Everybody Wants the Crown [Pactverse Quest]

"... okay," you say, trying not to look over your shoulder at the dumpster where the Goblets are cowering. "Sure?"

Skinnylimbs doesn't have time to scream in outrage before the hatchet moves in a swift swing, separating his head from the rest of his body. You tried not to wince too openly.

"Thanks for not fighting on that," the woman said. "I've had problems with practitioners trying to bind ones I had dibs on."

"Did you have dibs on that one?"

"I had my boot on its face."

"... fair enough," you decide to put away your nailgun and look nonthreatening. Maybe you could make a good impression?

[Charm Roll (2d6+2): 3,6=9+2=11]

"So... what should I call you?"

"... some of your community call me the Patchwork Revenant," she says, confirming your suspicions.

She seems a little awkward, and you guess she's worried you'll try to bind her if you learn too much about her. Not an odd concern, as she does seem pretty strong. Would probably make a great addition for any starting practitioner.

"Right, well, that's a mouthful, so do you mind if I call you Patch?" she raises an eyebrow, and you add, "Just to be clear, I am proposing a nickname with no attatchment to your being but that which you allow and through which I mean no bindings."

She snorts a little, and you guess you were a little rushed at that part. Still, she seems a little calmer.

"Sure," she says. "Patch works."

"Well, I'm Jack," you say, and stretch a hand forward, before taking it back and switching to the other since she doesn't seem like she's about to let go of that hatchet.

She looks at it for a second, before smiling and taking it. When her hand grabs yours you see that some fingers are only attatched by magic and fishing wire, and her grip is ice cold and bizarrely moist.

You don't let it show in your face. She smiles a little more, amused.

"So, uh," you discreetly wipe your hand in your pants, "What'd you want with the Goblins?"

"To kill them."

"..."

"... there's nothing more. I just fucking hate Goblins."

[Weird Roll (2d6+1): 2,5=7+1=8]

Okay... if memory served Revenants were people that either suffered injustices too great for whatever psychopomp reaped them to ignore, getting a metaphorical revenge visa to finish their unfinished business before crossing back to the other side.

Or they were just too fucking angry to die. Either way, they came back to get even.

And since she hated Goblins...

"Have you got a grudge against the whole species, or one in particular?"

"Ah, there's that annoying practitioner insight," Patch clicks her tongue. "It's kind of annoying to be an Other talking to one of you, you know? We've all got these common factors, so even when we're individuals we can have bits of our past deduced just by a conversation."

"... sorry?"

"No, no, don't take it the wrong way," she sighs. "It's useful for you, and you seem sharp, but I miss being more complex."

Yeesh. Heavy.

"Anyways, you figured right," Patch gestures vaguely at the Goblin corpses. "My grudge is against their boss. I've tried to rush him a few times, didn't work, so now I'm weakening his base before I take another try at his head."

"Ah," you say, "Honestly, I think I have a bit of a grudge against Turdblood too. He killed my dad."

"... he killed your dad and you only think you have a grudge?"

"Well, he did get better."

She blinks. "... are you with the Byrne family?"

"I'm a Jewish Harbinger, so no, not in any way I can think of right now."

She snorts, "Yeah, I had to put up with a few comments about me being latina before I got literally dehumanized. So, what, he's undead?"

"No, he just has this... thing."

She gives you a flat look.

"Look, I don't even know your name, I'm not gonna share family shit."

"Fair," she nods. "Well, if you've got something against Turdblood, you've got a potential ally in me."

"Hm," a though ocurrs to you, and in a move totally lacking in self-persevation skills, you ask, "For an alliance I'd have to contact you, so... what's a guy gotta do to get your number?"

... there's a solid half minute where Patch stares at you with a slack jaw, trying to process that you just hit on a half-dicomposed woman. In the silence, you swear you hear one of the four Goblets in the dumpster say that you're very smooth, which you realize probably means you gotta work on your game.

Another indicator of that is the way that, after she processes your line, Patch laughs so hard she bends over, crying and slapping her leg repeatedly. This goes on for another half minute, then a full minute, and then by the time she stops it's been five minutes and you're starting to feel insulted.

"Oh... oh man," she sighs, "Wow, okay, phew. It's been... it's been a really, really long time since I laughed that much. Thanks, Jack."

"You're welcome," you say, a little peeved.

"Don't be that way," Patch walks over, finally stepping off of the Goblin's body, and nudging your arm. "It's sweet, but even if I weren't a moving corpse I'm like... twenty years older? How old are you, anyways?"

"I'm seventeen."

"Definitely too old for you," she says, then grins and messes with your hair. "It was cute, though."

"Hrm."

"Don't pout."

"I- I wasn't intentionally pouting."

"Nice save."

"You're a jerk."

She pokes her tongue out you, and you realize it's another part that's held together down the middle by fishing wire. If Turdblood was responsible for all that, then you think you understood how she could be angry enough to come back just to tear him a new asshole.

"Okay, I really gotta go," Patch says, turning back the way she came. "If I stick anywhere in town too long a Byrne might show up and try to bind me."

"It's rough being a rogue Other, huh?" you say, still feeling empathetic.

"It's an unliving," she shrugs, then gives you a gentle smile. "You're alright, Jack. I'm... if you need help against Turdblood's gang, I wouldn't be against helping you out, but I'd rather you didn't summon me for anything else."

You nod, "I'll keep it in mind."

"Hm," she nods. "It was nice meeting you. Cross me and I'll kill you."

"... I will also keep that in mind," you say. "Nice meeting you too, Patch."

She waves over her shoulder and walks off.

"... well then," you say, deciding to think more about it literally any other time. You walk over to the dumpster, open it, and find four little Goblins cowering together.

You look at them.

They look at you.

They are, not to put too fine a point on it, uglier than hitting your mother. One of them appears to be mostly made out of oversized skin, giving them the appearance of something half melted with the way it oddly meshes and splits. Another has a big, bulging belly, like Fatbody, but smaller and more like a pregnant person, which combines uncomfortably with their baby face and oversized phallus. One of them just has a huge mouth, the corners of which go up to the ears, and she seems to have bits of glass nestled between teeth. The last one has three eyes, side-by-side, and mouths on the palms of its hand.

"... okay, I can work with this," you decide. You reach in and grab the one with the oversized skin, then point at the others. "Stay here and wait your turn."

They nod fearfully, apparently still affected by your Unearthly Howl, and you close the lid as you turn to look at the Goblet. Again you note that they're about the size of a rat, though too weirdly shaped to comfortably grab.

"Alright... what's your name?"

The Goblet shrugs, or at least that's what you get the feeling that movements among the folds of skin was.

[Weird Roll (2d6+1): 4,4=8+1=9]

Okay, you know what's going on here. The weakest Goblins typically don't have names unless given to them by bigger Goblins or practitioners. They seem to desire them, and you've never heard of one naming itself, so... maybe you can leverage that?

Whatever, right now there's a binding to do.

"Here's the deal: You will take your weapon forms and remain in them until you get permission from me." As you speak, the little Goblet quivers a little in your hand; you have no idea if its with fear or excitement, but you have to tighten your grip to hold them better. "I and those I designate can use you as I will. In addition, you will provide me with three favours, which you will attempt to fulfil to the best of your ability.

"These favours will be achievable, no suicidal or insanely dangerous tasks." The quivering lessens a bit when you say that, which still doesn't tell you if it was fear or excitement, "After each of the first two favours, you will return to me and take weapon form once more. On conclusion of the third favour, we will part ways, without grudge or spite. If I have not called on you for my third favour by the time a year and a day has passed, you be free to go on those same terms.

"Sounds good?"

The bag of skin bounces a bit in your hand, and then shifts and compressed and tightens into a little green rubber ball.

The same deal is offered and accepted by the other three. The pregnant-looking one becomes a full water balloon that seems to have a mass of meat and limbs floating inside (you have a feeling you really won't like using this one), the big mouth one becomes one of those chattering teeth windup toys (the kind with feet and eyes), and the one with three eyes becomes a set of noveltly glasses that look like two hands linked by the thumbs, with teeth around the inner edges.

You decide against trying weird Goblin shit in a dirty alley while you bleed from the shoulder, and instead choose to head home.

Not too bad for your first fight.

Your arrival home is met with a sudden, "Where the hell is your hoodie?!"

"Hi, mom. I'm fine now, mom. Thanks for asking, mom."

"Sorry, I-" your mom rushes you into the bathroom, where she immediately fishes out the first aid kit. "Okay, I'm sorry, let me help."

You sit on the toilet, and in a moment that carries echoes from a childhood of stupid decisions, bikes and scraped everything, your mom disinfects your wound. In the emotion of the fight, the meeting with Patch, and your first solo binding, you find a moment of calm where you look at your mom and think that, cosmically speaking, you're not too unlucky.

[Cool Roll (2d6+1): 1,4=5+1=6]

And then you put your head in the shower and throw up your dinner.

"Oh, baby," your mom says, and she almost sounds like you hear her underwater while she's handing you a bit of toilet paper as you clean your face. "Your first fight was always going to be rough, baby, but I'm sorry we couldn't prepare you better."

You have a hard time answering. You have a hard time thinking. In your head you keep thinking about Patch's sewn tongue, Fatbody's corpse being eaten by its own maggots, Skinnylimbs head rolling off with glassy eyes as you turned your nailgun away from Patch. Everything you'd pushed to the back of your head comes rushing to the front with such violence that you picture it bursting from your forehead.

You throw up again.

"... when you feel better, I'll teach you this Rite," your mom says, and only in the back of your head you note this break from her usual refusal to make any oaths. "So you can always have some healing ready."

You groan, and fail to see your skin painlessly close into a pale star-shaped scar while the tattoo on your mom's shoulder grows over her collarbone.


Prologue Arc finished!

[] Another Set of Eyes: Choose POV character for interlude
-[] The Ancient
-[] The Craftsman
-[] The Loved
-[] The Unfallen
-[] The Bloody
-[] The Chosen
-[] The Doctor
-[] The Free


QM's Note: Full disclosure, I didn't realize I'd basically written an Otherverse version of Goblin Slayer until I wrote 'there's nothing more. I just fucking hate Goblins'. Also, the Cool roll in the bathroom was actually rolled right before the Goblin bindings, but I didn't want to fail the binding after making you choose the wording for it, and what I ended up writing was way more dramatic, so I see this as a good decision.

Well, now we're entering the actual quest, so I figure I might as well show a little more of the town.

The lights of the grocery store buzzed and shone unpleasantly at the edges of Camila's hood.

She still remembered a time when she liked non-places like this, liminal spaces where everybody was getting somewhere else, prefereably empty ones. Finding the store empty save for herself and the rotation of miserable, repellent teenage cashiers used to be a happy ocurrence.

The weight of necessity had turned it into a calculated move, and one that turned her into the 'town cryptid', as she'd once heard one call her in a whisper. Less Innocents meant the Seal of Whoever-the-Fuck didn't press its metaphorical boot on her neck as hard. Meant she could have that bit of good karma she got from her anchors with her in her hunts and travels.

Or maybe not. It's not like she'd been a practitioner before.

"T-that'll be $19.20?" the skinny, pimple-haunted teen with greasy hair asked her.

Wordlessly, Camila reached into her pocket and pulled out three mostly-dry ten dollar bills. She turned and left before the cashier could try to give her her change, a plastic bag full of pop, bags of chips and one bottle of glue in hand. Generosity was good karma, good karma was good luck, good luck was another dead target.

The hatchet pressed awkwardly against her body under her red raincoat, and as soon as she was out of view, she took it in hand where it belonged. Even though it was one of her anchors, she still regarded the thing with unease and distrust.

It was a warm night, summer weather pressing down on Poet's Hill already. Still, rainwater covered and dripped from Camila as she wandered around the outside of town, bag of groceries in hand.

She paused for a minute on the path that cut through Joseline's Woods. It lead north to the nearest town, and like she did every night, Camila thought about running through it. The ritual might've been one of her anchors by then, but it wasn't certain enough and the risk of leaving the job unfinished by dying was too horrible to risk.

So she resisted her base impulses, walked to the edge of the lake against the woods, and dug a small hole where she dumped the chips and pop and stomped on it until it was a muddy, disgusting mush, and then she threw in a full bottle of glue on top and stirred it in some more. Once that was done, she retrieved a small garbage bag from inside her raincoat, and spread the contents in a ring around the mush, adding in the plastic bag she got from the store.

It wasn't exactly a Practice, though she had learned it from working with a Goblin King (an alliance regarded with the gift of hindsight as a moral mistake). Should she have done the rite right and pumped it with power, it could have created an entrance to the Warrens.

Instead, it was reversed, working as a lure to the Warren's denizens.

She climbed a tree with good view of the trap, and waited.

Her tumb worked mindlessly at the stitches of her free hand, hard enough that it should hurt but not so hard as to loosen them. It was a balance she had to learn early on, since constantly putting herself back together was a pain.

Hours passed, and Camila didn't move except for that tick. If Goblins didn't pick that night, they would the next. And when they did, they would die. She had time and dedication on her side. She was time and dedication.

"Patchwork Revenant! By my name, I call you once!"

Of course, that always left the possibility of a third party coming along and screwing things up for her.

Camila sighed, jumped down, and started walking the way she felt the pull coming from.

"Patchwork Revenant! By my power, I call you twice!"

Really, she didn't hate practitioners. She'd worked for them even before death, and she'd even been good friends with most of the oines she'd worked with. Partnerships made in trust, some made in trust and affection and some even made in pure-hearted love.

Or take that Jack kid from earlier in the night! That still happened, where she met nice, pleasant kids that were eager to listen and friendly in their dealings. Practitioners that Camila didn't mind working with. That still saw her as a person.

It was specially appreciated now that she couldn't see herself as one.

"Patchwork Revenant! By my family's dealings with Death, I call you thr-!"

"I heard you the first time, kid," she called out, walking over to where he stood near the path she'd ruminated on before. She sighed when she confirmed her suspicions.

It was practitioners like the Byrne family that she had issues with. Partly because they kept fucking trying to bind her.

Death-bothering weirdos. Undead didn't mean uncitizen, she had rights!

Well, no, not really, but the spirits couldn't bother her about what she said in her head.

"Patchwork Revenant," the kid called for the fourth freaking time, "I lay my-"

"Ethan, sweetie, please don't," she called out, tired and a little annoyed. "I'm not in the mood to beat you up again."

Ethan Byrne, eldest of the youngest generation, glared hatefully at her. Like the rest of his pretentious fucking family, he prefered formal wear and carefully trimmed and kept hairstyles. That night he wore a black shirt, opened at the top two buttons and rolled up at the sleeves, under a black waistcoat that bulged tellingly at the breast pocket.

Black jeans, black shoes, and a watch that was probably more expensive than any apartment Camila had stayed in while alive completed the ensamble, and his hair was shaved at the sides and slicked back with copious amounts of gel. The Revenant noted with some amusement that he'd shaved the meager wisp of a beard she'd mocked last fight.

"I lay. My challenge. For the second. Fucking. Time." He spat, and you sigh and shake your head even as your body tenses with unnatural power. "Once defeated, I come again against you with the distilled essence of Fire. Surrender, accept a binding as you deserve, or face my power."

"Do the Untamed know you're gonna be playing with that around the trees? I can't picture good ol' Jojo giving the go-ahead for what could start a real fight between the families," Camila mocked, though internally she was swearing up a storm. If he made too big a mess the trap would be rendered useless, and it's not like money was easy to come by when you were an undead freaking monster. "Here's my counter: fuck off, accept that I'm just not gonna be another feather in your cap, and never bother me again. I don't deserve a binding, and I don't deserve to get killed before my work is done."

Ethan scoffed, reached into the bulging pocket of his waistcoat, and retrieved a test tube full of some kind of thick red liquid.

It would have looked like blood had it been a darker colour and less glowy. Even at a distance you could smell the power it contained. One of the things the Revenant missed about being human was not having supernatural senses, no matter how useful they supposedly were.

He popped the cork off with his thumb in a move Camila just knew was practiced and shoved it in his mouth, tilting his head back and letting it all drop in his maw.

Camila sighed, readied her hatchet, and said, "Fine."

Then she rushed forward.

Ethan's body was changing, growing a bit bigger and turning black at the fingertips. Smoke poured briefly from his mouth and eyes, before flickering candlelight started pouring out.

That's all Camila saw before she closed the distance and kicked him in the chest, sending him flying away. If she got him far enough away, maybe the trap wouldn't be rendered pointless?

He landed a few feet away, and though it only took a moment for Cam to close the distance again she saw the transformation was already done. The soot-looking black marks on his arms had crawled up to the elbows, and the fingertips were now split open and letting out the same fire that could be seen through his eyes and mouth.

He thrust a hand out and a jet of flames roared towards her, but she used the constant rainwater that covered her to do a baseball slide over the grass and slam into his legs, sending Ethan to kiss the ground again.

Slamming the business end of the hatchet into the ground, Camila took a sharp stop and turned. Before Ethan had time to get up, she hooked her hand through the back of his belt and, in a single graceful movement, sent him flying into a tree.

He slumped on the ground, coughing miserably. It made a weird noise, since his insides were apparently just fire now, but Cam was an old hand at ignoring weird supernatural crap by now.

"Gotta tell you, this isn't the best challenge I've gotten," Cam said, walking into the forest and deliberately letting Ethan see her back. "For you, I mean. It might be the best in terms of how easy they've been to fight off."

A wordless roar that had more in common with the sound of a house crumbling into ash than with anything a human throat should make rang out, and Camila dove to the side, letting a stream of fire consume a couple trees.

Good. If Johan got stuck appeasing the Untamed, he probably wouldn't approve another attempt on Camila's freedom for a while. And if she took the fight towards Foxglove Hills and deeper north, she might push a few Goblins towards her trap.

"Lemons and lemonade," Camila whispered to herself, then kept walking northeast, calling over her shoulder. "I mean, really, fire? How basic can you get? And after all that time you morons spent pretending you were better than everyone else."

More fire flew in her general direction. It passed close enough that the heat dried up her raincoat some, which was as good as being stabbed by a million white-hot needles as far as her shitty undead physiology was concerned.

Still, she kept quiet, and walked through the trees. The only tell of her movement was the slight noise of rain falling on plants, and that was drowned out by the crackling of the burning trees, and the fire that was quickly expanding. Soon enough, Camila was to Ethan's back and right as he looked around, frantically trying to find her. Whatever advantage he might've gained from the firelight was lost in smoke and chaos, not to mention his own temper.

Of course, a firey temper. Camila shook her head, the kid really needed to stop bringing experiments to real fights. Last time he'd brought Power and been too stupid to keep her from tossing him into Starfall Lake.

Silently raising her hatchet arm, she threw the weapon and kept walking to Ethan's left as it slammed into his right shoulder blade. As she expected, more fire burst from the wound, sending him flying forward and blasting away the hatchet.

In a fit of kindness, Camila tried not to laugh to much when Ethan slammed face-first into a tree again. She walked over to her hatchet, the blade white with heat, and grabbed the slightly charred handle. Within seconds, it was covered in rainwater, and the blade was losing heat and steam kept raising off of it.

Ethan was curled up in fetal position, noises of pain leaving him as he covered the shoulder wound with one hand and wrapped the other arm around his face. Cam was amused to note how fire streamed from his broken nose, giving him the appearance of someone with a deeply odd cold.

As she approached, Camila stomped on his knee, breaking it, and walked off while he screamed. If he tried a third time, she'd break both legs and pull a binding out of him. Maybe have him give her some magic crap that made her stronger, or a potion of Fuck Goblins?

Camila didn't pay the spreading fires too much mind; the Untamed would swing by soon enough and keep the fire controlled while the firefighters came from the north, and Ethan was probably fireproof for the forseeable future. Which left her free to

Maybe something got stuck while she waited?

The next day, you wake up with a headache to the news that someone tried to set the woods on fire.

There could have been better ways to start the month, but at least you're pretty sure it wasn't your fault.

[] June Activities (First Half) Choose what you'll do for the next two weeks.
-[] Social Noone's an island. Hang out with some people. (Pick up to three)
--[] Edd Alexander: Dad said he wanted to go fishing, which is probably code for drinking beer with your dad on a boat, but it could be fun.
---[] Anything you want to talk about, son? (Write-in a subject. eg, Vox Mechanica, how he became a Harbinger, how he met mom, why he insists on calling them fishing trips when you don't even own fishing rods.)
--[] Laura Alexander: Mom's been thinking of taking a drive up north, maybe swing by some of the big clothing or music stores?
---[] Anything you want to talk about, son? (Write-in a subject. eg, Vox Mechanica, how she became a Harbinger, how she met dad, how dad can get away with calling them fishing trips.)
--[] Eric Calloway: He did want to talk to you about making weird magic robots. This could be fun.
--[] Brian Calloway: He's a bit older, but it wouldn't be too weird to get together, maybe talk about practices over coffee?
--[] Seph Wayne-Flowers: She seemed nice enough, possible dominatrix or not. Maybe you could be friends?
--[] Grace Bell: You probably owe her an apology, and you do share some interests. Can't be that hard to get along.
--[] Stark: You could meet, help her get used to the town. Maybe actually learn her first freaking name.
--[] Patch: There is no universe in which this is a good idea. Yet.
-[] Practice Work your magic, white boy. (Pick up to three)
--[] Recharge Spend some time doing what you like. Pump back some energy into your Self. (Can be picked twice)
--[] Kids Young Adults with Guns Toys: You got four Goblin tools. Maybe you should learn what they actually do?
---[] Calling Names: Christen thy horrible critters. Might open the way for them to be stronger. (Write-in up to four appropiately terrible names)
--[] Study: Mom and Dad have been at this for a while, and they know a few tricks. You gotta pump up your arsenal. (Can cost up to 10 Self)
---[] Lesser Practice: Learn a quick trick, as chosen by one of your folks.
---[] Lesser Rite: Learn a prepared weapon, as chosen by one of your folks.
--[] Arm Up: Craft yourself a weapon. (Can cost up to $40 Quality will only be as high as Average)
---[] Melee: Make yourself a mean stick. (Write-in weapon idea)
---[] Ranged: Make yourself a gun. (Write-in weapon idea)
-[] Regular Life: The boring part of urban fantasy. (Pick up to two)
--[] Find a Job, Ya Bum: You have exactly $20 to your name and you don't wanna leech off your parents forever. (Sharp and Charm roll, counts as two choices)
--[] Self-Improvement: Work hard, and you might improve one of your stats! Maybe! (d100 roll, difficulty lowers the more you do it. Can be picked twice.)
---[] Charm: Work on your appearance, get some beauty sleep, practice your pickup lines. (DC: 90)
---[] Cool: Read on leadership, watch horror movies and try not to get scared, wear sunglasses. (DC: 50)
---[] Sharp: Read a book, for fuck's sake. You slept through most of high school and you're not planning on college, so it's up to you. (DC: 25)
---[] Tough: You really gotta hit the gym. Wait, you're broke. You really gotta copy some movies montages to start. (DC: 10)
---[] Weird: Research Others, try to get used to their mentalities, read up on Runes. (DC: 50)

QM's Note: Sorry that took so long. My mental health took a hit for a while there, but reconnecting with family and friends and also drugs(/jk) have gotten me back on the saddle.

Small note, as an apology for the big delay, if you pick travelling with mom and Arm Up then you'll have more resources for your crafting. Hope you enjoy. And I apologize again to my beta reader for not waiting for his input again.