perhaps there's something we haven't tried yet. We still got those boxes of daggers that Liv gave me?”
Steve shrugged.
“'Cause, if we dumped them off the edge of the barn...I dunno. That'd maybe kill one or two braindeer, or…” His eyes widened. “Or they'd kinetic-blast them away. At each other! Death by dagger pinball.”
Steve nodded.
“But I left the daggers back on the bus, and we can't leave the barn. Dammit!”
The spider, insufficiently chewed, crawled out of Steve's left eye socket.
“Wait a sec, Steve. Didn't Raphael say this wasn't a farm? Yeah, this is a front for a black-market arms dealership, and where else would they store the weapons…”
Silence. They stared at each other.
“Steve,” said Era, “you are a genius. Be right back.” Era clambered into a gaping hole in the roof to fetch some boxes.
Steve ate the spider again.
An hour passed, and the braindeer remained patiently at the North side of the barn, staring up. Though they were about as self-aware as the “report spam” button in Era's inbox; they still felt a little cheated at this week-long lack of dead humans. Only the sounds of scraping and pounding on the roof hinted at any activity.
Suddenly, the herd caught sight of the three fleshy meat-humans shoving some crates labeled “SURPLUS” off the side of the roof.
[Era, Liv, Noah — Make It Rain]
Stinky Pete's ill-gotten stash of murderer's merchandise, once tucked away in the haystacks, tumbled from the roof. Daggers, knives, maces, batons, throwing stars, staves, guns, grenades, arrows, bows, spears, and blades of every shape and size—even a few Schiavonas, to Era's delight—came plummeting toward the herd's fragile brains.
The leader roared the command for a brash counterattack.
[Braindeer 1 through 230 — Kinetic Blast]
Much to the braindeer's simulated terror-like response, Era and Steve’s plan worked flawlessly, as the herd proceeded to bounce the weapons back and forth, reducing themselves into a war molecule smoothie. The field below was littered with Skinny Pete’s merchandise.
[Braindeer 1 through 198 were slaughtered beyond recognition!]
Whichever braindeer weren't eviscerated scattered off into the plains, silently running an internal monologue script of swearing revenge.
[Victory !]
[Gained 52,033 exp and 5,000 G.]
[Era grew to Level 27!]
[HP: 2300 MP: 250]
[Liv grew to Level 28!]
[HP: 2102 MP: 460]
[Liv learned Mind Crash!]
[Noah grew to Level 25!]
[HP: 1,500 MP: 550]
Chapter 11
Sins of the Father
In the end, it was a you pick farm. The field below the barn was littered with assorted murder paraphernalia, after all.
Though Mystics didn't necessarily need weapons, Liv had her own pick of the harvest—
[Acquired Glass Cannon!]
—a wrought iron staff, with a blue crystal sculpture of a falcon's wing at the top. Once she'd added a few band stickers and scrawled a few four-letter words into the side when they got to Tarlynn, it would be perfect.
Era took a few daggers, if only to lift some of the orichalcum off their blades to reinforce and temper his Schiavona.
As for Noah, he took (after asking Skinny Pete nicely—Healer’s Code, you know) a double-barreled hunting shotgun. Though Noah hated guns, he was absolutely terrified of Era's dad, and thought a little gift might improve his chances of an injury-free friendship with Mischa.
After the harvest, the Chosen Three sat at a campfire to celebrate their victory over the contents of the fridge in Skinny Pete's barn, and the fridge in Skinny Pete's living room, because, well, Liv was still a little bitter about the whole kid-chomper thing. If Pete wanted to retaliate, she had another apology letter planned out for his family.
“I'm just glad I don't have to sleep in the haystacks anymore,” said Era, taking a long sip of some probably toxic energy drink.
“Same,” said Liv. “Speaking from recent experience: no one on the planet deserves to fish out eight spiders from their cleavage at once.”
“Does that mean seven boob spiders are acceptable?”
Liv scratched her head. This wasn't the first time she'd explored this important question. “It gets lonely without at least one, but I feel like four spiders is my limit. Not enough to immediately notice, but also just enough to be a groping deterrent. Five would be pushing it.”
“Practical and edgy,” said Era. “
You're sittin' on a cash cow, Liv. Patent it.”
Noah, already thoroughly needing a priest from the past few sentences, decided to change the subject. “Well, I'm still reeling from the rattlesnake that's living in my hair.”
“Living?” said Liv. “As in, he's still in there?!”
“Livvy, it's his home now. I can't just shoo him out! He’s probably got nowhere else to go.”
“It's a rattlesnake, Minion. It could kill you.”
“So could boob spiders,” said Era.
“Felicia's an orb weaver,” snapped Liv. “She's harmless!”
Era figured it best not to ask more about Felicia.
Noah felt the sleeping serpent stir in his locks and froze. “Well, the snake didn't ask to be deadly, did he? It wouldn't be nice to kick him out for something that's not his fault.”
Liv, who knew Noah far too well at this point, went for the nuclear option: “You know, they eat bunnies.”
Noah's eyes twitched. He pounded his staff into the dirt with a mighty cry of, “In Argo's name, I cast thee OUT!”
[Noah — Laundromancy]
As the rest of the team experienced the first thing resembling a bath they'd had in a week, the cleansing wind flung the snake—with its scales now thoroughly polished—into the tall grass beyond.
Era chuckled. These guys are nuts. Y'know, I was having doubts earlier about this whole hero thing, but it’s nice to have friends for the first time in a few years.
It was a pleasant thought, but due to the fact that Era's got some of the worst luck on the planet, it had to be rudely interrupted by gunfire.
[Mischa — Buckshot as a Celebratory Mechanism]
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Reload.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Aaaaand...TWENTY!”
BANG!
[0 DMG to the air]
By the time the last shot rang out, Mischa let out a mighty laugh. “Happy Birthday, Erasmus Papageno Gualtieri!”
Right, I knew I was forgetting something. May 25th. Happy birthday to—
“Oh Gods, I'm 20?!” said Era, holding his head in his fingertips. “Eww. I'm a fossil.”
Liv and Noah pounced Era with a fierce hug from either side.
“Slasher, you shoulda told us it was your birthday!” said Liv.
“Argo's blessings upon you, Era!” said Noah.
Mischa trudged over to his son and plopped down an extra-large plastic bag from a place called Taco Chairman. “I couldn't find much in the way of cake, as I didn't even know where you were until a week ago and didn't think I'd be celebrating, but I was able to snag this party platter from the taco place next door.”
Silence.
“Uh, Mr. Gualtieri?” said Liv.
“Mr. Gualtieri is my dad. Call me Mischa.”
“Meeshman, we're out in the sticks. There's no taco place 'next door.' There's no taco place for many miles away.”
“Then where'd I get this party pla—”
The bag began to smoke and crackle.
Era grabbed his sword. “Everyone, combat mode!” he shouted.
[Taco Chairman — Party Splatter]
A burst of red, tomato flavored acid scattered the heroes and snuffed out the campfire.
[1,200 DMG to Everyone]
Mischa, who was not in combat mode, yelled a combination of swears too vile for the printed word in any language, as his right arm was riddled with third degree chemical burn.
“Dad,” said Era, rising from the mud and spitting dirt out. “Can you get to the Doomwagon and patch yourself up?”
“Can and will. But what's going on?”
The rushing stomps of gigantic spider legs answered the question, as the windows of a carnivorous, insectoid, Communism themed taco joint developed compound eyes, feelers, and pincers. Its sliding glass door shattered, forming mandibles, and it spread its six pairs of dragonfly-like wings with a vicious shriek of hunger.
“I bought food from a mimic?!” shouted Mischa. “That does it! Chosen Three: kill that thing and get my money back, but not necessarily in that order!” He then staggered off toward the Doomwagon, trying to remember the right combination of healing spells to de-expose the bones of the arm.
[Boss Battle!]
[Taco Chairman ~In Soviet Aries, Nacho Dips YOU!~]
[Bestiary: Taco Chairman]
[Type: Mimic, Insectoid]
[Weaknesses: The Imperial Food Safety Department]
[HP: 7,000]
[Description: In ancient times, mimics only took the appearance of treasure chests to devour adventurers. Over the years, various Dark Lords have reinvented mimics, perfecting their designs as the modern world evolved around them to the point where vehicles, buildings, and even small towns could be mimics. As an apex predator among local monster populations, the Taco Chairman draws in its prey with toxic burritos and parasitic employment opportunities, and only lashing out with its grotesque true form when the ruse is exposed.]
Noah, who was still face down in the mud with 150 HP left, weakly raised his staff and mumbled a familiar incantation through the soil.
[Noah — Restore-2]
[Recovered 1,000 HP]
A bright droplet of energy fell onto his head, and he sprang back up. “All right, everyone, who needs healing?”
[Taco Chairman — Five-Alarm-Plan Ghost Pepper Sauce]
A wave of boiling lava shot from the broken glass doors, slamming into Noah's chest.
“I need a pri—”
[2,340 DMG to Noah]
[Noah was KO'd!]
“Noah's down!” shouted Era. “Liv, you got a Second Wind? I'm fresh out.”
Nobody answered.
[Taco Chairman — 4.50 G an hour, plus tips!]
[Liv was assimilated!]
“Liv?”
Noah began to pixel-fade. The Taco Chairman cackled.
“Uh, no rush or anything, just, Noah's kinda dying!” Oh, shut up, Era. She's probably pixel-fading too. It's just me standing here with my sword...NOT DOING ANYTHING.
[Era — Flying Lance]
The Schiavona flashed green and shot through the window. It darted around the interior, shattering the fake glass, tearing the fake cushions, and spilling the fake sodas.
[1,294 DMG to Taco Chairman]
The restaurant groaned, bucking in its spider legs.
Okay, now we're getting somewhere—
[Liv — Restrain]
Liv grabbed Era’s arms from behind. Era looked—her clothes were slowly changing into a red and yellow uniform. She groaned in a trance and lurched toward Era.
Ah.
Now completely clad in a fry cook's outfit, she pulled a rancid, venom covered burrito out of her apron pocket, and lazily jabbed it toward Era's mouth.
“Fill out the survey at the bottom of your receipt,” she groaned. “Get free...cinnamon twists...”
Era trembled, turning his head from every thrust of the toxic entree. Dammit. I'm too tired to die here. At least do it in a cool way, not the stupid gimmicky burrito attack. Don't you have another lava blast in the queue?
[???? — Holy Purification]
[Liv was healed!]
[Noah was revived!]
A flash of white light from behind returned Liv (and, presumably, Felicia) to normal. Liv caught sight of the burrito in her hands and threw it away with a disgusted yelp. In the distance, Noah whined in pain.
Enraged, the Taco Chairman drew in a deep breath, its eyes turning bright orange. Era, standing directly in front of its blazing jaws, smiled. Now that's more like it. Let's get it over with.
[Taco Chairman — The People’s Fire Breath]
[???? — Praetorian Guard]
A disc flew in from the side—a circular shield made of a carefully forged blend of gold, silver, steel, and mythril. Even from behind, the white tiger and red rose motif throughout its design was unmistakable, and Era's jaw hung open at the sig
ht. That's the Great Northern Shield of Imperial Rosencrace!
Threads of holy energy spun from the shield as it swirled and twirled, and the flash of orange from the mimic became a flash of blue, sucking in the flames.
“You are Signor Erasmus Gualtieri, are you not?”
The voice from behind was distinctly Northern Rosencracian in its accent. And female.
“That's me,” he said, turning around to find an elf,
Or, as Imperial Rosencracian loyalists would argue, the elf. She was clad in silver armor over a flowing blue dress, with a white fur hat that bore the crest of the House Niccolo White Tiger.
Era gulped and knelt on instinct. Oh Gods. Emperor Pietro's daughter. How many people has she had skinned alive just for looking at her the wrong way?
“Okay, who's the shield-bitch?” asked Liv. “This isn't your battle. You're messin' up our flow.”
Era clutched his face, hoping Liv would have fun in the Pohjolan labor camps.
Meanwhile, the Taco Chairman, who hated being ignored, pounded and pounded away on the giant blue barrier.
Catching sight of the monster, the Princess giggled. “Well, now that the battle is a few seconds from over, I believe introductions are necessary. Ofelia Carlotta Niccolo V, Princess in absentia and Heir Apparent of the Holy Rosencracian Empire.”
She curtsied.
Neverstone: A LitRPG Adventure (The Mad Elf Book 1) Page 14
