by Aleron Kong
About two hours into the festivities, Richter was sitting down at a table when he caught sight of a familiar redhead making her way through the crowd. Richter was feeling no pain by this point, and he held a bottle of moonshine loosely in one hand. He had left the high table long ago, and had enjoyed a few turns on the dance floor. Now he sat talking to one of the freed prisoners, Enalise. She was a human who had not one, but two, Professions. She was both a Miner and a Crafter. He had just about convinced her to give him some tips in both.
“I am not sure that I want to stay in this little forest village you have,” the Miner was saying with a faint smile on her face. Richter had been generous in sharing his moonshine, so she was feeling quite alright herself.
He had been about to answer, but catching sight of Lorala pulled his attention away. Enalise followed his gaze, curious as to what had him suddenly so distracted. When she saw the voluptuous wood elf, she took an immediate and irrational dislike to her.
“Well met, Lord Richter,” the redhead said with a small smirk.
“Hello, Lorala,” he replied slowly. His gaze roamed over her body as he said it. Her cream-colored skin was beginning to tan in the summer sun. It brought out a smattering of freckles that he hadn’t seen before. They further cemented the head cheerleader vibe he had always had of her. Of course, the supple dress she was wearing didn’t hurt either. It was pure white with a bit of lace on the hem. It was clear she had been dancing as well, judging by the grass stains on her bare feet and the fact that the fabric of her dress was stuck to her body by a faint sheen of sweat. Not for the first time, Richter thanked Abrams and Whedon that bras hadn’t been invented yet in The Land.
“Who is your friend, Richter?” Enalise asked sweetly. Turning her attention to Lorala, “Would you like something to drink? Or maybe a towel?”
Sensing the danger in the air, Richter hesitated for a moment. Lorala spoke up before he could answer, “Oh we are more than friends, sweetie.” Her voice was as sugared as children’s medicine. “Much more. You are so considerate to look after my appearance though. Not many would offer to give when they have so little themselves.” She gave a tittering laugh and rested one hand on Richter’s shoulder, “My name is Lorala.”
“Ha ha ha,” Enalise responded with absolutely no mirth. “You are so amusing. You may call me Crafter Enalise.” She put the faintest of emphasis on her title. Then she adopted a speculative look for a few seconds before saying, “I should have guessed your name was Lorala.”
“Oh?” the elf asked mildly. Her tone was light, but her nails dug ever so slightly into Richter’s shoulder. For his own part, the chaos seed decided to operate by dinosaur rules. If he stayed absolutely still, maybe the two snarling monsters wouldn’t see him.
“Of course,” Enalise said with a smile. “Lorala? Lore? I assume every man in the village has knowledge of you.”
Gaaawwwdd-damn! Richter thought.
The elf bared her teeth in a way that only a blind man wouldn’t recognize as a snarl, though Richter supposed it could be called a smile. “Lord Richter, you have such interesting friends. You really should come dance with me, however. Look how exhausting your conversation has been for poor Enalise. She looks absolutely dreadful!”
“Richter,” the Crafter began, again leaving off his title as if to illustrate the independence she possessed but Lorala lacked, “and I were having a wonderful conversation. I am sure he would like to continue it.”
“Is that so?” Lorala asked archly. She stared daggers at the woman, but then turned her attention to Richter. Enalise did the same. “Lord Richter?”
As two angry sets of eyes bored into him, one a soft brown and the other a startling green, all Richter heard was General Ackbar saying, “It’s a trap!”
And then Richter’s Luck stat came through. Beyan, his Death mage gnome, walked up - or perhaps stumbled up - to the table with two mugs of ale. Even the bald top of the gnome’s head was red with drink. “My Lord! We haven’t shared a toast to your victory! Will you join me?”
“Of course I will, my friend,” Richter replied quickly with a broad smile. In his head though he was just wondering how his balls could possibly have gotten so sweaty in such a short amount of time.
He stood up and took a mug from Beyan. After clinking them together, he and the gnome downed their glasses in one fell swoop.
“One more,” the gnome slurred and pulled Richter away from the table to refill their glasses. He just looked back at the two women with a helpless smile on his face as Beyan dragged him off. They both glared daggers at him, but Richter decided that was a worry for another time.
When they were out of earshot, Richter leaned over and said, “Beyan, you have no idea what you just helped me out of!”
In a voice much more clear-headed than the one he had used only moments before, Beyan replied, “I know exactly what I just helped you with. I normally do not insert myself in other’s affairs, but in my culture, we have a motto that we live by: Frie Cudere.”
It only took a moment for Richter’s Gift of Tongues ability to translate. When he did, he found a renewed faith in the interconnectedness of all things. No matter what world he was in, there would always be a “Bro Code.”
Richter laughed aloud and threw his arm around Beyan’s shoulders. “You’re my boy, Blue!” The two of them had several more drinks and the party continued. After a particularly strong round of shots, he shouted, “Everybody gets lucky in the Mist Village, now who wants to see my Luck stat!” As Richter recalled, there were quite a few hands that shot up.
Krom made himself known with an old mountain drinking song. Every comment he made was answered by a listening crowd of dwarves with either a sad “aww” or a jubilant “yah!”
“Me lassie yelled…”
“Awww.”
“That she loved me cock!”
“Yah!”
“But she couldn’t walk…”
“Awww.”
“Til next week!”
“Yah!”
“Then ay ran out of ale…”
“Awww.”
“Because ay drank it all!”
“Yah!”
“The tavern were dry…”
“Awww.”
“As rain at sea!”
“Yah!”
“There were only one barmaid…”
“Awww.”
“For every dwarf!”
“Yah!”
“They had no curves…”
“Awww.”
“That ay couldn’t touch!”
“Yah!”
“There were a fight…”
“Awww.”
“We beat their arses!”
“Yah!”
“But ay go thrown in jail…”
“Awww.”
“It were full of whores!”
“Yah!”
“They cost a silver…”
“Awww.”
“Ay had a gold!”
“YAH!”
“Me lassie left me…”
“Awww.”
“But sister found me!”
“Yah!”
“Now me story be done…”
“Awww.”
“Until next week!”
“YAAAAHHHH!”
After the call and refrain the dwarves had just danced around, drinking, singing and head butting each other. This time, Richter was smart enough to avoid that particular form of celebration. He also learned a great deal about dwarven philosophy that night. It started when he joined a table of miners. One of them was saying another liked to pleasure men with his hands. He was doing the universal “jack off” gesture, but with a curious adaptation. His arm was twisted so that so his thumb was pointing down.
Curious as hell, Richter had asked, “Why is your arm twisted?”
The dwarves looked at each other like the answer was obvious, “I was saying that he stroked men’s cocks, yer lordship. I wasn’t saying that he liked it.”
Richter’s face made it clear he didn’t understand, so the dwarf explained. “This way, when he be stroking the shaft, he can also give a thumbs down. That way everybody knows he’s not enjoying it. It be part of the rules.”
The chaos seed looked at them in drunken bemusement, but the other dwarves all blearily agreed. Another chimed in, “It just be the rules, milord. Like if two dwarves be huddling for warmth in the cold, it only be weird if the little spoon pushes his butt back.”
Richter was about look at him like he was crazy too, but then thought about it, and said, “That math checks!” They all cheered and handed him a pint of ale. Downing them in one go, they slammed them down on the table and one shouted, “What’s math?”
The party continued!
Another hour passed and the festivities showed no signs of stopping. Richter was telling one of his “original” stories to a crowd of onlookers when Sion walked up. This one was about a magical black carriage that could speak. The carriage and its rider, Michael, rode around and solved crimes. Usually at night.
The sprite wasn’t alone. Like everyone else, he was fully drunk and had his arm thrown around the shoulders of a particularly attractive gnome woman. “I am telling you, he does it!”
The woman shook her head in disbelief, and Sion looked at his best friend, “Tell her. Tell her how you got hit with a lightning bolt during the last party.”
Richter shrugged and cast a drunken smile at the pretty gnome, “It wasn’t a big deal. My familiar… where is she?” He looked about until he saw Alma sleeping on a nearby table. “My familiar,” he repeated, pointing, “can throw lightning.”
“Are you going to do it again?” she asked, excited.
“Everyone,” a second villager called out, “Lord Richter is going to get shocked again!”
The news spread like wildfire and soon more than a hundred people were walking over. Richter looked at Sion who was brushing the top of the gnome’s breast with one hand and smiling maniacally at the chaos seed at the same time.
Dude, don’t make eye contact, Richter thought. He had been going to refuse, but everyone now walking towards them had started chanting his name. He couldn’t let them all down, now could he? Still, he begged off several times, which made the chanting even louder. Finally, he ‘relented.’ “I’ll do one! I’ll do one!”
The crowd went nuts.
Richter walked over to the table where Alma was sleeping. “Alma,” he said drunkenly. “Alma, we have to do the trick. Hey! Wake up!” He punctuated the last command by poking her in the belly.
The dragonling opened one eye and snarled at him, *Whatd’ya want? No, it doesn’t matter. Go away, drunken master!* Then she closed her eye and tried to go back to sleep.
Richter paused for a moment. Not because he was daunted by her refusal, but instead because he just started thinking about how that was an awesome movie. *Jackie Chan! Waaaaa!* he thought back to her, doing his best karate sound.
Alma ignored him.
“Come oooon,” Richter whined poking her in the belly again. “Everyone is watching.” He swayed slightly back and forth. His Constitution stat of fifty-six let him metabolize alcohol quickly, but he was still feeling no pain after downing a ridiculous amount of spirits. Richter poked her one more time, and the dragonling seriously considered biting his finger off. Then she came up with a better idea.
Rousing herself from her comfortable position, she thought to him, *Of course, master. Whatever you think is best.*
Now, her overly-sweet tone should have been more than enough to tip him off to the danger, but he was drunk on more than just booze. The cheers and shouts were feeding his slight megalomania, a tendency that had been with him ever since he’d played Civ ten. Civ nine had been his first game, but everyone knew that the even numbers were the best ones.
So, full of piss, vinegar and moonshine, he hopped up onto the table while Alma looked at him balefully. The villagers surrounded the table and shouted, “Lord Richter! Lord Mist! Lord Richter! Lord Mist!” Then it just became, “Mist! Mist! Mist!”
Richter looked at his familiar and the fierce look in her eye. He began to have his first misgivings. Her lightning spell was only weak class, and he did have a +50% resistance to Air magic, but still… she looked kinda mad. It was hard to tell with her draconian face, but he was almost sure she wasn’t happy. It began to dawn on him that this might not be the healthiest course of action. It wasn’t enough for him to puss out in front of all the people calling his badass new nickname, but it was enough for him to send a short message to Alma.
*I don’t really remember last time love, but I know you got me in the chest. Let’s do it that way again, okay?*
Alma just looked at him and began to glow yellow.
*Okay? Just like last time? Alma? Alma?* There was a hint of panic in his thought patterns that grew as she didn’t answer. Then there were no thought patterns for a time. All Richter experienced was a bright flash and then blackness.
Alma lay back down in a huff. She sincerely hoped that a lightning bolt to the face would teach her master a lesson. She was almost sure that it wouldn’t though. The dragonling was still grumbling to herself as she went back to sleep.
Richter regained consciousness with a multitude of hands lifting him to his feet. His villagers were surrounding him, with claps on his shoulders and cheers all around. He thought he heard Sion scream in delight, “She shot him in the face. In the faaaccceee!” It might have been his imagination though. He had a debuff that said Concussed.
The villagers helping him up thought he was just mumbling when he said, “Is show gud win ih his yur libs,” and then grinned like an idiot.
The party kept raging!
When Richter’s mind cleared a few minutes later, he realized he’d been sat down next to the dance floor. He was sitting on the ground with his back to a bench. For a moment he just enjoyed existing at that particular elevation and seeing skirts twirl as the women spun about. Then his eyes came to rest on the stage where the band was playing… and he remembered!
Forcing himself unsteadily to his feet, he made his way to the wooden platform. He hopped, not quite gracefully, up onto the stage. Everyone around, at least six sheets to the wind, cheered and wondered what new stupid human trick he was about to show off. Richter reached into his Bag of Holding and grabbed the farm implement with one hand. With the other, he pulled the dagger from his belt, scabbard and all.
“My people! There is something you have to know! I have a fever… and the only cure…” he held the item in his left hand high, for all to see, “... is more cowbell!”
That was, by popular consensus, when the night went from good to great.
CHAPTER 36 – Day 143 – Kuborn 33, 0 AoC
Richter woke up with a hangover.
It was actually more like there were two sweaty trolls with dysentery in his mind and they were having a slap fight. He didn’t know what had woken him, because everything was just a haze of bleh. After he had blinked several times though and done his best impression of a blind vole tasting beets for the first time, he realized that there was a light in the room that shouldn’t be there. His addled mind went through the count. There were two mist lights on the ceiling at all times. The faint glow was enough for him to see by, but also dim enough to easily go to sleep with. Those two were in the right place, but there was another light only a foot above his head that pulsed slightly. He figured out the mystery all at once.
“Futen.” That word came out like a snake sliding through burnt paper. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Futen.” It sounded exactly the same. Rolling his eyes, he slowly sat up. The remnant flowed out of the way. Looking around, he saw a mug on the side of the bed. He picked it up and sniffed. It wasn’t completely horrid, so he took a sip to moisten his mouth.
Mistake.
“Gahhh, gak, glack,” he protested while he swallowed whatever foul concoction had been inside. He was sure he didn’t want to know what that was. It had a thi
ck coating on top and was somehow spicy. Some things were better left unknown. The experience served its purpose.
“Futen. Why the hell are you in my bedroom?” His voice sounded half-human now. His mind was racing as flashes of the night came back to him. Had he really seen a drunk Water pixie shit in someone’s glass when she wasn’t looking? A flash of panic shot through him as he looked at the mug in his hand. No. No. Still better just not to know.
“You told me to follow you to your room, my lord,” came the monotone reply. “You wanted more light for yourself and your guests.”
Confused, Richter looked behind him at the rest of his bed, and his eyes widened. Shit. There were four sleeping figures. “Futen!” he whispered urgently, “tell me I took the Star Zenia.” The herb was truly amazing. It was basically a viagra-condom combo. All the fun, none of the friction.
The remnant just hovered for a moment before responding. The white light at the center of Futen’s core pulsed slowly. Somehow, Richter felt like he was being judged. “Yes, my lord. You ate three herbs if I remember, then stated it was time to, ‘stir the mashed potatoes.’ Then you added, ‘I hope there’s no cheese.’ After that grand pronouncement, you climbed into bed with the others. One minute later, you shouted, ‘Oh no! There’s cheese… and lumps!’ An hour later you sent me to see if any other ladies wanted “a humpin” and called me ‘the best Tinder ever.’”
Richter scratched his balls as he listened to this, still thirsty as hell. He couldn’t bring himself to drink any more of what he had found. He stood up and walked over to a desk. Another flagon of the unknown waited. After sniffing it he immediately put it back down in disgust. He couldn’t place the smell but he was fairly certain one ingredient of the stinky potion was “the cheese.”
“Why did you stay?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“You ordered it, my lord,” the remnant said in an almost completely deadpan voice. “You stated you were going to ‘grow me up’ then proceeded to do some truly strange acts while laughing and shouting ‘there are some things you can’t un-see, Futen! This will be with you forever!’”
