Neverstone: A LitRPG Adventure (The Mad Elf Book 1)

by Ned Caratacus

  [????? — Bite]

  A crunching sound and flickering sparks signaled the amputation of Mischa's robot arm.

  “Okay, that's a new one,” said Mischa, staring wide-jawed at the stump.

  A hand, covered in engine grease and specks of red hair, pried its way out of the hole. The dwarf girl, who was very much not dead, crawled out. White skin, freckles, red hair in a buzzcut, muscles for decades. Dressed in gym clothes, old bandages, and motor oil, she stared at Mischa through a pair of discount store chemistry goggles.

  In her other hand, she dragged Mischa's robot arm, and still chewed a mouthful of its steel cables and hydraulics.

  Awkward silence.

  “Hey there,” said Era. “Are you okay, or...”

  The girl held up Mischa's arm. “You gon' eat this?”

  “Uh…no?”

  “Awright, cool.” Baring her engine grease covered teeth, she took another bite out of the arm's casing, chewed it, and swallowed it.

  “Now, on to business,” said the dwarf, throwing the rest of the arm to the side. It landed in an old woman's bathtub three miles away. “Where's my voggin' wife?”

  [Steve — Repair-1]

  [Doomwagon recovered 5,000 HP!]

  The smoke cleared as Steve cast a few automancy charms of his own. Though Mischa was clearly the more capable automancer, Steve was himself a bit of a grease monkey.

  All three of the remaining passengers were now back on their feet, thanks to Noah's healing.

  “Everyone alright?” asked Noah.

  “Just a bruised ego, thank you,” said Ofelia, readjusting her rose-shaped pauldrons.

  “I don't feel very recyclable,” said Liv, still face first in the wastebasket.

  “All are alright,” said Noah. “Good. Very, very good.” He took a few steps towards the exit before he finally broke down in ugly sobbing on the floor. Noah, for all his Luxiacon beating, mercy, and tolerance, was human, had to capital H Hate at least one thing in life: being startled by large explosions.

  Liv untrashed herself, made a beeline for the healer and draped her arms around him. “Minion. Hey. Minion. I'm here.”

  “Is this a...common occurrence?” asked Ofelia, cringing.

  [Branwen — Elf Toss]

  Clearly because no one was allowed to have a good time, Era came crashing through the windshield, down the aisle, through Noah and Liv, past the beds, and into the other end of the bus.

  [1,590 DMG to Era]

  “Yo, Ofelia,” said Era, upside down against the wall.

  “Do you need any help?” asked Ofelia.

  “Probably. Question though, and just bear with me here: you're not secretly married to any street pirates, are you?”

  “Eh—excuse me?! I bear the holy noble blood of the ancient and revered House of Niccolo, which has ruled over my blessed homeland since the days of the Goblin War! How dare you accuse me of sullying the—”

  “That's a no, then. How about you, Liv?”

  “Sadly, no,” said Liv.

  Era closed his eyes and sighed. “Then, we still have a problem.”

  And now, a word from our sponsors.

  Thanks to a generous grant from Koschei Parapsychological Solutions, this chapter has been enhanced with new, improved Brannivision!

  Have you ever wondered what the world looks like through the eyes of someone who eats tires, wears ornamental roadkill, and once made passionate love with a burning tractor? Now, thanks to Brannivision, all you have to do is put on your Brannivision glasses, and you're one step closer to living the eternal waking nightmare of Branwen Hammersmith, the world's most dangerous street pirate!

  (Brannivision glasses not included. To receive your pair, please submit your soul to Koschei Parapsychological Solutions and allow 6 to 8 weeks for delivery.)

  [Put On Your Glasses Now.]

  The beach is dry and rocky beneath your feet. Now you’ve buried them in the sand up to their chests, the one-eyed walrus and the plastic mermaid whine at you for mercy in their overly àcçéntuâtèd native tongue.

  Your fists are anchors covered in barbed wire. The evening sky is boiling, and the seagulls are crapping thunderbolts. This is what world peace looks like.

  A burning, capsized forty gunner sits before you on the beach. La Doum Wagonne is emblazoned on its side. A horrifying blue, white, and red flag still hangs from its flaming mizzenmast—the French! Bastards! They don't even exist in Luminar, and you still hate the crap out of them for some reason. Their captain is the fearsome Jacques-Pierre LaGuêpe—half man, half wasp, and 200% honorless, insectoid, gun-dropping, picnic-ruining, wine-guzzling, hive-gentrifying slime.

  What's more, these Frenchmen are the same hideous creatures you saw in the press conference—the ones who were sent to fight the Duck Lord. Granted, the Duck Lord is just as monstrous, and in any other circumstance, you'd leave the two evil forces to fight among themselves—and plunder them both once their numbers had thinned.

  But LaGuêpe had done the unthinkable: he had kidnapped the love of your life. You'd seen her only once on television, in the same press conference, but you knew—you just knew—the Gods had tied you together with the red barbed wire of glorious, bloody destiny.

  So, you call out in a voice like cannonfire: “Yer finished, LaGuêpe! I've defeated yer Walrus and Mermaid goons. Surrender, and come out with my precious ickle wifeypoo...”

  [Remove Your Glasses Now.]

  “...or I'll drag you to Hell myself!” snarled the dwarf.

  Mischa and Raphael sat torso-deep in the pavement, having been planted there like trees by Branwen.

  “Hey! Hey, lady!” Mischa kept calling, hoping that Branwen would stop for a second to hear all his threats. Raphael had long since given up on the day making any more sense, laid his chin in his hand, and drummed his fingers on the asphalt.

  Era peeked out through the shattered windshield. “Hi,” he said, already regretting this plan. “Um, everything's cool. We've taken care of this 'LaGwep' dude or whoever, and your wife's on her way back to your ship. Can you let us go, please?”

  The dwarf growled, foaming at the mouth, mumbling something about a “cornered fable” and “Bug France.” She was only debatably a human at this point, and more of a pale knot of wet meat.

  Era's negotiations weren't going to be useful here. “Incredible,” he said, his face in his palm. He called back into the bus: “Guys, a little help?”

  [Put On Your Glasses Now.]

  “Je suis LaGuêpe!” chants the villain, the sick, slimy voice that squeaks through his mandibles. “Je suis la grande LaGuêpe! Tremblez-vous, canards faibles qui vous êtes!”

  You reply: “Yer the voggin' 'cornered fable,' LaGuêpe! Go back to Bug France and leave my woman alone!”

  “Incroyable,” says the wasp, his face in his feeler moustache. “LaCigale! LaChenille! Aidez-moi maintenant!”

  LaGuêpe is promptly joined by his sinister first mate LaCigale, a flame-eyed cicada, and his boatswain LaChenille, a caterpillar in Elvish armor.

  The caterpillar exclaims, “Capitaine LaGuêpe says, there is no such mademoiselle on this ship.”

  Then the cicada: “En plus, if there were such ladies, they would be disgusted by vous, because you are le short, and smell terry-bluh.”

  LaGuepe finishes their little speech: “En des motes autres: 'you suck!'”

  The laughter of insectoid aristocracy fills the air, and the gods themselves weep.

  Suddenly, into your view, from behind the wasp, comes—

  Her.

  She's every bit as beautiful as the noblewoman at the press conference, and more. A head of flowing, wavy golden hair, pink lace bows strewn about its silken mass like strawberries in a sea of honey. A seagreen ball gown made of Sadji-Taa cashmere, a square foot of which costs more than a house in Dunngate. Her pale breasts, each triple the size of your head, quiver in her strained bodice with every step. The fact that she can carry them above her five inch waist in her already half-s
napped corset can only be a miracle of the pirate gods.

  “Tell me, ma capitaine,” she says to the wasp, in a voice stolen from the trilling flutes of forest nymphs. “Might this shipwreck be the work of handsome lady-pirates pining to carry off and kidnap a lonely mademoiselle such as I, and to show me the true meaning of l’amour?”

  “Tais-toi, Noelle!” screeches the wasp, pushing her back into the ship with an appendage so cold. She recoils in horror.

  Noelle. Each syllable is a succulent dab of honey upon the eardrums of angels. Such beauty is squandered on the company of foul, Francophonic insectery.

  This will not stand. This treasure must be yours.

  A fierce, bestial determination fills you, and the next few seconds become a blur of rapture and ecstasy as you break into the hull of La Doum Wagonne...

  Punch the wasp, suplex the cicada, kick the caterpillar to the poop deck, and...

  [Branwen — Carry Off and Kidnap a Lonely Mademoiselle Such as Thee]

  [Remove Your Glasses Now.]

  “Livvy, help!” cried Noah, now slumped over the pirate's shoulder as she sprinted into the distance.

  “Minion!” Liv called after them. “You're dead, pirate! You're voggin' dead!”

  No response. She and her captive were already a half mile to the south.

  Having fainted from the stress, Noah woke up a few hours later in the pirate's pontoon boat trailer, resting against the deck. He recognized the two pink-haired pirate girls at his side—one was named “Redacted” and the other was named “Expunged.”

  Odd names, Noah thought. No, no, only Argo can judge what's odd. I'm sure their parents had reasons.

  “Oh hey, yer awake,” said Redacted.

  “Am I still being kidnapped?” mumbled Noah, exhausted.

  “Pretty much, yeah,” said Expunged.

  Gathering his mental bearings for a few seconds, Noah sat up, stretched, and gave a high-pitched yawn. Better make the best of this while I can, I suppose.

  The asphalt hissed from under the boat's wheels, as Children's Show Pirate Song #97 blared on the pickup truck's speakers. Behind them, the high concrete walls of the expressway leading into the Celsioran capital stood above the road. The other side of the road was choked with commuters at the tailend of rush hour.

  “You know, I've never been kidnapped before,” he said, with a smile. “It's the sort of thing I keep hearing about in the news, but never imagine it happening to myself, y'know? Maybe it's something we all oughta try at least once in life, like driving a car or traveling abroad. What's it like?”

  Redacted and Expunged looked at each other in silent exasperation.

  “Look, Noelle,” said Expunged.

  “My name's actually Noah.”

  “So, that's your real name,” said Redacted.

  “We're not sure what the cap'n wants to do with ya,” said Expunged. “She thinks you're some kinda nobleman's daughter with tits the size of couch cushions and a bum that smells of wild berries. But you don't seem like a bad guy, so we don't want her to hurtcha.”

  Noah figured it best to keep the I need a priesting to himself during his captivity but kept it on a steady loop in his head. “Is your captain...alright?”

  “Course she voggin' isn't,” said Expunged. “She's a berserker. She's gotta expend tons of energy every minute of every day.”

  “She can't even sleep, for vog's sake,” said Redacted. “Where do you think all her hallucinations come from?”

  [Redacted — Forward Pass]

  “Catch,” said Expunged, as she threw a dense, rectangular thingamajig onto the side of Noah's head. It bounced onto the floor. “Bah, sorry.”

  Noah picked it up. It would have been a TV remote, if it had more buttons and no electrodes. He pressed a button, and a tiny blue spark shot from one end with a loud screech, making him jump.

  [Noah acquired Branwen’s Taser!]

  “What's this for?” he asked.

  “In case the cap'n tries anything violent with you.”

  “Would it hurt her?”

  “Nah, just that she likes licking it for some reason. Good distraction.”

  Noah stared at the taser in his hands. His mind flooded with curiosity, threatening to brine and pickle his brain if it weren't satisfied.

  Ever since he began the quest, so many new and mysterious pleasures had entered his life. The Luxiacon encouraged having an open mind and trying new things, and the Healer's Code said nothing to forbid strange electric boxes and lickings thereof. Since Noah had never before seen a taser in his life, he told himself: Maybe she likes it because it tastes good?

  Holding down the button, he slowly edged the light toward his tongue...

  As Steve and Mischa sat at the wheel, the Chosen Three (now temporarily minus one, plus the vicariously chosen Fourth, Ofelia, of course), readied themselves for the inevitable rescue mission of their healer.

  With his mind, Era lifted some of the precious metals off his spare dagger supply onto his Schiavona, giving the blade a reddish hue from Dunngatian highcopper and increasing its durability.

  Ofelia chanted an orthodox war prayer to Galgalim, the Litany of the Victor.

  As for Liv, she sat in her bunk in the fetal position, trying desperately to calm down. Of course, this could only go on for so long before Era noticed.

  “You need some water or somethin'?” asked Era.

  “I'm gonna do it,” said Liv. “I'm gonna Riastrad. There's no way around it. Minion's gonna get hurt, and I'm gonna go nuts and turn into the Riastrad again and kill everyone, and it'll all—”

  “Liv, Liv, easy now. We've got this one in the bag. I figured it out.”

  Liv froze mid-freakout. “Explain.”

  “Okay, back when I was dueling competitively, I fought Branwen's type. Enhanced muscle mass? Loose grip on reality? Eating inedible objects? She's a berserker, almost a stereotypical one. Now, berserkers always have a safeword—a little coded hypnotic suggestion that keeps them from hurting too many innocent people. Say it, and she's out cold.”

  Liv's eye fires flickered with something resembling hope. “So, if we know Branwen's safeword...”

  “She'll be in our power completely,” said Era. “The tricky part will be figuring out what that word is, but once we do, she won’t be able to fight without our permission.”

  At that point, Liv was only half-listening. She had already dived into Mischa's tiny bookshelf at the end of the bunk. She snagged a tiny paperback—“ARIESIAN POCKET DICTIONARY, 5180 EDITION (Now with over 400 new swears!) —and brandished it like a weapon.

  “I am going to say each and every word at her,” said Liv, already feeling a little beserkerish herself.

  Era figured it best for his health to keep silent. He shrugged, and checked his phone. Maybe there's, like, only a few common safe words that tons of berserkers use. KoscheinetSearch dot co dot cel, don't fail me now.

  But no sooner had he pulled the phone out of his pocket, than he found an emergency notification about traffic conditions further to the south, in Celsior Central.

  Oh, vog me.

  As for Prince Raphael, he had his own four-part plan for dealing with Branwen:

  Teleport to Ganymede University's auditorium in Celsior Central and give his scheduled 8:30 keynote speech for the annual Celsiorans Against Children Knitting summit, subject being “Scarves: the Ultimate Gateway Drug.”

  Head back to his quarters of Castle Koschei, make 17 gin and tonics, drink only the most perfect one among them, and throw away the rest (glasses included).

  Brood about the cruelty of beautiful women while staring at the city skyline until bedtime.

  The pirate situation will solve itself. Branwen just swallowed a highly toxic and inedible piece of metal—ergo, isn't long for this world anyway.

  Of course, Branwen eats barbed wire and drinks gasoline on the regular, so this wasn't his finest plan. But to be fair, Branwen would very quickly become the least of Celsior Central's problems that
night.

  What is Celsior Central?

  Pookie's Deli sits at the corner of 75th street and Svyatogor Lane in the city's Jewelers' Alley neighborhood. Every morning at 5 AM, eager citizens line up all the way to 77th street to pay 50 G for a Nasty Man Reuben—King Gregor's favorite—which does away with the Thousand Island dressing in favor of Nasty Man Sauce: water, sugar, cilantro, and antifreeze.

  Then, there’s the owner and sole employee: Pookie Matusewicz. He’s a misanthrope, a drunkard, a bigot, a violent bully, and an otherwise objectively horrible person by any sane man's account. Once, a man eating with his family complained about the mold on his fries. Pookie flew into a rage and stabbed his children with a shiv made of the previous year's bacon.

  After several drawn-out lawsuits, lump-sum settlements, and acquittals by technicality, the Celsioran public began to interpret, “My food is terrible and I'll literally stab your kids if you don't love it,” as, “I'm a rugged, no-nonsense individualist who sticks to the culinary traditions he loves, and I refuse to play by anyone else's rules.” Now, to Pookie's horror, his cuisine is a world-renowned success, and he's never going to run out of the eager patrons that he hates so much.

  That story, in itself, is everything there is to know about Celsior Central.

  — Dr. Helena Cairnpillar, “Celsior: An Unbiased History,” Endymion University Press

  Needless to say, Celsior Central was the kind of city where Monty and Thoric Jones felt right at home. They could go walkabout through the scenic downtown under the skyscrapers and advertisements, and not a soul would think they had a right to speak to them. Even the homeless kept their begging to a silent cardboard sign, and, to Monty's delight, their faces conveniently at boot level.