How to Be an Adventurer- World of Gimmok

by Damien Hanson

“Yeah, I think I am okay,” Carric muttered, still checking about a bit as he said so.

  “That, right there, that was cathartic.” Svein smiled with no sadness within.

  “Well, except for all that strange stuff afterward,” he put in with a bit of amused feeling. “You guys are weird. But it has absolutely made me feel ready for this place. Tracy was right. These things might get their lumps in on us, but that’s just a wound. We need to kill them before they kill and hurt others. Godsbepraised.”

  “You’re welcome, friend Svein,” she answered him.

  “Everyone, I am also without any sort of wound, curse, or hex that I can tell of,” Tracy noted in her peculiar, Freemeetian fashion.

  Yenrab grunted in pleasure. Svein stumbled backward a bit in surprise.

  “That fight was spectacular. Alright, guys. Listen up. Every door, every obstacle, we do it just like that. Ya know what I mean? A three-man rush down the middle, with the casters fanning out and firing from the corners.”

  Everyone nodded, reliving those ten seconds of smash, slap, and kill as they did so.

  “Good. I’m happy we can all agree on that. Anyone got any questions?” he asked them, his arms spread wide as if to invite them in for a great big hug.

  Tracy looked down at her crotch and then looked up and raised her hand. Yenrab’s cheeks went red, then yellow, as he groaned and turned away.

  Bern spoke up. “It’s a great plan. I’m down with it. Now, about that chest back in the bedroom . . .” the man asked, leaving the ending hanging.

  Svein’s head swiveled to look sharply at Tracy, waiting for her to chide the would-be assassin for trailing off with such a dramatic pause. It upset him a bit when she did nothing of the sort.

  “Really?” Svein said with his arms out.

  “Shush, Svein, Bern has something important to say. You can tell by the dramatic pause,” Tracy said with a serious face.

  Svein shook his head, annoyed.

  “Yes, Bern, check it for traps and see if you can figure out that lock,” Yenrab said, his voice booming with authority and command. “We should also search through the kitchen laboratory to see if we can find anything useful. And over in the far corner there looks to be some boxes covered with canvass. I’m almost as excited about those as I am about this chest here. Ya know, this might be another nice treasure trove like the place with the zombie and the spider.”

  Yenrab beamed as he said this, imagining in his head all of the great things they were about to find and what they could do with it all.

  Then the light of the place blew out, and a chill entered the room.

  “So, mortals, you continue despite my mercy?” a deep and angry growl asked, coming from all directions.

  “Hells yeah, we do!” Bern yelled without dropping a beat. He looked around at the others. Svein looked more than a little upset, but the rest of them were nonplussed and quite firm. Emboldened, he took it further.

  “Man, drop that mortals stuff too. It’s bottom kek, if that. We know who you are. You were one of us,” the assassin dropped, hoping to anger the deity.

  There was a pause, and then some deep laughter.

  “Yes. I remember. As a god, I should always remember, but we have many faces and places, and things must sometimes be moved and later reaccessed. You lot are quite the impressive bunch of misfits. But where is HE? I can feel him among you.”

  They all looked at each other with confusion with that universal glance that asks: “What the hells is he on about then?”

  Something lurched and flopped within Yenrab’s pavilion of a backpack. Bern turned to look at it and cursed. The god laughed again.

  “Yes. Destiny. You could have turned away. I thought you would. Some mortal part of me thought you all would be smart about this and turn away and make your own lives. Instead, you have come here and set into motion something that might well kill this world. Instead, you put yourselves onto a path that has no forks but this last one. Here and now. Turn back.”

  “Carric Smith, go live a life of fortune and musical skill. I will anoint you all. You will forever be celebrated and famed.

  “Bern Sandros, go back to Nemedia City. You will be the greatest assassin to have ever been. You will live in wealth, and you can help all of the people no one else would.

  “Yenrab Atsittab, you can return home to your tribe. Your tongue will be gifted, and you will convince them. You can make alliance and trade with the settlers. And you can live the life you wanted to.

  “Svein Novogord, I can grant you immunity to charm magic, and make you the scourge of the undead of Dergos and Lefsvos. You will be a true hero among your people, and you never again will have to fear what these things offer.

  “And Tracy Riley, to you, I can give you the ability to be all three of yourselves. I can give every soul within you its own body.”

  Yenrab’s backpack pulsated and pounded as the god’s words washed over them. They looked at each other in wonder and not a bit of fear as they realized that the god had offered them great gifts indeed. And over something that was to help the world!

  Tracy’s face screwed up on itself, and then he launched himself at Yenrab’s backpack, slinging the strings off of its buttons and flapping it open.

  The adventurer’s tome sprang forth and landed upon the ground in front of them.

  The god voice sighed with regret.

  The book flapped open in front of their astonished eyes, and then a figure popped forth, not exactly material, but quite distinct nonetheless.

  He was a bard. One with a beer belly and a large circle of baldness bordered by light wisps of brown hair. A rapier hung at his side, and a mug rested firmly in his other hand. He looked over them with piercing blue eyes of wide and slanted origin, from a place no longer known to this world.

  “Gharag Heartstabber often peddles in lies and falsehoods. Beware his words,” the phantom bard proclaimed without introduction.

  “Haha,” the god voice boomed out. “Jerold Frey, so there you are again. Always we spin and lurch about each other. Have you not grown bored with your little miniverse? Hasn’t your mortal coil spun itself out yet? Adventurers, what I offer is true.”

  Jerold Frey ignored him, watching over the young and novice adventurers, seeking to ascertain their ambitions.

  Bern looked torn. His voice rang with inner turbulence as he spoke his question aloud, “Are his promises of power lies?”

  Jerold scrunched his face a little, evaluating the assassin further. “Those are not. He well pays what he promises.”

  “I can be an assassin and a man of the people!” Bern pleaded to him, well understanding what was up for barter.

  Yenrab and Carric sounded as one.

  “No deals with the god of the goblins.”

  Svein looked at them and nodded his head, afraid but well ready to fight and well in favor of rejecting the temptations offered.

  Tracy looked back and forth between them, then at the apparition before her.

  “What are you offering?” she asked him.

  Jerold laughed. “Not much I am afraid. I offer you free will, the anger of a god, and a life of hardship. I forwent godship in favor of keeping the gods at bay. Do you want any of them to get down here to the surface and march about, making kingdoms and making this place a land of their own?”

  She nodded and spoke to the sky. “Why are we so important?”

  “Your destiny says that you will fight through this place, and that you will set loose a being from another plane,” Jerold responded. “That being will be the destruction of this world.”

  Carric intervened, “Why is it just you, then, who is here messing with us? Where are the rest of the gods?”

  “We are so close to the boundary between planes here that there cannot be any others manifesting here now without dire consequences.”

  Carric looked shrewd as he turned to Jerold, that hero from which so many ballads had spawned. A bit of starstruck fandom lodged in his throat, but it co
uld keep for later.

  “Is this true?”

  The manifestation nodded.

  “It is true. But he is a figure of lies, a being that represents a world ruled over by selfish despots that milk luxury and might out of those who are not goblin.”

  Carric nodded to the hero and then asked another question.

  “What is our destiny?”

  Gharag laughed, his deep laughter filling the room. It quaked a bit as it did so. Bern’s fine-tuned ears thought they heard some quieted gasps from the crates in the corner. He eyed them suspiciously.

  “I don’t know. But I never really trusted the idea myself. Make your own destiny, Party EoTtHUaARB,” Jerold Frey advised, his face complacent.

  Tracy stared at the spectral bard for a good few seconds and then stepped next to Carric. Bern looked at them all, and then down at himself. His eyes coursed over the dimples in his almost-black leather, and the outer dark-blue cloak. The twin swords sheathed at each side. And he sighed with deep gusto and then joined the rest.

  “I like what you offer, mate, but I am no tool to the gods. I will make my own destiny.”

  The god voice sounded spiteful as it responded, “When you ruin this world, you will burn forever.”

  The voice echoed as the presence faded.

  Jerold Frey flickered and knelt.

  “I must go back to the book now. My powers were greatly weakened in this encounter. I will advise you through your quest, young adventurers, as well as I can, and governed by powers beyond my own. Move ahead, do what needs to be done, and break this line. Make your own fates.”

  The spirit drew back into the adventurer’s tome, which then flipped closed.

  “Ya know, of everything I expected to happen in the next few minutes, that was not there at all,” Yenrab stated with surprise.

  “Gods damned destiny,” Bern stated with rancor. “Time to break the weaves of fate.”

  Chapter 30: Glafar

  How to be an Adventurer—On Rescuing Prisoners

  Dungeons and lairs are often not just a place of treasure and monsters, but victims besides. Their bones litter the dirt, and at times, their corpses march about, awaiting combat. It is a zone of evil, such things, and it can also trap the living innocent, though not as often as one would surmise.

  There are logistics involved in rescuing prisoners. It never is as simple as taking the lock off and letting them loose.

  Talk to them. Assess their threat. Are they friends or foe? Are they useful to the party? Is there a safe way to send them off without guiding them back to the nearest town or village? These are very important questions for any good hero to ask.

  If there is no way to send them home, and they are trustworthy, let them join your group. Give them a weapon. Let them help you help them. Gear and equip them. Help find their stuff. This might make the party larger than feels ideal, but often, the gods above offer such help for reasons beyond our own understanding.

  ***

  Bern worked the lock with his toolkit. It was a good lock, but nothing out of his skill set. Shape after shape was drawn out of his kit, rolling through his palm into the lockhole before him. Let taps left and right told him what was needed next, and the next bit rolled into his hand.

  Behind him stood the solid barbarian, watching over both doors to the filthy bedroom with determination, his axes raised aloft.

  The rest of them, though, were in that room in which they had fought a hag and talked to a god. Destiny said they were going to die soon so each and every one of them pawed through the mess about them. They were eager to find that thing that might put them in charge of themselves.

  Carric dug through trays of utensils on one side of the room while Svein looked into disgusting basins and cauldrons. Tracy examined a variety of flasks and test tubes filled with horrific-looking substances of different colors and consistencies. Not really sure what any of them were, she tossed all but the least disgusting of brews.

  Click! The sound is music to any adventurer’s ears. The sound of a lock picked with expert acumen, followed by a hard clatter to the stony ground beneath. The sound of wealth, more often than not. Sometimes, followed by cries of pain as unseen traps spring and strike.

  But, in this particular case, they were all quite fortunate.

  “I got it, guys. No traps, but natchies if that wasn’t a rough lock.”

  “Natchies. Seriously?” Svein was quite grumblesome, having had to deal with a god and a prophecy that they were all about to destroy the world.

  Bern, catching the hint of annoyance in Svein’s voice, decided to push the new guy a bit further.

  “Yep, natchies and grumblesticks. With a bit of rummers on the fruitenskite. Heck golly. Gee whiz and shrimp. On the barbed spire.”

  Might as well enjoy what time we have left, the assassin thought glumly as he did so.

  The noble warrior did not catch on, though.

  “I’m beginning to suspect there is something wrong with all of you,” Svein huffed.

  “Just the normal stuff,” Yenrab called out in his happy and cheerful manner. “If you can’t handle a bit of strangeness and insanity, you should just stay home. That’s what Grandma Elfkiller always said.”

  Carric and Tracy both sputtered.

  “What?!”

  “Oh, keep your pants on. Seriously. My mom’s mom’s mom was an old-style orc, and so she felt she should keep the traditional names alive. Elfkiller, Dwarfsmasher, Humaneater, Halflingsplitter. You know”—Yenrab rolled his eyes—“old people stuff.”

  “Wait a minute. Wait, wait, wait, wait. So, your mom is an orc?” Svein questioned him, quite flabbergasted.

  “The most beautiful orc in the Northwoods. Though she takes care of her looks, too, mind you. Her tusks always shine after the fierce scrubbing she gives them in the morning.” The half-orc sighed, thinking back to her image. “And her goatee is always well curled and shined with oil. A bit of boar’s blood to rouge up the cheeks, and my dad just couldn’t stay away.”

  Carric was surprised. Usually, half-orcs were the other way around. Actually, always as far as he had heard. A strong brutish orc with good looks could do well with human ladies if he didn’t act like an idiot and smash things. But a female orc who got herself a male human? That was something that might be worth a ballad of its own.

  The half-elf cleared his throat. “So, Yenrab, umm, well, tell us about your dad.”

  “Oh, man, my dad?! He was the tribe poet. A wonderfully handsome man, though not very strong. He had arms like Tracy over there,” the barbarian explained, pointing to her, “but he just shone. He played music, made magic, and was sought after by all of the humans, orcs, and half-humans in our tribe.”

  “Was,” asked Svein, quickly catching onto the difference in tenses. “Aren’t your parents still alive?”

  “My mom is, probably. I left her to get this book. But my dad, well, he died some years ago.”

  The half-human went silent for a bit, the rest looking at him with sympathy; then he shook his head, looking a bit embarrassed. He looked about at his companions, rubbed his chin with scarred fingers, and then his face resolved in decision.

  “Ya know,” he said in the loudest conspiratorial whisper that he could muster. “He got the best of the ladies. He got my mom.”

  Yenrab beamed with pride. “If I were to invent a scale of 1–18, I’d give him a 17 in charismatic attractiveness.”

  Tracy looked at him with wonder, dancing a bit with herself at the romantic tale being told. Then she stopped.

  “Yenrab,” she asked with intense curiosity, “what would you give your mom?”

  The man stretched his massive arms out backward, feeling obvious pleasure in the pull on some strain.

  “Hmm. By city folk standards or by barbarian standards?” he pondered. “She was the strongest warrior and hunter in our tribe and once tore the head off of a dire bear.”

  “Gods almighty!” Svein cursed.

  “Yeah. I think in
the tribe she was just like a 9 or a 10 until that one. I wasn’t born yet, but from the stories I hear, she jumped to like a 16 or 17.” The big man paused in glorious reminiscence. “And then she found a colony of Kobolds and stuffed the thing with their dead bodies.”

  Everyone just stared, slack-jawed, as Yenrab continued.

  “It didn’t work the way she planned I think because the stuffed dire bear wasn’t around when I was growing up. But, oh boy, did people gush about it. Anyways, what were you saying?”

  “Umm, attractiveness to city folk?” Bern was also entranced in this conversation, and there was no way he was going to let this end.

  “Oh, yeah. So, I’d say, what I’ve learned of you city folk, she’d rate like a 3 on a charismatic attractiveness scale. Strong muscles, super powerful, a goatee, giant tusks. I mean, you city folk are weird. You want women to look like elves.”

  “Touché, Yenrab. Touché,” Carric said in awed thought at how different their cultures all were. “I can see how your mother was a wonderfully beautiful woman.”

  “Yeah, tooth shave back to you.” Yenrab’s eyes gleamed with mischief as he said it. They all expected that he had caught on to their incredulity, and so he was, now, just putting them on. Svein began to laugh and they all fell in.

  “Maybe you guys are just the right people for me. You’re odd, for sure, but in a good way.”

  “The spirit of the Bear touches us all in some special way, friend Svein. You will learn this as you grow, I expect. Now, let’s see the bounty of our battle, shall we?” Yenrab had gone back to seriousness. While jokes were fine and good, and talking about old Momma Tuskbeard and Poppa Barn Hee had certainly been a fun respite, fighting against destiny was a dangerous job and break time was over.

  ***

  The chest was absolutely full of stuff. That was the first thing all of them noticed. It didn’t shine though slippery metallic hues so great at making the day a good one. It wasn’t treasure. It was stuff. Mummified ears, a badge, some bloodstained tunics with obvious stab holes in them, an autographed but well-worn, somewhat-rotted and leaf-eared copy of Jerold Frey’s How to Defeat a City Gate via Wit—A Self-Help Introductory Lesson to those Who are Intelligent and Bardic. The last would have been worth a fortune if it hadn’t been in such bad shape.