by Chris Fox
“Hi, Kit!” The ogre smiled up at the tower, a ghastly sight, then brought his axe down on a horse. An already dead horse.
“And, ah, what are you gathering body parts for?” Kit knew she should run. White could turn on her any moment, but she had to know.
“I’m turning this town into a necropolis.” White leaned on the window sill, and sighed dreamily down at the carnage. “It will be bone and misery as far as the eye can see, which will give my new kingdom the benefits of the Oppressive Dictator government type. In the basement I’m already working on a wight factory.”
At first Kit thought he meant cloning himself, a terrible thought, but then she realized he meant undead wights. The kind that haunted barrows in the fantasy novels she so enjoyed.
“How are you doing it all so, ah, quickly?” Another risky question. Kit edged toward the door, but White hadn’t noticed.
“Another class feature.” He finally glanced at her, and smiled in a way that almost made him resemble a real person, until he spoke again. “I expected to have to barter some of them away, but was able to keep them all. I have 156 more. And I will use them to turn this entire world into my plaything. I will conquer it all, and I will end the wretched silliness. I will make a World of Grimdark, but I shall fail to stick the landing in the final season. I will call my new world…Westerass.”
Kit noted that he’d turned back to the sill, so she crept to the door, and slipped into the hallway. White never noticed. Kit hurried back down the hallway to the door to her new quarters. She wrenched it open, grabbed her pack, and turned to leave.
“I’m ready.” Nutpuncher’s deep voice drew her attention downwards, and she found the monk standing there with his pack already cinched around his shoulders. “I stayed up all night watching. Was just waiting for you to get up. You’ve got a plan to stop this, right?”
“Not much of one,” she admitted. Kit closed the door, and began threading a path out of the tomb. “We’re going to need to find Bert. He’s still got the dark lord trope. We know he made it to a forest, but not which one. We need more information.”
Nutpuncher shoved his hair aside and peered up at her. “Let’s say we find him. What then? You don’t think we can stop White, do you? He’s probably immune to everything.”
Kit clenched a fist. “I don’t know, but we’re going to try. The worst that can happen is we fail, and the game ends. We proved we could stop White last time. I want to do it again. The way he plays isn’t right, and it isn’t fun.”
Nutpuncher offered a determined nod. “Okay, let’s go.”
13
Dirt Mittens
Bert had a serious problem. The forest was quickly running out of elves as they clawed at each other to reach the strange numbered rock.
Thanks to his trope, and the fact that he hadn’t returned to Paradise in some time, Bert had an idea. Well, a series of ideas really, enough to constitute a whole plan.
“Boberton!” Bert bellowed at the top of his lungs, and both furry heads swung in his direction. “Chase elves away from rock. Not let any come near!”
The dog’s tail wagged fiercely as both Lefty and Righty began barking at elves. Most ignored the dog, so Boberton began knocking them into the air with his broad heads. He barked and yapped and ran around in a wide spiral around the rock.
At first more elves tried to sneak past, but within a few minutes they’d learned that Boberton would not be deterred. He knocked a final elf so high into the air that the fellow landed atop the branches of one of their trees, and that put an end to the attempts.
That left Bert free to consider the problem. The rock made people greedy. They had to be kept away from the rock. He couldn’t ask the elves to just move away from such a nice lake, so what should he do? He needed to move the rock. How could he do that?
Bert picked up a rake with a fat handle that one elf had been using to scratch at another’s face. He used the handle side to poke the rock, but the bit of wood that touched the stone burst into flame. He’d effectively created a torch. A torch rake. Hmm. Could be handy in caves.
Bert dropped the torch-rake and fished out his journal, then drew a picture of the rake with one end burning, with a plus sign, and then a cave and then an equal sign pointing at a pile of gold. His kingdom always needed more money, and perhaps inventions were a way to get some.
He turned back to the rock, and thought about the problem. The best way to solve hard problems was to break them down into easier problems, and then solve those until all you had left were the hard bits.
Bert needed to get the rock away from there so he could hide it. Okay, where could he take it? “Bert fly!”
He drifted up into the air, and soared up above the trees. In the distance, deeper in the forest, he spotted a tall ominous mountain with jagged slopes, and lava running down one side. There was a convenient cave, too, right in the base! In fact there were several caves. They sort of made the mountain look like a skull.
Bert could take the rock there, and put it in one of the caves. No one would ever find it there. Or at least…no one in his kingdom. Hmm. He’d need to protect the rock once he hid it. He couldn’t count on no one finding it.
That was another problem though.
Now that Bert knew where he was taking the rock he drifted down to the ground and focused on the next problem. How could he move the rock? Poking it with things probably wouldn’t work, as it burned them. Touching it directly caused people to disappear inside, and Bert didn’t even want to think about what happened to them. It must be terribly cramped in such a small rock, for that many people.
So Bert floated down to the ground, and circled the area directly around the rock. The heat was rather pleasant, and warmed Bert’s toes quite nicely, but the ground itself hadn’t blackened or burned much. It seemed that dirt and rocks could survive contact, or the magic rock would eat through the ground and fall into the world.
How could he use that?
Bert stuck his tongue out as everybody knew that helped with thinking. It might help as much as his dark lord trope, for all he knew.
What did not help was all the barking and yelling, but that had mostly died down and Bert covered his ears with his hands so he could focus on the rock.
How could he move it?
Could he make…a rock sled? Maybe Boberton could pull it? Bert glanced at the forest. That wouldn’t work. A sled would get stuck long before they reached the mountain.
Hmm.
Perhaps he could make the rock fly with magic? Maybe he didn’t need to carry it at all. Bert wiggled his fingers, fixed the rock with a stern stare, and commanded it to fly. “Rock float up in air!”
The rock remained stubbornly inert, and Bert realized somehow that it was immune to magic. He’d have to find another way.
Bert walked directly up to the rock, but didn’t touch it. It was little larger than he was, but only a little. Was he strong enough to move it? How heavy was it? He’d have to touch it to find out, and that had proven a very bad idea to everyone who’d done it thus far.
“Hmm.” Bert removed his hands from his ears and looked at them. Could he wear gloves? Would that count as touching the rock? “Bert have idea!”
Bert knelt and splayed the fingers of both hands wide as he buried his hands in the dirt. He couldn’t touch the rock, and the elves who had touched the rock had been wearing clothing when they’d disappeared. The rock could eat clothes, too.
But not all clothes had to be made from cloth. Bert had been forced to improvise many times, and today was no exception. The difference, he realized to his delight, was that this time Bert possessed magic.
“Dirt mittens!” Bert yelled at the top of his lungs. Pebbles and rocks and bits of dirt flowed up around his hands, and formed into a pair of quite comfortable dirt mittens. He flexed his hands and while movement was a little stiff they would absolutely get the job done. Bert turned to Boberton, as he didn’t want to experience his moment of triumph alone. “Here, bo
y!”
The dog came running over, tail wagging as both Lefty and Righty panted. There was no longer any sign of elves around the stone.
“Okay, Bert try to move rock.” Bert cautiously approached the stone, closed his eyes, and rested his hands against it. When nothing happened he cautiously opened one eye. His mittens were working! He was touching the stone without getting hurt. “Come on, boy. Boberton and Bert go to mountain in forest. Have to hide rock.”
Then Bert froze. He’d left his wagon parked on the edge of town. If he left it here, and if the elves found it, they’d probably keep it for themselves. It contained all sorts of wonderful gadgets and inventions, and would also be quite handy for carrying loads of cookies.
Bert sighed. He simply couldn’t bring the wagon with him, not if he expected to reach the caves and hide the rock. He’d have to leave it behind.
Bert squared his shoulders, and began pushing the glowing rock toward the tree line.
14
An Adventurer's Tale
Kit tightened the strap on her pack and tried to ignore the screams as she and Nutpuncher hurried through the chaos of Bobertown. Within a day nothing living would remain, and even the little birds atop each tower had fled.
Anyone who’d been a longstanding denizen had probably seen many dark lords come and go, and knew to hide while things sorted themselves out. Normally a group of adventurers would come to fix the problem, but what could these people do when the adventurers were the problem?
“How are we going to find Bert’s trail?” Kit directed the question to Nutpuncher, but when she turned there was no sign of her companion. She spun and frantically scanned the crowd.
There he was!
The gnome spoke to a pair of children in ragged clothing…street urchin NPCs huddled under a porch. Kit hurried over to join him, but by the time she arrived the children were gone and the gnome stood alone.
“I found him.” Nutpuncher smiled happily up at her. He seemed much less phased by the carnage, though at least he’d been appalled enough to leave with her. “Bert passed by here on a cart with a big two-headed dog. The dog poops on the regular so we should have no problem locating the trail, and following it. They went west, toward the Moist Mountains.”
“How did you learn all that so quickly?” Kit could only blink down at her companion. Monks didn’t have any special powers or skills that she knew of, not that would allow them to investigate.
“I used a gather information check.” The gnome shrugged as if it were no big deal, but his faint smile said he enjoyed the attention. “I maxed it out, because it’s a wisdom based skill. There’s also a feat that makes a check instant. I can canvas a crowd by just walking up to the first person I see. Kind of nice. Cuts out all the idle chitchat.”
The idle chitchat Kit knew as roleplay.
“Excellent work.” Kit quickened her step, and headed for the bridge leading out of town. Even the customs ratlings were gone, and a steady stream of villagers, merchants, and even skeletal guards were fleeing the city.
Kit waited her turn, then pressed into the rear of the crowd and worked her way across the stone bridge.
“Did I mention,” Nutpuncher called idly, his deep voice just barely audible over the din of the panicked crowd, “that Bert was chasing a flaming sky rock? Apparently some sort of magical artifact fell in the middle of Keeble Forest and he’s gone to locate it.”
“You didn’t.” Kit tried not to be cross with him. Nutpuncher never treated problems with urgency, and she should be grateful he’d told her at all. “That means he’s gone to the high elves. They should be easy to locate, if we can get them to focus for thirty seconds.”
“I’ve never met high elves.” Nutpuncher pushed aside his hair and peered up at her. “Don’t you have family there?”
“Yes.” Kit folded her mouth into a tight line and refused to say more. She’d written Kit’s background before she’d understood exactly who and what the high elves were.
Having read a lot of Tolkien she’d been enamored with them…with his version of them. This world’s version? Not quite in the same league. But since she hadn’t known, she’d selected high elf as her human form. Ah, well.
The crowd finally thinned on the other side of the bridge as screaming villagers bolted down the road in both directions. One led toward Paradise, and the other up to the Moist Mountains. How unpleasant. Of course they had to go that way.
No one bothered them as they took the right fork, and by the time they’d gone a few hundred meters she could barely make out the panicked cries behind them.
“I feel bad.” Nutpuncher glanced behind them and sighed, then turned back to the trail. “We’re a part of that. We brought White there. You know I can’t remember anything about the real world, but…I gotta wonder why we keep playing with White.”
“I don’t know.” Kit bit her lip, and forced herself not to look back. She focused on the mountains ahead of them, which were wreathed in mist that obscured the pass they’d need to cross to reach the forest beyond. “I do know that it isn’t fun. When we first started playing it was about adventure and immersion. It was about solving problems and righting wrongs. We killed dark lords. We didn’t take their places.”
“I guess we all play for different reasons.” The gnome scuffed the dirt with one sandal, which made him resemble a toddler, and made the deep voice all the more incongruous. “I like to win…in fights I mean. I like to be strong. At first I didn’t really care what we were fighting. I just cared how tough it was, and if I could beat it.”
“You’re a min-maxer.” Kit shrugged as there was no heat to the accusation. “I think most gamers start out that way. The best ones go on to be game masters.”
“You think so?” The gnome perked up, and quickened his step as they marched along the trail.
“I do.” Kit leaned on her staff, and began to enjoy the walk. “Most game masters are either really good at telling stories, or really good at understanding rules. The narrative GMs are at the mercy of players like White. The rules GMs can hold their own, but can’t seem to tell a good story, and usually need to rely on modules. The best GMs, in my opinion, can tell their own stories, but still understand how all the rules work. You’ll be like that if you ever get interested in telling your own stories.”
They lapsed into silence and the gnome seemed to consider her words. That pleased her. It showed that people could change and grow over time. Maybe even White could change, though thus far she hadn’t seen a single indication that such a thing might be possible.
Hours passed as they climbed up into the mountains, and Kit enjoyed herself more than she had since they’d arrived. There was something about physical exercise when you were in a magically athletic body. You still got a little sore, so you felt like you were working, but you weren’t…not really.
Finally, the sun sank into the west and gave up to allow a single bright moon to dominate the sky. Kit stifled a yawn, and realized they’d have to make camp soon.
“Okay, it’s time.” Kit closed her eyes and whispered the words to a Ghostly Trail spell.
When she opened them a faint image of Boberton appeared on the trail ahead of her. It flickered then appeared again fifty meters further ahead. Then it flickered again, and appeared even further up the trail. It left a tendril of wispy light in its wake that was visible to her eyes alone.
“I’ve got them.” She nodded down at a ravine. “It looks like they made camp there.”
“No reason we can’t use the same site.” Nutpuncher hurried forward, his little pack bouncing as the gnome zipped across the rocks almost as quickly as she could.
Kit followed more carefully behind, and picked a slower path. Exhaustion had settled into her, and she was in no particular hurry. Once she reached camp she was about to reach into her pack for her tent, when Nutpuncher offered another solution.
“Check this out.” The gnome grinned at her as he extended a hand with a tiny house on his palm. “Sta
nd back.”
Kick moved back to stand against the ravine’s wall, and blinked in amazement when the gnome set the house down and it began to grow. Up and up it swelled until a comfortable cottage sat between the ravine’s walls, complete with a chimney that already had a little streamer of smoke.
“Come on in.” Nutpuncher moved over to the door. “My tiny hut is well stocked. We’ve got food, graph paper, colored pencils, soda, and even some decks if you’re bored.”
The gnome pushed the door open, and stepped into a room far too large to be contained by the tiny cottage. An extra dimensional space!
She rushed in after him, and flopped down on a very comfortable couch. She could still see the moon out the window, but had all the comforts of being indoors. “Where did you get this? Aren’t tiny huts expensive?”
“Yes.” Nutpuncher hopped up on the couch, then put his feet up, and interlaced his fingers behind his head. “Since monks don’t need gear I spent most of my starting loot on it. I figured it would be the gift that keeps on giving. Anyway, I’m pretty fried after that hike. Gonna call it a night.” A series of soft snores came on the heel of the final words.
That left Kit with nothing but time and her thoughts. She moved over to the part of the couch by the window, and gazed up at the melancholy crescent. A sudden sadness and longing to see Bert overcame her. Somewhere down there he was probably looking up at the very same moon.
Kit burst softly into song, the tune one she’d first heard in childhood. “Some—where down—there beneath the bright star light….”
She couldn’t remember any more words so she just hummed the rest until she drifted off to sleep.
15
Somewhere Out There
