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How do you make Westeros worse? By dropping in some magical boy Greg.

Greg Veder from a year before canon gets punted into Westeros on his birthday and granted the Celestial Grimoire.
I: Where Am I?

ZFighter18

I'm not a god. I AM WHAT A GOD PRAYS TO.
Location
Maryland
Nerd In the North I

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

There were many days that Greg Veder would rather have stayed in bed.
Most of those days usually ended with him getting his ass kicked by someone bigger, stronger, and meaner.

Today… today was not one of those days.

Greg Veder opened his eyes with a gasp, the shock of cold air hitting his lungs like a punch to the chest. For a second, he thought he was still dreaming, brain struggling to process the vast expanse of white stretching out before him.

What the hell? Snowflakes danced chaotically in the wind, confusing him even more. It's FALL!

Greg Veder had never been much of a fan when it came to the cold. For a kid who lived in Brockton Bay, the chilly winters were always more "meh" at best than "magical winter wonderland."

Sure, snow was cool to look at and all -- heck, it was great ammo for waging snowball war against Sparky, but when you got down to it, cold was cold, and cold sucked.

But right here, right now? This "cold" wasn't just "winter chilly." No, this was a cold that went beyond any winter he had ever experienced before, a cold that cut right to the bone. Hell, the freezing sensation that gripped his entire body was way past the point of uncomfortable and rapidly approaching genuine danger.

He sat up, blinking rapidly as if that might somehow change things. His breath came out in visible puffs, reminding him of those old-school RPGs where characters' dialogue appeared above their heads.

"Hello?" Greg called out, voice almost inaudible over the howling wind. "Is anyone there? Mom? Mom!"

No response.

"M-mom?" The word came out much weaker this time, Greg's eyes nervously darting from place to place.

Nothing.

Just more howling wind and the soft crunch of snow beneath him as he shifted.

Greg glanced down at himself as he rose to his feet, his confusion deepening. He was dressed in a simple white t-shirt, blue jeans, and a blue windbreaker – definitely not the kind of outfit you'd wear for a trip to the Arctic. Or wherever the heck this is.

"Okay, o-okay, d-d-don't freak out," he muttered to himself, teeth chattering uncontrollably as he wrapped his arms around his body. There's gotta be a logical explanation for this. Maybe I'm in one of those prank shows? Or... or maybe I'm having a super vivid dream?

He pinched himself hard, wincing at the sharp pain, as he rose to his feet. "Nope, definitely not dreaming. Unless it's like Inception or something. Oh man, what if I'm stuck in limbo? Or VR?"

Crunch.

Greg flinched as his sneakers sank into the snow with each shaky, shivering step. This was way too realistic to be some sort of advanced VR simulation. No tech he knew of could make you feel this level of immersion, especially not the cold. Heck, the Tinkers probably couldn't pull something like this off yet.

This felt real, way too real.

His head swiveled left and right, wide blue eyes darting from place to place, more than a little confusion and disorientation clear on his face. Snow-capped peaks towered in the distance, jagged and imposing against the gray, overcast sky. Gnarled, skeletal trees dotted the otherwise barren landscape, their branches bowing under the weight of the snow and ice. Everything looked cold, bleak, and unfamiliar.

"W-w-where the h-heck am I?" he wondered aloud, teeth chattering as he hugged his arms tight around his thin, shaking frame. His windbreaker and t-shirt offered about as much protection from the cold as tissue paper would against a butcher knife. The frigid wind cut right through the fabric, chilling him down to the bone.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Definitely not in Brockton anymore,
Greg thought, his mind racing.

For one, Brockton didn't exactly have snowy tundras and imposing mountain ranges. At least, not outside of a few niche survival games he might dive into when the mood struck. But this felt different. More real, more tangible. The biting cold was too intense, the landscape too vast and detailed. This couldn't be a game... could it?

"Hello?" Greg called out again, hands cupped around his mouth in a vain attempt to project his voice over the wind. "Anybody out there? Sparky? God? Uh... anyone?"

Just more howling wind and the crunch of snow beneath his feet as he trudged on, shivering and confused.

"C-c'mon, Greg, t-think," he muttered to himself, trying to focus despite the numbing cold. "W-what's the last thing you r-remember?"

Birthday. New game. Then... nothing.

The memories were fuzzy, fragmented, like trying to recall a dream that was already fading away. He remembered turning fifteen, the excitement of a new RPG to dive into, the title screen loading up, and then... blank. Next thing he knew, he was waking up here, in this frozen wasteland straight out of some post-apocalyptic survival game.

Okay, let's think this through logically, he thought, trying to calm his racing heart. Either this is the most realistic game ever, or... or I'm not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

Suddenly, something caught his eye amidst the endless white expanse.

A glint of... metal?

Huh?

Squinting against the glare of the snow, Greg stumbled closer to investigate. As he approached, the object came into clearer focus: a sword, its blade buried point-first into the frozen ground like some sort of Arthurian legend come to life.

Whoa... no way…

Greg blinked, then blinked again, half-expecting the sword to vanish like a mirage. But no, it stayed right where it was, its presence an almost defiant contrast against the harsh, unyielding landscape.

The sword was a minimalist masterpiece. Its sleek, bone-white blade had a flawless sheen, untouched as if freshly forged and never used. A bright blue gem was embedded near the hilt, glowing like a perfect sapphire caught in sunlight. The hilt itself flowed seamlessly from the blade, with a simple, streamlined design that balanced elegance with function.

It was, in a word, majestic.

Like something straight out of a video game or like one of his Japanese animes.

It's beautiful, he thought, his hand reaching out almost of its own accord. He shuffled towards it, drawn by an inexplicable pull. This has to be a dream, right? Or maybe I hit my head really hard and now I'm in some kind of fantasy coma?

Without even thinking, Greg reached out, fingers wrapping around the hilt with a sense of reverence. The moment he gripped the sword, a sudden warmth flooded through him, driving back the biting cold with a surge of invigorating energy. It wasn't enough to completely banish the chill, but it took the edge off, steadying his shivering and clearing some of the fog from his mind.

"Whoa," Greg whispered, blinking rapidly. Whoa... this is unreal...

With a gentle tug, the blade slid free from its snowy prison with surprising ease, as if it had simply been waiting for Greg to come along and claim it. He could almost swear he felt a connection forming, a resonance between himself and this magnificent weapon, like some unspoken bond clicking into place.

This is mine, Greg realized with startling certainty, feeling just as sure as his name was Greg that the sword belonged to him and no one but him. H-how? Why?

As if in response to his unspoken questions yet answering none of them, a name popped into his mind with that same unyielding certainty, imprinting itself onto his thoughts like it was his own name: Celestial Greg Blade.

"Celestial Greg Blade," Greg repeated aloud, testing the words on his frozen, chapped lips. "Celestial Greg Blade. Celestial Greg Blade," he repeated slowly, testing the feel of the words a third time. They rolled off his tongue with an odd sense of rightness. "Right, okay then. Magic sword made for me, I guess."

Swinging the blade a few times, Greg marveled at the gleaming metal. The craftsmanship was exquisite, like nothing he had ever seen before, and that included all of the most high-end collectibles or props.

And yet, this felt real, solid and perfectly balanced in his grip.

I have absolutely no idea what's going on right now, but... it's kind of awesome?

Sword in hand, Greg took another look around, the desolate landscape seeming just a little less daunting than it had a moment ago. He wasn't sure why, but the blade gave him a sense of security, of purpose.

"Alright, Greg, you got this. It's like the start of every hero's journey, right?" he muttered to himself, a stream of observations and half-formed questions tumbling out. "Just gotta figure out where 'this' is. And why. And how. And... pretty much everything else. No biggie, right? Strange new world, magic sword, zero idea what's going on... totally classic setup. Just roll with it."

Taking a deep breath of the frigid air, Greg chose a direction and started walking, the sword a comforting weight in his hand. Off in the distance, he could make out a denser cluster of those gnarled trees.

Shelter, maybe?

At the very least, it was a goal, something to work towards.

"Trees mean wood, wood means fire, fire means warmth," he reasoned aloud, going off nothing but optimism and what he'd learned from countless hours of gaming. "Plus, maybe there's a save point or a merchant hiding out there. That's usually how these things work, right?"

He blinked after a moment, eyes narrowing in thought. "Or… if this is a game or something, there's gotta be some sort of tutorial or hint system, right? Like, a quest log or an NPC to talk to?"

As he trudged through the snow, the initial awe of the sword shifted to curiosity about its origins and its apparent connection to him. He tried a few experimental swings with the sword as he walked, the movements clumsy but not entirely unfamiliar. It felt almost instinctual, like some part of him already knew how to wield this blade.

"Man, if the guys at school could see me now," Greg grinned, blade slicing through the air with growing confidence. "Let Mal try to stuff me in a locker if he knew I had a freaking magic sword." The thought brought a grin to his face, even as his teeth chattered from the cold. This was straight out of his daydreams, a chance to be the hero for once instead of the sidekick or the comic relief.

He paused mid-swing, a thought striking him. "Wait a sec, did I get Isekaied or something? Am I The Chosen One?" he said the last three words with emphasis, somehow managing to add gravitas to his reedy shuddering voice. What if this was his call to adventure, the start of some epic quest where he had to save the world or defeat an ancient evil?

The idea sent a thrill down his spine. The grin widened as he tightened his grip on the sword, giving it another practice swing. "Sick."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Starting Roll: Weapon of Power - This magical weapon has some additional powers, like being able to chop through concrete walls like butter, or parry incoming magical attacks. If it's a thrown weapon, it will always return to your hand afterwards, and ranged weapons like bows and guns will shoot magical blasts instead of arrows, so you never have to worry about running out of ammunition.

Author's Note: Out of whimsy, I decided to give Greg the Finn Blade from Adventure time. Only in this case, it's the Greg Blade. A sword that's made out of a copy of his soul. Because of that, it's got its own little Mjolnir-lite nature: it can't be picked up by anyone who Greg doesn't trust or would allow to hold it.

Also, it's super fucking sharp or whatever, as long as Greg is in good physical condition. Its cutting ability is dependent on Greg's own stamina. The more tired and weak he is, the less good it does as a sword.
 
II: Barbarians
I want to thank my current Patrons, a great deal. I appreciate the support and the updates will keep coming fast as I can write them. I'm not working right now because I'm at school full time. And this helps keep me afloat.

If you're fans of Where The Heart is, all the chapters all the way to the end of Season 1 are up there on the Patreon. The draft chapters under the name The Devil Went Down to Sunnydale are up to Chapter 36 of Fool Of The Devil rn and Season 1 is done.

Nerd in the North is done up to Chapter 7. Chapter Eight ends the first arc.


Life Is But A Game is 5 chapters ahead on there, all the way to 2.17. Greg Vs is 2 chapters ahead, at 7.4. Thank you for reading.

Where The Heart is next chapter needs more outlining

Next chapters of Fool of The Devil needs some more work

Starting from Season 2, The Devil Went Down To Sunnydale will be Sam focused chapters and Fool of The Devil will be Xander focused.

Now, for the Patrons.

Nikhil Majumdar, drake shade35, Aleksey A E, Dreamer of Nightmares,

MagusZanin, Jack, AntaeusTheGiant, Blaze Mastermind, bejammin2000, Aleksei, 8thKnightofKeys, Jorge Benedicto, Dixon Gao, Rumour, JustAUser, Christoph Pleynert, Bailee Maple, Skipps, Pseudo Nym, StarForce_BlackAce, Meep_Meep, Ben Stan, krilinater, Overlord susanoo, WorkForFood, Hug0H, Murica-Man, Michael Afanasenko, Vincent Mason, Willayfiddle,

Cedron Spaulding, James Carl Henderson, Ashley Stanhope, Yobthog, Furyful Fawful, Zach Collins, zero1995, ALEX, Zero_to_Nero, Good guy Paul, Arkhad, Greenfall87, Weirdo, The flying biscuit., Simon Anoma, Ryan m, Mika Artus, Jananakkam, mastergamer98007, AriesDusk, Guisarme, Brett Labat, JoJoDio, Jordan, Ahmed, Coleman, V3c4, Travis Dean, Mr. Bigglesworth, Writer-Man,

Tian Seve, TheBlackenedWoods, Tret, Somebody, Rinoa, gabriel hutcherson, sumit pal, Diego, Janni, Janni, BarrettSlayer, Gabriel,

Segev, Johnathan, Jack, Cypher1597.

Also, a special shoutout to my editors and pre-readers: @kenmadragon and @Magus Zanin


Nerd In the North II



– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –



"N-n-not s-s-sick at all," Greg muttered to himself, his voice shaking as violently as the rest of him as he trudged through the snow. "T-t-totally not s-s-sick at all."

He'd been trudging through these woods for who knows how long, searching for anyone that could help him before it actually started getting dark.

Greg glanced up at the gray sky. Darker? He pulled a face. Semantics.

Anyway, he had been walking for what felt like hours now, the adrenaline from his initial awakening in this frozen wasteland having long since worn off. The Celestial Greg Blade, as cool as it was slung across his back — the sword somehow staying stuck there like his name was Dante — could only do so much against the relentless cold. Sure, it gave off this weird, comforting warmth that kept the worst of the chill at bay, but it was like putting a band-aid on a gaping wound.

Long story short, he quickly learned that being a little bit warm wasn't all that good. Helpful as his sword was, it wasn't the best comfort against blizzard conditions.

More like torture, really, Greg thought miserably, his breath puffing out in little clouds of white. Just enough warmth to keep me from going numb, but not enough to actually, y'know, help.

Problem was he stayed warm enough to feel the cold in full, making it hell on earth for him more than anything else. At the very least, the trees managed to buffer some of the wind but the cold was still as sharp as ever. Greg's teeth chatter, and his breath comes out in visible puffs of white air. He wraps his arms around himself, the windbreaker hardly sufficient. He continues walking, complaining to himself and hoping he doesn't die. "I got a cool magic sword soul-bonded to me, I need to save the world or something first." No, no, stay positive. Gotta be something more to this.

The wind continued to howl through the trees as Greg trudged onwards, each step feeling like an effort all its own. His sneakers, already soaked through from the snow, squelched with every movement, sending icy tendrils of discomfort up his legs. He could barely feel his toes anymore, which was probably a bad sign, but what could he do? It wasn't like there was a handy-dandy North Face store out here in the middle of Frostbite Forest. Speaking of, the forest around him felt endless, a sea of snow-laden pines and skeletal deciduous trees that all started to blend together after a while.

He was beginning to think he was really lost out here.
Come on, Greg, don't think like that, he chided himself, trying to muster up some of his usual optimism. You're the hero here, remember? The Chosen One or whatever. There's gotta be more to this than just freezing to death in the middle of nowhere.

But it was getting harder and harder to stay positive as the minutes ticked by and the cold continued to seep into his bones. His teeth chattered so hard he was half-afraid they might shatter, and his fingers were starting to go numb even with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his windbreaker.

Yeah, some hero I am, Greg thought bitterly. Bet Armsmaster never had to deal with frostbite on his epic quests. Or Dauntless, or any of the other Protectorate bigshots. They probably have, like, built-in heating in their suits or something. Tinker bullshit for the win.

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the negative thoughts. No, no, gotta stay positive. Gotta be more to this than just wandering around until I turn into a Greg-sicle. Maybe there's a village nearby, or a hidden temple or something. Some sort of tutorial zone with a wise old mentor who can explain what the heck is going on.

As if on cue, a flicker of movement caught Greg's eye through the swirling snow. He squinted, heart leaping in his chest as he made out the unmistakable silhouettes of people moving in the distance. Oh man, finally! NPCs! Or other players, maybe? Please let them be friendly, please let them be friendly...

"Hey! Hey, over here!" Greg shouted, his voice cracking a bit as he tried to project over the wind. He waved his arms frantically, the Celestial Greg Blade glinting in the gray light as he did so. "Lost hero in need of assistance! Newbie in way over his head! Friendly neighborhood Greg, here!"

He started trudging towards the figures, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the surge of hope and relief. Yes! Okay, play it cool, Greg. Introduce yourself, ask for directions, maybe see if they have any spare coats or healing potions to spare. Easy peasy, JRPG hero stuff.

But as he drew closer, the details became clearer and Greg felt something twist in his gut. The figures were human, sure, but something about them set Greg's nerves on edge. They were bulky, hunched over against the wind, and they moved with a sort of feral grace that reminded Greg more of predators than people.

The Celestial Greg Blade thrummed in Greg's grip, almost seeming to vibrate with a deep, resonant energy. It was a strange sensation, one that Greg felt more than heard, a low hum that seemed to settle in his bones and set his nerves alight.

Whoa, okay, that's new. Greg stared down at the blade, eyes wide. His mind raced, gamer logic kicking into overdrive. What's that about? C'mon, sword, gimme a quest marker or something! I'm flying blind here!

He glanced back up at the figures, now close enough for him to pick out more unsettling details. Ratty furs, patchwork armor, and weapons that looked more savage than civilized. Uh, I don't think these guys are here to welcome me to the neighborhood...

Greg's grip tightened on the sword, a sudden urgency thrumming through him in time with the blade's strange resonance. But beneath that urgency was a thread of caution, of wariness. Like the sword itself wasn't sure what to make of these guys.

Okay, Greggy boy, think! What would Al do in Rune-Saga Online? Or Kirito in SAO? His mind raced, trying to dredge up any relevant gamer knowledge. Negotiate? Bluff? Threaten?

The figures were still far away but they were close enough for Greg to see eyes beneath shaggy hoods, tense readiness in their postures.

"H-hey there, fellow travelers!" he called out, trying to keep his voice steady. "Nice, uh, nice weather we're having, huh? Perfect for a little stroll through the murder woods!"

The figures didn't respond, continuing their silent, menacing approach. Shit, shit, shit, okay, diplomacy failed, time for plan B! Greg thought frantically. Only I don't have a plan B, unless screaming and running counts as a plan!

The sword pulsed again, almost chidingly, and Greg felt a sudden flash of... something. Not quite a thought, not quite an emotion, but a sense of needing to act, to take control of the situation.

He pulled the weapon from behind his back and raised the blade, trying to project a confidence he definitely didn't feel. "Okay, sword, whatever you're doing, help me out here," he whispered desperately. "Let's not start any fights. Not yet. Let's just... try to get some answers first? Friendly answers, hopefully?"

Greg's heart hammered in his chest as the wild-looking men emerged from the trees, their faces weathered and hard, hair and beards matted with bits of bone and feather. They looked like something straight out of one of those gritty, realistic fantasy games he loved, the kind where every quest was a fight for survival and every NPC had a tragic backstory.

Except this wasn't a game.

This was real, and these guys looked like they meant business.

And by business, they probably meant his corpse roasting over an open fire.

The older men carried weapons that looked like they'd been ripped straight from the concept art of a post-apocalyptic RPG - a jagged axe and a battered sword that had seen better days. Days that probably involved a lot of blood and screaming, if the dark stains on the blade were any indication.

Shit shit shit, okay, don't panic, Greg thought frantically, his mind racing as the men approached. Just stay calm, stay cool, maybe they're friendly? Maybe they're just really dedicated cosplayers or something?

But as they drew closer, their conversation drifted over to Greg, and any hope of a friendly encounter shattered like a critical fail on a persuasion check.

"Oi, look at 'im. dressed like some fool's dream, he is. all bright an' soft-like," the first man said, his voice rough and thick with an accent Greg couldn't place.

"Aye, never seen cloth like that before," the second man agreed, eyeing Greg's hoodie with a predatory gleam. "Rich kneeler's whelp, 'i reckon. Lost, stupid. Don't know where 'e is."

Kneeler? Greg's brow furrowed. What the hell are they talking about? And why do they sound like they're auditioning to be orc extras for Lord of The Rings?

The first man grinned, a vicious, hungry thing that made Greg's blood run cold. "I'd like that cloth on me, I would. Warm as a bloody bear's arse."

"Hah! first t' put 'is guts out gets first pick, eh?" The second man chuckled, a dark, eager sound.

Nope. Nope nope nope, I am NOT getting gutted today, no sir, Greg thought, panic rising in his throat. Time to make like Sonic and get the heck out of dodge!

He spun on his heel, intent on booking it back the way he came, but the deep snow hindered his escape. Each step was a struggle, his feet sinking into the white powder as the men's laughter rang out behind him.

"Scrawny little shit, ain't 'e? reckon 'e'll try runnin'?" one of the younger men called out, his voice filled with cruel amusement.

"Rrun? ha! Bastard don't know 'ow. Legs look like twigs," the other replied, the sound of their pursuit growing closer with each labored step Greg took.

Oh god oh god oh god, this is bad, this is so bad, Greg's mind babbled as he struggled through the snow, his breath coming in panicked gasps. I'm gonna die out here, I'm gonna get stabbed by a bunch of LARPers on steroids, this is NOT how I wanted to go out!

In desperation, he spun back around, nearly stumbling as he raised his hands in a pleading gesture. "W-wait! Hold up, time out, parley, whatever! I'm not- I'm just lost, okay?!" The words spilled out of him in a breathless rush, his voice high and tight with fear. "Like, super duper lost, don't even know where I am, just woke up here, so if we could just talk this out...?"

But the men didn't slow, their grins only widening at Greg's panicked babbling.

"M'be he don't 'ear so good," the second man said, hefting his sword. "Or just thick in the 'ead"

"Don't matter to me none," the younger one replied, a vicious eagerness in his voice. "Bet he's got shiny bits under 'em rags. That coat's ours, da?"

"Enough yap, boy. Gut 'im!"

They closed in, weapons raised, and Greg felt a surge of pure, animalistic terror. This was it. This was how he died, shanked by a bunch of fantasy hillbillies in the middle of nowhere.

Mom, I'm sorry for all the times I forgot to take out the trash, Sparky, you can have my comic collection, tell Taylor from Word Issues class that I l...

Suddenly, the sword in Greg's hand seemed to thrum with energy, a tingle racing up his arm. It was the same odd feeling from before, that strange sense of connection, but stronger now. Insistent.

Almost a command.

Fight.

Greg blinked, startled out of his mental goodbyes. What the...?

But he had no time to question it. The first man was upon him, axe swinging in a vicious arc aimed right at Greg's head.

Reflex took over.

Instinct.

Greg's arm moved almost of its own accord, the sword flashing up to meet the axe in a ringing clash of metal on metal. There was a moment of resistance, a shuddering jolt up Greg's arm...

And then the axe shattered, the blade snapping clean in two.

The man had a split second to register shocked surprise before the sword continued its arc, biting deep into the meat of his shoulder and cleaving down through his chest in a spray of red.

He crumpled, bisected, blood steaming as it hit the snow.

Greg stared, uncomprehending, his brain struggling to process what had just happened. Did I just... Did he just...

"Da!" The anguished cry snapped Greg back to reality as the younger man charged, stone dagger raised high. His face was twisted in grief and rage, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his cheeks.

Again, Greg moved without thought, the sword leaping to meet the attack. It sliced through the boy's wrist, sending the hand and dagger flying, then whipped back around in a backhanded slash that opened the boy's throat in a crimson gush.

He fell, choking, drowning in his own blood as it pooled around him, shockingly red against the white of the snow.

The remaining wildlings, their faces pale with sudden fear, turned and fled, disappearing back into the trees as quickly as they had come.

And then... silence.

No sound but the wind in the branches and the pounding of Greg's own heart in his ears. He felt the connection reach out again, sword humming in his grasp as his soul ballooned out twice just slightly in rapid succession.

It settled and Greg stood there, shaking, sword hanging limp at his side. The surge of energy, of purpose, adrenaline, all three faded as quickly as they had come, leaving him hollow. Numb.

I killed them. I killed them, oh god, I killed them, they're dead, I killed them...

His stomach lurched, bile rising in his throat.

He dropped to his knees, barely registering the cold wetness seeping into his jeans, and retched into the snow. Vomit steamed as it splattered, pinkish and foul on top of red blood

"...Fuck."


– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –


Achievement: Meet Interesting People! (Wildling) - 100 GP
Achievement: First Kill - 100 GP
Achievement: End A Bloodline! (Wildling) - 300 GP


Roll:
Psychic Abilities - Precognition (Intuition) (100 GP) - In the World of Darkness, psychic abilities and mythic sorcery are, at first glance, completely different. However, both manipulate the same powers, albeit in very different ways, and are both considered forms of linear magic. While a sorcerer utilizes numerous tools and ceremonies to harness supernatural powers, a psychic makes do with lots, and lots, of willpower. Furthermore, the majority of psychic powers are innate, and can be improved, but not gained, without outside interference, in stark contrast to sorcery.

One of the rarer abilities in the psychic community, this one grants insights into events yet to come, but often leads its users to forget, in the World of Darkness, the future is never entirely certain...

[1] Intuition - not true foresight, not yet, but the budding precog often seems "luckier" than a normal person. Predictions about random events (like say, the lottery, or roulette numbers) can be eerily accurate, and guess about other situations can be quite correct, such as knowing the fastest ride to work, or that one person is "right" for another. However, as with all things, predictions are rarely perfect.


Roll: Psychic Abilities - Biokinesis (Self-Control) (100 GP) - In the World of Darkness, psychic abilities and mythic sorcery are, at first glance, completely different. However, both manipulate the same powers, albeit in very different ways, and are both considered forms of linear magic. While a sorcerer utilizes numerous tools and ceremonies to harness supernatural powers, a psychic makes do with lots, and lots, of willpower. Furthermore, the majority of psychic powers are innate, and can be improved, but not gained, without outside interference, in stark contrast to sorcery.

The psychic ability to manipulate their own biology. While this ability cannot replicate the powers of the Paths of Shapeshifting and Healing, its flexibility is more akin to that of the Life Sphere known to true mages.

[1] Self-Control - the biokinetic can manipulate their own body on a low level. Minor cuts stop bleeding, small amounts of pain are ignored, and breath can be held for several extra minutes. To do any of this, the biokinetic must enter a trance.


Roll: Swordsman Scrolls (200 GP) - You'd think that these would be only mildly useful to an engineer due to them being, you know, and engineer, but you've managed to get your hands on them anyways. These two scrolls detail the usages of two sword techniques that are incredibly hard to find teachers for. The first is sword beams, the ability to shoot 'cutting wind' type attacks from the edge of your blade. Sadly, an ordinary blade won't be enough - there needs to be a level of magic to it in order to power the beam. The second scroll details the great spin attack, a much easier technique to use.


We're rolling every time he gains an achievement and every 10000 words.

He gains 100 points every 10000 words.

If he doesn't have the points to buy a roll, it will be discarded or saved for later.
 
III: Unbearable
I want to thank my current Patrons, a great deal. I appreciate the support and the updates will keep coming fast as I can write them. I'm not working right now because I'm at school full time. And this helps keep me afloat.

If you're fans of Where The Heart is, all the chapters all the way to the end of Season 1 are up there on the Patreon. The draft chapters under the name The Devil Went Down to Sunnydale are up to Chapter 36 of Fool Of The Devil rn and Season 1 is done.

Nerd in the North is done up to Chapter 7. Chapter Eight ends the first arc.


Life Is But A Game is 5 chapters ahead on there, all the way to 2.17. Greg Vs is 2 chapters ahead, at 7.4. Thank you for reading.

Where The Heart is next chapter needs more outlining

Next chapters of Fool of The Devil needs some more work

Starting from Season 2, The Devil Went Down To Sunnydale will be Sam focused chapters and Fool of The Devil will be Xander focused.

Almost done with Greg Vs 7.5

Now, for the Patrons.

Nikhil Majumdar, drake shade35, Aleksey A E, Dreamer of Nightmares,

MagusZanin, Jack, AntaeusTheGiant, Blaze Mastermind, bejammin2000, Aleksei, 8thKnightofKeys, Jorge Benedicto, Dixon Gao, Rumour, JustAUser, Christoph Pleynert, Bailee Maple, Skipps, Pseudo Nym, StarForce_BlackAce, Meep_Meep, Ben Stan, krilinater, Overlord susanoo, WorkForFood, Hug0H, Murica-Man, Michael Afanasenko, Vincent Mason, Willayfiddle,

Cedron Spaulding, James Carl Henderson, Ashley Stanhope, Yobthog, Furyful Fawful, Zach Collins, zero1995, ALEX, Zero_to_Nero, Good guy Paul, Arkhad, Greenfall87, Weirdo, The flying biscuit., Simon Anoma, Ryan m, Mika Artus, Jananakkam, mastergamer98007, AriesDusk, Guisarme, Brett Labat, JoJoDio, Jordan, Ahmed, Coleman, V3c4, Travis Dean, Mr. Bigglesworth, Writer-Man,

Tian Seve, TheBlackenedWoods, Tret, Somebody, Rinoa, gabriel hutcherson, sumit pal, Diego, Janni, Janni, BarrettSlayer, Gabriel,

Segev, Johnathan, Jack, Cypher1597.

Also, a special shoutout to my editors and pre-readers: @kenmadragon and @Magus Zanin



Nerd In the North III


– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Greg knelt there in the snow, shaking, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that had nothing to do with the cold. The sword hung limp in his hand, the blade still stained with the blood of the men he had just…

He knew he couldn't stay there, on his knees, staring at the vomit.

Staring at the blood.

At the bodies.

Killed. I killed them. I actually killed them.

The thought repeated in his head, a skipping record that wouldn't stop. He stared at the steaming puddle of vomit in the snow, bile and blood mingling in a pinkish slurry that made his stomach turn all over again. This isn't happening. This can't be happening. I'm not a killer, I'm just a kid, I'm just...

But the bodies lying in the snow said otherwise. The blood on his sword said otherwise.

Oh god, the blood.

There's so much blood.


Greg shuddered, a full-body thing that made his teeth chatter. He couldn't stay here. He couldn't keep kneeling in the snow, staring at the evidence of what he'd done. His knees were going numb, his fingers aching with the cold even as they gripped the sword like a lifeline.

He couldn't stay on the forest floor.

For one, his knees were getting really cold.

For two, his everything else was getting just as cold.

Hell, he wasn't sure how long he spent on the ground.

Move. You have to move. You can't stay here.

Slowly, painfully, Greg forced himself to his feet. His legs felt like jelly, barely able to support his weight, but he locked his knees and willed himself to stay upright. The sword hung at his side, heavy, the weight of it both comfortable and terrifying at the same time.

I killed with this. I killed people. Real people, not just pixels on a screen.

It had been so easy.

Incredibly easy.

He put the blade on his back again with a shaking hand, the feel of the metal making him flinch slightly. It felt wrong, putting away something that had just taken lives like it was nothing more than a toy, but what else could he do?

Just leave it here, in the blood-stained snow?

That would be suicide. No. No, I can't. I need it. I need it to... to survive.

The thought made Greg want to laugh.

Surviving. That's what this was, right?

Kill or be killed, just like in the games. Except the games never showed this part, the aftermath, the sick, twisting feeling in your gut when the adrenaline faded and reality set in.

Blood.

It had gone everywhere, spraying on the ground and melting snow it landed on.

So much blood.

He had managed to push away all the fear of being lost and alone by focusing on his magic sword that might have been some sort of Tinkertech for all he knew — even though he knew in his soul it wasn't. Dreaming about being a fantasy hero had been cool and all, but he had been focused more on the elf and magic and pretty girl side of the isekai bullshit thing, not so much the…

Stop. Don't think about it. Just... just walk.

And so he did.

Greg picked a direction, away from the blood and the bodies and the echoes of screams on the wind, and he walked. One foot in front of the other, a mechanical process that required no thought.

One foot in front of the other. Just stop thinking.

One foot in front of the other. Just stop thinking about the blood.

"Shut up," Greg muttered, the words slurring together as he shook his head. "Shut up, shut up, shut up."

He walked faster, as if he could outpace his own thoughts. The forest blurred around him, an endless expanse of white and brown and gray, the skeletal branches of the trees reaching out like grasping fingers.

This is insane. This whole thing is insane. I'm in a goddamn fantasy world, a real-life isekai, and instead of being the hero, I'm... I'm...

A killer. The word hung in his mind, heavy and cold as the sword at his hip. He had killed those men, ended their lives like it was nothing.

Just stop thinking about it.

Half an hour of walking and it was easier said than done. They were going to kill me, right? He nodded to himself. Self-defense... that's it.

Yeah, the blond brightened a little, the rationalization easing his stress and pushing his darker thoughts to the back of his brain where they belonged. They were gonna kill me, and it was just self-defense.

With jagged evil-looking weapons like that and looking like literal barbarians, they were probably cannibals even.

And rapists, on top of it.

Like the Nordrans in BattleAxe Fantasy, yeah. The super grimdark fantasy game were filled with crazy barbarians like the ones who attacked him. Nordra was the ice cold area up in the North — duh — where the Nordrans, a bunch of savage brawny berserkers and barbarians raided like the psychopathic fantasy Chaos-worshiping vikings they were. They probably kill anybody they see.

Hell, killing them was probably the best outcome, even.

He was only doing the heroic thing.

I did the world a favor, really, Greg told himself, nodding along with his own thoughts. It was more than heroic, it was expected. Killing bandits and barbarians was like the basic thing any hero needed to do to be called a big damn hero in any video game.

Hell, those guys had the same quotes as any bandit in Cloudbrim, the blond thought with a scoff, shaking his head again. '"Hurry up and die already, so I can take your stuff!"' Be more original, guys.

It made perfect sense, honestly. By Sigmund, you've posted cringe! Prepare to die!

He was the hero, they were exp points, and also bad guys, simple as. Wasting time being sad when he could focus on finding a town to lay his head and drink some mead sounded like a dumb idea, if he really thought about it. He let the rationalization wash over him, soothing the jagged edges of his conscience.

Self-defense, heroism, all that jazz. Totally justified, no moral quandaries here, no sir.

Speaking of experience points, Greg slowed his pace, completely halting his forward advance as the thought of that tickled his brain. Wait a second…

A flicker of something popped into his thoughts, the same thing he had felt right before he fell to his knees. A tug on his soul just like that strange, instinctive bond he had with the sword. The same feeling he'd gotten right before…

Right before I killed them.

He frowned, the sword humming against his back, a subtle vibration he felt more than heard. Slowly and with only a bit of hesitancy, Greg wrapped his fingers around the hilt and pulled the blade from its sheath.

It glinted in the gray light filtering through the trees, the metal bright and, without a doubt, beautiful as the blade seemed to hum with a life of its own. Greg stared at it, brow furrowed, trying to chase down that flicker of... something. He could feel it, that same resonance, that same sense of connection that had thrummed through him as he fought for his life.

A memory, an instinct, a half-formed thought dancing just out of reach.

Hi-yah!

He blinked in confusion, the chill of the cold somehow ignored as he felt that warmth well up in the sword, deepening if not intensifying. Huh.

It couldn't be, could it?

But then again, he was in a fantasy world, one with honest-to-god barbarians and swords that could cut through bone like melted butter, so who was he to...

He shakes his head, frowning as he nearly shuddered again. Right after I killed those guys… something popped into my head.

"Wait…" He blinks.

"I can..." The words came out in a whisper, barely audible over the wind whistling through the trees. Greg's brow furrowed, his mind racing as he tried to chase down the elusive thought. It felt familiar, oddly enough.

UWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!


He just wasn't sure why.

His grip tightened further, fingers curling around the wrapped hilt like they belonged there. The sword seemed to respond, a faint vibration running up his arm, a whisper of power waiting to be unleashed.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Greg raised the sword. He could feel it humming in his grip as he took a deep breath.

Here goes nothing...

With a single upwards slash, Greg swung the sword in a wild, reckless arc. And his jaw dropped open, eyes wide as a crescent of glowing blue energy burst from the blade, rocketing into the sky like a… bolt from the blue.

"Holy shit!" Greg yelped, nearly dropping the sword in his shock. He stared at the fading afterimage of the energy blade, his mouth hanging open and mind struggling to process what he had just done.

I did that. I just... I just shot a fucking magic laser beam out of a sword!

A laugh bubbled up in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated manic glee. It burst from him in great, heaving guffaws, the kind of laughter that shook your whole body and left you gasping for breath.

"I'm magic!" He shouted to the sky, to the trees, to the whole goddamn universe.

He swung the sword again, and another blade of energy shot out of it, tearing up into the gray sky like a fucking firework. "I'm fucking magic, baby!"

And again, and again, each swing accompanied by a wild, ecstatic shout of joy.

This is insane. This is impossible. This is—

GRRRRAAAAAAWWWWRRR!!!


Greg Veder spun around, heart pounding like a jackhammer in his chest as adrenaline flooded his system. A bear!

A bear.

A fucking bear.

Because of course there was a bear, because apparently whatever sick cosmic joke of a universe he'd been dropped into wasn't done screwing with him yet.

Through a dense thicket of snow-dusted underbrush, two piercing eyes met his—a massive grizzly, its gaze filled with a raw, primal ferocity that sent a chill down Greg's spine. Okay, okay, don't panic, it's just a bear, just a giant, pissed-off, probably hungry bear...

With a sharp intake of breath that was only slightly shaky, Greg stumbled backward, his feet sinking into the deep snow. Shit, shit, shit, what do you do with bears? Play dead? Make yourself look big? Sacrifice a virgin?

His eyes went wider. Wait, that's me!

But before he could remember any of the probably useless bear safety tips he'd gleaned from movies and TV, the grizzly crashed through the underbrush with a roar that shook the trees. And suddenly, playing dead didn't seem like such a hot option anymore.

Fuck this noise, I'm out!

Greg turned to flee, each step a sluggish, labored slog through the deep snow. He could hear the bear behind him, the thunder of its paws against the ground, the snapping of branches and the huffing of its breath. It's gonna catch me, it's gonna catch me and eat me and I'm gonna die as a goddamn bear snack in fucking fantasy Siberia!

Panic clawed at his throat, his lungs burning with each desperate gasp of frigid air. The snow was too deep, the bear too fast, and he was just a scrawny nerd with a magic sword he barely knew how to use. This was it. This was how he died, mauled to death by Smokey the Murder Bear in the middle of nowhere.

No. His open mouth slammed shut, teeth gritted. No, fuck that. I am not dying like this. I am not ending up as frozen bear shit in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.

Desperation morphed into something else, something fierce and defiant and more than a little unhinged. Greg skidded to a stop, his back slamming against a tree as he spun to face the charging grizzly. His hands were shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but the sword in his grip felt like an extension of himself, like it was made to fit his hands and his hands alone.

Alright, you overgrown teddy bear, you wanna dance? Let's fucking dance.

With a shout that was equal parts fear and manic bravado, Greg swung the sword in a wild, reckless arc. A beam of concentrated energy burst from the blade, a searing line of blue-white light that lit up the forest like a bolt of lightning.

And missed the bear entirely, cleaving through the underbrush to leave a deep, smoldering gash in a nearby tree.

Shit! Fuck! Come on, Veder, get it together!

The bear surged close and Greg's eyes widened as a paw the size of his torso swiped down at him, the massive thing furry and tipped with claws that were each longer and thicker than every single one of his fingers.

Duck!

He did, diving to the ground and away from the bear in a reckless move that had him hit the snow in a way he probably would have regretted if the snow wasn't there to cushion his fall.

Greg Veder tried to scramble to his feet as the bear whirled around, slamming into the ground in a painful unintended combat roll that only just saved his life from another swipe from a heavy bear claw.

Move! Move! He jumped to his feet this time and grit his teeth, trying to steady his breathing, to focus past the heart-pounding terror and the adrenaline singing in his veins. All he had to do was ignore his monkey instincts screaming at him to run, with the bear so close he could see the steam of its breath, the glint of its teeth, the fire in its eyes.

Focus. Breathe. He swung again, and this time the energy beam struck true, hitting the bear square in the chest. It stumbled, roaring in pain and confusion as blood matted its fur, but it didn't stop. It reared up on its hind legs, towering over Greg like a mountain of fur and fangs and fury.

In that moment, Greg realized he knew true fear.

And it was this fucking beast.

The fifteen-year old let out a wild, whooping yell, a sound that was more panicked scream than battle cry. He swung the sword again, and again, each beam of energy fueled by a mix of terror and exhilaration and sheer, stubborn resolve. The bear roared, staggering under the onslaught, its fur smoking, its blood staining the snow crimson.

Die, you fuzzy bastard! Die, die, die!

And then, just like that, it was over. The bear lay motionless at Greg's feet, steam rising from its massive bulk, the snow around it melted into a muddy slurry of blood and slush. Greg stood there, chest heaving, sword lowered, staring down at the fallen beast with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"Holy shit," he breathed, his voice shaky and slightly manic. "Holy shit, I did it. I killed a bear. I fucking killed a bear with a magic sword."

A laugh bubbled up in his throat, slightly hysterical, edged with a giddy sort of disbelief. He'd done it. He'd actually done it. Faced down a monster and lived to tell the tale. Just like a real hero. Just like--

Suddenly, he felt it again. That strange, swelling sensation inside him, like his soul was ballooning outward, reaching for something just beyond his grasp. His breath caught, his heart pounding anew as he waited for... something. Some new power, some revelation, some--

Pfftttt.

But it sputtered out, fizzling like a wet fart, leaving him feeling strangely full but also empty, the metaphysical air deflating out of the whoopie cushion that was his soul as it returned to normal, yet feeling heavier somehow.

Did I just... lose a gacha or something? What the hell?

As if in response, the sword in his hand pulsed, the sapphire sphere on the pommel glowing faintly. And with the glow came a flicker of... something. A vision, a whisper, a half-formed thought dancing just out of reach.

He saw the sword in his hand shifting, changing, growing into something massive and gleaming. A greatsword, a true hero's blade, with a hilt a foot long and a blade four times that. He saw it cleaving through monsters and men alike, ignoring armor and scale and sinew like they were nothing more than paper. He saw himself wielding it, a warrior, a legend, a...

The Vorpal Sword, a voice whispered in his mind, a voice that was his own and yet not. Its name and legend. Yours, if you prove worthy.

Greg blinked, shaking his head as if to clear it. The vision faded, leaving him standing there in the blood-stained snow, staring down at the sword in his hand with a mixture of awe and confusion.

"What are you trying to tell me?" he muttered, feeling a little foolish. It was a sword, for fuck's sake, not a Magic Eight Ball It couldn't talk, couldn't think, couldn't…

Hell, he knew it couldn't actually think, his fuckin' soul was connected to it.

If anything, if he had to describe it, it was more like he was talking to himself through the sword, kinda…

Or the sword has a little bit of me inside it? Greg shook his head again, a hiccuping laugh escaping his lips. "Magic swords, huh? Isekai protagonist bullshit strikes again."

He gave the sword a little shake, as if scolding it. "We already lost the thing, you greedy little weirdo. No use crying over spilled gacha or whatever."

The sword pulsed again, almost petulantly, and Greg rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. You want to be a big bad greatsword. Well, tough titties. You're stuck with me, and I'm stuck with you, so we're just gonna have to make the best of it."

He paused, a slow, slightly manic grin spreading across his face. "Besides, who needs a Vorpal Sword anyway? We're gonna be legends either way. Greg Veder and his trusty magic blade, heroes for hir-"

Whatever Greg was gonna say next went unspoken as his eyes went wide, the sound of rustling from behind him sending his heart racing and adrenaline surging.

His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, the blade half-raised before he even realized he was moving. Shit, shit, shit, not another one...

But instead of a rampaging grizzly, what emerged from the trees was...

A cub?

A tiny, shivering ball of brown fur, barely as big as a large housecat. It let out a sad, mewling sound as it scuttled over to the corpse of the bear Greg had just killed, nuzzling at its mother's blood-matted fur.

"Oh..." Greg breathed, his grip on the sword going slack. "Oh shit."

Guilt hit him like a punch to the gut, a sickening, twisting feeling that made his stomach churn. The cub looked so small, so helpless, confused and alone as it pawed at its mother's still form. I did that, Greg thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. I made it an orphan. Some hero I am.

He stumbled forward, feet clumsy in the churned-up snow. The cub's head snapped up at his approach, big brown eyes wide and wary. Greg froze, one hand held up in a placating gesture.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he said softly, trying to keep his voice low and soothing. "I'm not gonna hurt you. I... I'm sorry about your mom, little guy. She was just trying to protect you from the crazy asshole with the sword, huh?"

The cub just stared at him, uncomprehending, and Greg felt like the scum of the earth. Way to go, Veder. Traumatizing baby animals now.

Slowly, carefully, he sheathed the sword at his back, the thing feeling a little heavier in his hands once again.

Metaphorically, at least.

Can't just leave the lil guy here alone, he thought guiltily. Couldn't abandon it to starve or freeze or get eaten by something worse. That... that would be even more messed up than what he'd already done.

"I can take care of you," he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could really think about them. "I mean, I'm supposed to be this big hero now, right? And what's a hero without an animal companion?"

He took a slow, careful step forward, then another, closing the distance between himself and the cub. It watched him warily, but didn't bolt, didn't growl or hiss or try to bite. Greg chose to take that as a good sign.

"It'll be just like Brother Bear," he said, a slightly manic grin tugging at his lips. "I mean, you're gonna be the only bear, and I'm not an Indian who got turned into one by magic spirits, but hey, close enough, right?"

The cub, unsurprisingly, did not respond.

Greg shook his head, feeling a little dumb. Get it together, Veder. Trying to banter with a baby bear. All this murder's making you lose it.

Crouching down in the snow a few feet from the cub, Greg held out his hand, palm up. An offering, an invitation. "C'mon, little dude. I promise I'm not as much of a dick as I seem. At least, I'm trying not to be."

For a long, tense moment, nothing happened. The cub just stared at him, eyes big and dark and unreadable. Greg held his breath, not daring to move, barely daring to hope...

And then, slowly, hesitantly, the cub started to waddle towards him. One tiny paw in front of the other, cautious but curious, until it was close enough to sniff at Greg's outstretched fingers. Its nose was cold and wet against his skin, ticklish in a way that made Greg want to laugh and cry at the same time.

Holy shit. Holy shit, it's actually working. I'm Disney Princessing this shit right now.

Emboldened, Greg reached out with his other hand, slowly, carefully, ready to snatch it back at the first sign of teeth or claws. But the cub just let him scoop it up, lifting it into the air like something out of The Lion King.

"Companion Get!" Greg crowed, a giddy laugh bubbling up in his chest. The cub squirmed in his grip, heavier than it looked, its fur soft and thick against his fingers. I can't believe this is actually happening. I have a bear now. A baby bear.

As if to punctuate that thought, Greg suddenly felt a now-familiar sensation pulse through him - that strange, swelling feeling of his soul ballooning outward, reaching for something just beyond his grasp. He tensed, bracing himself for... he didn't even know what.

Another near-miss?

But no, this time, something actually happened. A glint of gold caught his eye, and Greg looked down to see a thick ring materializing on his finger, a band of rich yellow metal with a deep blue gem set into its center. The gem was carved in the shape of a V, the letter seeming to glow with an inner light.

What the... Greg blinked, trying to make sense of this new development. Magic bling? The hell does that mean?

As quickly as the confusion came, it was washed away by a sudden, startling realization. He felt... different. Stronger, tougher, more resilient. Like he could take on the world and win. Even the cold didn't seem to bite quite as deep, the ache of exhaustion in his muscles fading to a dull, distant throb.

Huh. Neat.

Greg flexed his fingers, watching the play of light over the ring's gleaming surface. He knew he should probably be more freaked out by this, by the sheer impossibility of it all.

But honestly? After everything else that had happened, a little stat boost from a shiny trinket was pretty low on the 'wtf' scale. Just roll with it, Veder, he told himself, a wry grin tugging at his lips. You're the magic man now. Freak out later, when there's a bed and maybe some mead and hot elf barmaids involved.

Shaking his head, Greg turned his attention back to the cub still cradled in his arms. It was heavier than he'd expected, dense with baby fat and thickening fur, but the ring's power boost seemed to make the weight easier to handle. Huh. He wasn't stronger, he was sure of that, but the weight didn't strain as much. Magic buff, +5 bear carrying capacity.

"Alright, little dude. I rescued you, so that means I get to name you. Them's the rules." The cub blinked up at him, black button eyes shining with what Greg chose to interpret as agreement.

Let's see... Smokey? Nah, too on the nose. Yogi? Paddington? Winnie? All the famous fictional bears flashed through Greg's mind, each one discarded as quickly as it came. He wanted something unique, something with pizzazz, something...

"Ash," he said decisively, nodding to himself. "Like Smokey the Bear, get it? Only cooler. More badass. 'Cause you're gonna be a badass bear, aren't you? Yes, you are, yes, you are!"

He lifted the cub higher, nuzzling his face into its soft fur. It squirmed in his grip, letting out a squeaky little growl, and Greg laughed.

And then yelped, as pain lanced through his hand, sudden and sharp.

Greg held back the urge to flinch, simply to avoid dropping Ash in surprise as he shifted the bear to one hand to look at the other.

Blood welled from a set of shallow puncture wounds, stark crimson against his pale skin.

The little shit bit me!

But even as the thought formed, Greg paused, frowning. It... didn't actually hurt that much. Oh, it hurt, sure, he wasn't completely numb. But compared to the other injuries he'd sustained today - the cuts, the bruises, the sheer exhausted ache of overtaxed muscles - a little nip from a baby bear was practically nothing.

Speaking of… all those other injuries… they didn't seem to be anywhere close to as noticeable as before. Hell, he felt like he could walk all day.

Huh. He blinked. So, it's a durability buff.

Looking down at Ash, who was now gazing up at him with an expression of perfect innocence like he hadn't just tried to munch on his wrist, Greg felt his frown melt into a sly grin. "Everyone's a critic, huh?"


– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –


Achievement: Beast Slayer - 200 GP

Achievement: Fur Baby - 150 GP

Roll:
Tier Two Rings - (100 GP)"A magical ring that provides a bonus depending on the material used. Limit one ring per hand. Titanium: Greatly increases the wearer's overall strength. If you could bench 50kg, you could bench 75kg. Glassteel: Greatly increases the wearer's agility and reflexes. Go from juggling apples to chainsaws. Dust: Fortifies the body even further with Dust, helping them absorb a tremendous amount of damage without perishing."

Failed Roll: Vorpal Sword (500 GP) - "A mighty greatsword that requires two hands to use, it has a foot-long hilt and 4-foot blade. The shining grooves of the blade channel whatever it's cutting away, so it does not drag or get caught. When wielded, it magically enhances your fighting skills slightly. It ignores armor, and it deals mighty blows against Jabberwocks, Jabberkin, and other dragon-like enemies. If you want, you can make a sword you already have into the Vorpal Sword, giving it the extra attributes received in this purchase.

Stored GP: 250
 
IV: Hero Time
I want to thank my current Patrons, a great deal. I appreciate the support and the updates will keep coming fast as I can write them. I'm not working right now because I'm at school full time. And this helps keep me afloat.

If you're fans of Where The Heart is, all the chapters all the way to the end of Season 1 are up there on the Patreon. The draft chapters under the name The Devil Went Down to Sunnydale are up to Chapter 36 of Fool Of The Devil rn and Season 1 is done.

Nerd in the North is done up to Chapter 7. Chapter Eight ends the first arc.


Life Is But A Game is 5 chapters ahead on there, all the way to 2.17. Greg Vs is 4 chapters ahead, at 7.6. Thank you for reading.

Now, for the Patrons.

Nikhil Majumdar, drake shade35, Aleksey A E, Dreamer of Nightmares,

MagusZanin, Jack, AntaeusTheGiant, Blaze Mastermind, bejammin2000, Aleksei, 8thKnightofKeys, Jorge Benedicto, Dixon Gao, Rumour, JustAUser, Christoph Pleynert, Bailee Maple, Skipps, Pseudo Nym, StarForce_BlackAce, Meep_Meep, Ben Stan, krilinater, Overlord susanoo, WorkForFood, Hug0H, Murica-Man, Michael Afanasenko, Vincent Mason, Willayfiddle,

Cedron Spaulding, James Carl Henderson, Ashley Stanhope, Yobthog, Furyful Fawful, Zach Collins, zero1995, ALEX, Zero_to_Nero, Good guy Paul, Arkhad, Greenfall87, Weirdo, The flying biscuit., Simon Anoma, Ryan m, Mika Artus, Jananakkam, mastergamer98007, AriesDusk, Guisarme, Brett Labat, JoJoDio, Jordan, Ahmed, Coleman, V3c4, Travis Dean, Mr. Bigglesworth, Writer-Man,

Tian Seve, TheBlackenedWoods, Tret, Somebody, Rinoa, gabriel hutcherson, sumit pal, Diego, Janni, Janni, BarrettSlayer, Gabriel,

Segev, Johnathan, Jack, Cypher1597.

Also, a special shoutout to my editors and pre-readers: kenmadragon and Magus Zanin



Nerd In the North IV


– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

It had been hours.

Hours.

Greg Veder had been trudging through the snow-blanketed forest for what felt like an eternity, his shoes sinking into the powdery white bullshit. The boy's legs burned, each step feeling like he was wearing concrete boots instead of his drenched wet sneakers.

Hours.

It had been hours of this shit, and the only thing keeping Greg from losing his mind completely was the steady stream of bear-themed tunes he belted out at the top of his lungs.

Hours of belting out "Bare Necessities" and "The Bear Went Over The Mountain" on repeat. His playlist of bear-themed tunes was embarrassingly short, but hey, Ash seemed to dig it. The little bear cub trotted alongside him, looking way too chill for a wild animal.

"...forget about your worries and your strife," Greg warbled, his voice cracking on the high notes.

But whatever, no one was around to judge his vocal skills except Ash, and the bear couldn't exactly post a review on UTube.
Thank god for Disney, he thought, glancing down at his fuzzy companion. Ash, the bear cub he'd somehow acquired like a fucking animal companion in an RPG, trotted alongside him, seemingly unbothered by the cold and Greg's atrocious singing.

"I mean the bare necessities, that's why a bear can rest at e-" Greg's impromptu karaoke session screeched to a halt as he burst through the treeline, his jaw dropping so fast he nearly got whiplash. There, nestled in a small clearing like a goddamn winter wonderland postcard, was a village.

"Holy shit on a shingle!" Greg whooped, his face splitting into a grin so wide it threatened to break his chapped lips. "Ash, buddy, we fucking did it! We found civilization! Or at least, like, the medieval fantasy version of it."

Without wasting a moment, Greg hauled ass towards the village, the snow crunching under his feet. His mind raced with possibilities. Oooh, I'm gonna get one of those big ol fantasy turkey legs and some mead and a busty elf tavern wench to sit on my lap and a-
But before he could get too lost in his Tolkien-esque fantasy, a strange feeling prickled at the back of Greg's neck. It was like the vague unease of realizing you left the oven on mixed with the oh-shit sense of incoming danger usually reserved for horror movies.

What the-

Without really thinking about it, he stumbled slightly, his foot catching on a hidden root beneath the snow. As he pitched forward, an axe whistled through the air where his head had been a split second before, embedding itself in the snow with a meaty "thunk."

"Jesus H. Christ on a cracker!" Greg yelped, scrambling back on his hands and feet like a demented crab. His eyes bulged as a wild-eyed man who looked like he'd stepped straight out of a How to Be a Fantasy Barbarian handbook burst out of the trees, another axe already in hand.

And he wasn't alone. Two more extras from the Barbarian Casting Agency followed close behind - a burly dude wielding a sword that looked like it had been used to butcher a few dozen hogs, and a woman with a spear who seemed like she'd never seen a shower.

Granted, all three of them looked like that, but she had some especially grimy skin.

"Hey, hey, hey, w-wait!" Greg's voice cracked as he scrambled back, crab-walking away with wide eyes. His eyes darted to where Ash was already scampering away, the bear clearly having more survival instinct than him. "Ash, run! Use those fuzzy little legs!"

Talking to a bear in English. Yeah, that's totally normal, Greg. Good job. With a yelp that sounded more like a terrified Chihuahua than anything else, Greg leaped to his feet, yanking his sword from his back. The blade felt about as light as a railroad tie, and the cool energy that had been zipping through it earlier felt like more of a weak fizzle than the surge it was before.

"Wait, wait, hold up!" he babbled, his voice pitching higher with each word as he held the sword up.

But the barbarians didn't seem interested in talking. The axe guy charged forward with a roar that sounded like a pissed-off grizzly bear with a megaphone, his weapon whooshing down in a deadly arc.

"Fuck fuck fuck me!" Greg's internal monologue went full R-rated as the barbarian swung at Greg's midsection with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. ShitshitSHIT! Greg barely managed to get his sword up in time, the impact sending vibrations through his arms like he'd just used a baseball bat on a steel mailbox.

"Shit!" Greg gasped, his muscles screaming in protest. Jesus, it's like trying to block a fucking wrecking ball!
He staggered back, arms feeling like overcooked ramen noodles from deflecting that blow. The sword, which had sliced through a weapon like it was made of marshmallow fluff just hours ago, now felt like a heavy dumbbell.

Come on, magic sword! Greg pleaded silently, his heart doing a drum solo against his ribs. Don't fail me now, you Excalibastard!

But the sword didn't seem to be in a cooperative mood. It flickered weakly in his hands, the cool energy that had zinged through it earlier now little more than a tired fizzle.

"I'll gut ye like a fish, boy!" Axe Guy snarled, his breath hitting Greg like a slap of rancid meat.

"Wow, okay, first of all, invest in a fucking Tic-Tac, dude," Greg wheezed, ducking another wild swing that nearly took his head off. "And second, what is it with you guys and gutting? Is that, like, your go-to threat? Because it's getting a little old, not gonna lie."

The burly sword guy let out a bellow that sounded like an enraged walrus and charged, his blade glinting viciously in the weak winter sun. "Stand still, ye wee southern shite!"

Greg yelped and pirouetted out of the way with all the grace of a drunk ballerina, catching himself from face-planting in the snow. "I'm from New England, that's like super North!!"

"Die!" Axe Guy shouted.

Greg stumbled back, his feet tangling in the snow like an uncoordinated Bambi. "K-kill yourself!"

The barbarian's response was another wild swing. Greg ducked, feeling the whoosh of air as the axe passed inches from his bowl cut. Mom's gonna be so mad if I come home with an undercut but also… Stop taunting the scary murderous barbarians, you idiot! the sane part of his brain screamed. But the rest of Greg was running on pure adrenaline and pants-shitting terror, his mouth moving faster than his common sense.

The spear woman took a jab at him, her aim scarily accurate for someone who looked like she skinned bears for fun. Greg barely managed to parry, the impact sending judders up his arm.

"We'll make ye squeal, kneeler!" she hissed, her eyes glinting with malice.

"Kneeler?" Greg panted, his brow furrowing even as he backpedaled frantically.

He was cut off by Axe Guy's roar as the barbarian came at him again, swinging his weapon like he was trying to win a gold medal in the Fuck Greg's Shit Up Olympics. Greg parried desperately, his arms screaming in protest, his sword growing heavier with each blow.

Think, Veder, think! he ordered himself, his mind racing like a hamster on meth. You've seen every fantasy movie and played every RPG. What would the hero do in this situation?

But his mind was blank, a buzzing white noise of panic and the singular thought of oh god I'm gonna die I'm gonna die I'm gonna die.

And then, in a moment of crystalline clarity that felt like the universe's sickest joke, Greg remembered a move from one of his favorite video games. Fuck it, he thought wildly. If I'm gonna die, I might as well die like a fucking weeb.

With a scream that was equal parts battle cry and terrified shriek, Greg spun in place, channeling every ounce of his strength, every iota of his fear and adrenaline and sheer, pants-pissing desperation into the motion. The sword arced through the air, a blur of celestial white against the bleak gray sky.

There was a moment of resistance, a sickening sensation of blade meeting flesh and bone. And then, with a wet, meaty thunk that would forever be seared into Greg's nightmares, Axe Guy's head separated from his shoulders and went tumbling through the snow like a gory soccer ball.

Greg stared, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as his brain struggled to process what he'd just done. He felt like he was going to puke, cry, and pass out all at once, his stomach doing a triple backflip as the reality of the situation hit him like a sledgehammer. Oh cool… it doesn't get easier.

The spear woman screamed, a raw, primal sound of rage and grief that cut through Greg's spiraling thoughts like a knife. She charged, her weapon aimed right at his heart, murder in her eyes.

Greg reared back, bringing his sword up with shaking hands. The taste of bile rose in Greg's throat, his face turning a shade of green that would make the Jolly Green Giant jealous. He reared up, pointing his sword at the other two barbarians with shaking hands. His voice came out as a strangled squeak, wavering and cracking like he was at the very start of puberty all over again.

"F-fuck! God, why do you guys keep making me kill you?"


– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –


As Greg yanked his sword from the back of the spear-wielding woman, her body slumped to the ground with a dull thud. She joined her fallen comrades on the blood-stained snow, looking more like discarded ragdolls than the fierce warriors they'd been moments ago. The metallic stench of blood mixed with the crisp winter air, making Greg's stomach churn.

"FUCK!" he shouted, his voice cracking like he was going through puberty all over again. The silence that followed felt almost as oppressive as the fight itself. His hands dropped to his sides, suddenly feeling like they were made of lead.

Greg's arms trembled, not from the cold or fear, but from the adrenaline crash hitting him like a truck for the third fucking time that day.

Greg Veder stood over the bodies of all three of the fallen berserkers, his chest heaving as the adrenaline slowly drained from his system. The sword in his hand felt heavy, the weight of the lives he'd taken pulling at his arm like an anchor. He'd never killed before, not for real, and the reality of it hit him like a suckerpunch to the gut.

"Fuck!" The word burst from his lips, raw and ragged, his voice cracking under the strain. "Fuck fuck fuckity fuck!"

He wanted to throw up. He wanted to curl into a ball and cry. He wanted his mom, and his bed, and his normal, boring life where the worst thing he had to worry about was getting beaten up for running his mouth.

But this is my life now, he thought, a bitter laugh bubbling up in his throat.

His hands shook as he lowered the sword, the blade caked with blood and gore. Five. He'd killed five people. Five living, breathing human beings, with families and dreams and...

No. No, don't think about that. Greg shook his head violently, as if he could physically dislodge the thoughts. They were trying to kill you. It was self-defense. You didn't have a choice.

But that didn't make it any easier. That didn't erase the sound of their screams, the sight of their blood staining the snow crimson.

He'd been running on pure instinct, no skill or overwhelming power – just dumb luck and a desperate will to live. Tripping around and scrambling all over while barely avoiding decapitation wasn't exactly the heroic image he'd had in mind.

I'm gonna scream my head off when I get a bed and a pillow, I swear. As he stood there, swaying slightly, something brushed against his leg. He glanced down, half-expecting to see another attacker coming for his ankles or something.

Instead, he saw Ash, the bear cub, nudging him softly. The little guy looked up at him with those big, dark eyes, somehow managing to look both concerned and adorable at the same time.

"Oh... Ash," Greg chuckled weakly, relief washing over him at the sight of the unharmed cub. "There you are, lil guy. Thought you might've bailed on me. Can't blame you, though. This is some messed-up stuff."

As he bent down to scoop Ash into his arms, a distant uproar caught his attention. It was like someone had cranked up the volume on a medieval warfare soundtrack – shouts, the clashing of metal, and the unmistakable cries of people having a really, really bad day.

Greg's head snapped up, his eyes widening as he spotted the source.

The village.

The one he'd been so eager to reach, the promise of warmth and food and maybe even a bed driving him forward. It was under attack, at least two dozen figures climbing over the walls. Holy shit, he thought, his stomach twisting into knots. It's a raid. An honest-to-god, Vikings-and-pillaging raid.

Even from a distance, Greg could hear the terrified cries of the villagers, and see the small plumes of smoke already starting.

Oh, come on! Greg felt a knot of fear tighten in his stomach, like he'd swallowed an angry hedgehog. I can't... This is like, way above my pay grade. He stumbled a few shaky steps backward, his mind racing as he eyed the overwhelming number of attackers. Five of these guys were already hard, but twenty... thirty?

That was just straight-up unfair.

Maybe I could just... not? The thought crept into his mind, tempting and terrible all at once. This isn't my fight. I could grab Ash and just... leave.

Before he could spiral further into his moral crisis, a profound surge of energy coursed through him. It was like that feeling when his soul had expanded those few times before, but cranked up a few more notches. This time it was different – more potent, more demanding as it expanded outwards. And with that expansion came a choice, a fundamental decision that he felt in his bones, one presented to him not in words but in raw, overwhelming feelings.

One path felt orderly, bright and shiny, like the good ending in a video game. It promised light, peace, and the kind of prosperity you'd see in a tourism ad for a fantasy kingdom. The other path... well, it was definitely more powerful. But it also reeked of darkness, corruption, and the kind of rage that'd make a Sith Lord look chill.

Light Side... or Dark Side?

The choice hung there, as real and heavy as the sword in his hand. For a split second, Greg wondered what it'd be like to choose the dark path. To have all that power, to make everyone who'd ever laughed at him pay...

But nah.

That was edgelord territory, and Greg Veder was no edgelord. He was a hero, damn it.

Or at least, he was gonna try to be one.

Without hesitation, Greg chose Light. The decision clicked into place within him, like slotting the final piece into a jigsaw puzzle. Something fundamental in his soul felt different – firmer, unshaken. Even with the lingering nausea from the fight and the fear still gnawing at his guts, most of his panic dissolved. In its place was a newfound resolve, steely and sure.

He tightened his grip around his sword, lifting it from the snow with a renewed sense of purpose. The blade felt lighter now, humming with an energy that matched the determination coursing through him.

Okay, I'm guessing that's the call to adventure? Greg squared his shoulders, his gaze fixed on the village. It was time to be the hero he'd always dreamed of being, even if the reality was a lot messier and scarier than he'd imagined.

Rushing forward, he grumbled under his breath, "Let's go do the hero thing."


– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Achievement: Lady Killer (200 GP)

Roll: The Only Choice that Matters (400 GP) - "It is the gift of the gods that all mortals are born free. However, in the end, every mortal is offered a Choice. To side with Good, or to side with Evil. Some may falter when they see what they lose to that choice. You do not. The Choice of Good and Evil is not the choice of Necromancy or Healing to you, and you will find that even as you have sunken into the depths of Evil, you can draw upon the light of Good, or that as Good bolsters you, you can reach into the necromancy of Evil. Never will calling upon a power taint your will; you have made your Choice and nothing can change that."

Stored GP: 50
 
V: Gwenna
I want to thank my current Patrons, a great deal. I appreciate the support and the updates will keep coming fast as I can write them. I'm not working right now because I'm at school full time. And this helps keep me afloat.

If you're fans of Where The Heart is, all the chapters all the way to the end of Season 1 are up there on the Patreon. The draft chapters under the name The Devil Went Down to Sunnydale are up to Chapter 36 of Fool Of The Devil rn and Season 1 is done.

Nerd in the North is done up to Chapter 10. I finished plotting up to Arc 4. Writing Season 2 now.


Life Is But A Game is 5 chapters ahead on there, all the way to 2.17. Greg Vs is 5 chapters ahead, at 7.7a. Thank you for reading.

Now, for the Patrons.

Nikhil Majumdar, drake shade35, Aleksey A E, Dreamer of Nightmares,

MagusZanin, Jack, AntaeusTheGiant, Blaze Mastermind, bejammin2000, Aleksei, 8thKnightofKeys, Jorge Benedicto, Dixon Gao, Rumour, JustAUser, Christoph Pleynert, Bailee Maple, Skipps, Pseudo Nym, StarForce_BlackAce, Meep_Meep, Ben Stan, krilinater, Overlord susanoo, WorkForFood, Hug0H, Murica-Man, Michael Afanasenko, Vincent Mason, Willayfiddle,

Cedron Spaulding, James Carl Henderson, Ashley Stanhope, Yobthog, Furyful Fawful, Zach Collins, zero1995, ALEX, Zero_to_Nero, Good guy Paul, Arkhad, Greenfall87, Weirdo, The flying biscuit., Simon Anoma, Ryan m, Mika Artus, Jananakkam, mastergamer98007, AriesDusk, Guisarme, Brett Labat, JoJoDio, Jordan, Ahmed, Coleman, V3c4, Travis Dean, Mr. Bigglesworth, Writer-Man,

Tian Seve, TheBlackenedWoods, Tret, Somebody, Rinoa, gabriel hutcherson, sumit pal, Diego, Janni, Janni, BarrettSlayer, Gabriel,

Segev, Johnathan, Jack, Cypher1597.

Also, a special shoutout to my editors and pre-readers: @kenmadragon and @Magus Zanin



– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Interlude: Gwenna

Gwenna's boots crunched through the thin layer of frost that coated the ground, her breath misting in the crisp afternoon air. The village of Frostfall bustled around her, a cacophony of familiar sounds that had been the backdrop of her life for as long as she could remember. The clanging of the blacksmith's hammer, the lowing of cattle, the chatter of villagers as they went about their daily tasks—it was a symphony she knew by heart, as comforting as a mother's lullaby.

Old Edda said this Winter would be a bad one, she thought, pulling her woolen cloak tighter around her shoulders. Old Gods be good, she'll be wrong. The rough fabric scratched against her neck, the homespun cloth a far cry from the soft silks and velvets she'd heard the southron ladies wore. But it was warm and sturdy, and that was what mattered

As she walked, Gwenna's hand drifted to the small wooden charm that hung from a leather cord around her neck. It was a habit she'd developed whenever she was lost in thought, her fingers tracing the intricate carved lines of the weirwood face. Her father had given it to her on her last nameday, a fallen piece of weirwood.

To keep the old gods close, he'd told her when she put it on.

And we'll be needin' them close, if this Winter is half as bad as Edda says, Gwenna mused, a small frown tugging at her lips. Da had made clear that Winter was nothing she had ever seen before, as she had only been barely more than a babe when Summer started but the longer the Summer, the worse the Winter was something he repeated often. As this Summer had stretched for so long, they were due for a harsh one, and the thought sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the chill in the air.

Shaking off the gloomy thoughts, Gwenna quickened her pace, her nose twitching as the scent of freshly baked bread wafted from Alin the baker's shop. Her stomach growled in response, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since breaking her fast that morning. She'd been too busy helping her father with village matters.

Or at least trying to.

Da says village work is for the chief, she thought with a huff, her arms crossing over her chest as she recalled the way he'd shooed her off, like she was still a babe clinging to her mother's skirts. I'm four and ten, old enough to help. I'll be runnin' this village myself someday.

"Gwenna!" A booming voice jolted her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see Alin himself standing in the doorway of his shop, his ruddy face split in a wide grin. "'Ad a taste of that fresh berry tart yet?"

Gwenna shook her head, a small smile tugging at her own lips in response. "Not yet, Alin," she called back, "but I will be trying it soon!" If there's time between all the chores, she added silently.

"Aye, well, don't ye be waitin' too long," Alin chuckled, his accent thick with the Northern brogue. "Berries won't last forever, what with th' cold comin' on so quick-like."

"I'll be sure to remember that," Gwenna promised, her smile widening a fraction.

As she continued on her way, more villagers called out to her, their greetings and small talk as much a part of the daily rhythm of Frostfall as anything else.

"Mornin', Gwenna! Off to help yer da again?"

"Aye, and he'll be lucky to have her, with that head for figures she's got!"

"Gwenna, tell yer ma I'll have that new batch o' candles ready by week's end, will ye?"

She answered each in turn, the warmth of the exchanges chasing away the last of the chill from her bones. This was what she loved about Frostfall, this sense of community, of everyone looking out for everyone else. As much as she felt a bit of envy toward the stories of the wealthy South, the tales of their spite and malice also tempered her thoughts just as much.

Lost in the comfort of the familiar, Gwenna almost didn't notice when she reached the village gates. But the sight of Edric standing guard, his youthful face set in a serious expression that always made her want to laugh, quickly brought her back to the present.

He's comely enough, she supposed, eyeing the young man speculatively, but about as exciting as watching paint dry on a fence post. Still, a bit of harmless talk never hurt anyone, and it might just brighten up her day.

"Afternoon, Edric," she called out as she approached, a coy smile playing about her lips. "Lovely day for some fresh air beyond the walls, don't you think? I was hoping to pick some wildflowers. The meadow is just blooming."

Edric's brow furrowed, his grip tightening on his spear as he held the thing as firmly and as straight as his own back stood. "I'd agree on the weather, Gwenna, but you know your father's rules," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "He's said it many a time, he has, there'll be no letting you out alone."

Gwenna felt a flicker of annoyance rise in her chest, her smile slipping a notch. I'm not some babe in swaddling clothes, she thought irritably, but kept her voice light as she responded. "Was back two moons ago he said that, I know it. Surely, the flowers can't be as dangerous as all that?"

"It's not the flowers I'm worried about, and you know that well enough," Edric replied, shaking his head. "I can't let you go, not without extra hands and eyes to keep you safe. There's been talk of Wildlings movin' south, and with winter comin' on..."

He trailed off, but Gwenna could fill in the rest. With winter coming, the Wildlings would be getting desperate, more likely to risk raids on northern villages like Frostfall in search of food and supplies. It was a tale as old as the North itself, and one that never ended well for anyone involved.

Still, I can take care of myself, she thought stubbornly. I've been practicing with a bow, and I'm getting good. I could help defend the village, if it came to it.
She opened her mouth to say as much, to argue her case, but the words died on her tongue as a sudden, sharp sound cut through the air. It was a noise she'd heard before, in the practice yard when the men were training, but never with such a sickening, meaty thunk at the end.

Time seemed to slow as Gwenna's eyes widened in horror, taking in the arrow that now protruded from Edric's neck. The young guard's hands flew up to clutch at the wound, but blood was already seeping through his fingers, bright red against his pale skin.

"Edric?" Gwenna's voice sounded small and far away to her own ears, as if it belonged to someone else entirely. This couldn't be happening. It had to be a dream, a nightmare. Any moment now she would wake up, safe in her bed, with the sounds of the village coming to life outside her window.

But she didn't wake up. And as Edric collapsed to the ground in front of her, his legs giving out like a puppet with its strings cut, the horrible reality of the situation came crashing down on her like a ton of stone.

The young guard tried to speak, but only a wet, gurgling noise escaped his lips.

"No, no, no..." Gwenna whispered, stumbling backward. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst from her chest, drumming in her ears and drowning out the sudden screams and shouts erupting around her. Her hands shook uncontrollably, and a cold fear washed over her, as icy as the winds that howled down from beyond the Wall.

"Edric!" The name tore from her throat, high and panicked.

The Old Gods protect us, she prayed silently, fervently. This can't be real, it can't be happening, not here, not to us…

But even as the desperate thoughts raced through her mind, the sounds of chaos erupted around her. Screams and shouts filled the air, mingling with the clash of metal on metal and the ominous crackle of flames. Smoke began to rise from the thatched roofs of the village buildings, carrying with it the acrid scent of destruction and death.

But it was real. All too real. Above it all, rising like a clarion call of doom, came the cry that confirmed her worst fears:

"Wildlings!" The voice rang out, sharp and terrified. "Wildlings at th' gates!"

Gwenna's mind raced, her father's lessons on what to do in case of an attack warring with her instinct to run and hide. She could smell smoke now, acrid and thick, as the first flames began to lick at the thatched roofs of the village buildings.

I have ta find Da, she thought desperately, forcing her legs to move. I have ta-

She ran.

Gwenna's heart hammered in her chest like a smithy's anvil, the rhythm so fierce she feared it might burst forth from her ribs, and the taste of fear, bitter as winter berries, coated her tongue.

Gwenna's legs moved of their own accord, carrying her through the maelstrom of panicked villagers and marauding wildlings. The guards were trying their best but they were few and scattered and the wildlings were as savage in battle as they were in their looks. The rough cobblestones beneath her feet were slick with blood and melting snow, threatening to upend her with each hurried step. She ducked behind an overturned cart, the splintered wood digging into her palms as she steadied herself.

From her hiding spot, Gwenna watched in horror as Betha Bones, the village midwife, was cut down by a wildling's rusty blade. The old woman's eyes, cloudy with cataracts, seemed to find the village girl in her final moments, silently pleading for help.

Gwenna's eyes stung, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her cheeks, but she couldn't tell if they were from the billowing smoke or the sheer terror that gripped her soul. Around her, Frostfall crumbled, the village that had been her entire world reduced to blood and ash. The screams of the dying mingled with the cries of the living, a cacophony of suffering that made her heart ache.

Old Gods, hear me, Gwenna prayed silently, her fingers clutching the wooden charm at her throat like a drowning man grasping for a raft. Spare us from this unholy nightmare.
A thunderous crash drew her attention, and Gwenna's head snapped towards the east gate, the door not too far from where she stood. The smaller wooden barrier, meant more for traders and fisherfolk than defense, burst open in a spray of splinters. Through the gap strode a figure out of nightmares - a wildling, massive and menacing, his crude axe already stained with old blood.

Gods have mercy, Gwenna thought desperately, fear turning her limbs to lead as the raider started towards her. His strides were long and purposeful, a predator who had sighted his prey.

His eyes, wild and hungry as a starving direwolf, scanned the fracas until they locked onto Gwenna. The grin that split his face was something out of the deepest of nightmares.Yellowed teeth, more absent than present, gleamed in the firelight as he started towards her. Gwenna's breath caught in her throat, her limbs frozen in terror.

"Oi, what's this then?" the wildling called out, his voice rough as gravel and thick with a barbarous accent. "A pretty little kneeler, all alone?" He spat on the ground, the glob of phlegm landing inches from Edric's still form. Gwenna's stomach churned at the casual disrespect, bile rising in her throat. "Gonna have some fun with ye, I am."

Move! a voice in her head screamed, cutting through the fog of terror. Move or die, you fool!

Her body obeyed, but too late and too clumsy. As she scrambled backwards, her foot caught in the hem of her long skirts, sending her sprawling. The impact with the hard ground drove the air from her lungs, leaving her gasping like a landed trout.

Tears blurred her vision as she clawed at the blood-soaked earth, fingers scrabbling for purchase, for anything to drag herself away from the approaching nightmare. The rough wool of her dress scraped against her skin, a sudden, sharp counterpoint to the numbness of her terror.

"Ain't ye a lively one?" The wildling's voice was closer now, heavy with cruel amusement. His shadow fell over Gwenna, blocking out the sun. "Makes it more fun when they squirm."

Gwenna squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the killing blow. Regrets flooded through her - things unsaid, deeds undone. I'm sorry, Da. I'm sorry, Ma. I wasn't strong enough.

She waited for the bite of the axe, for the blinding pain that would herald the end of all she knew. But it never came. Instead, there was a wet, choked off gurgle, the sound of a man trying to breathe through a throat full of blood.

Gwenna's eyes snapped open, just in time to see the wildling's body, cleaved nearly in two, topple to the side in a fountain of scarlet. The spray of it was hot across her face, shockingly warm in the chill air. She gagged, the coppery taste overwhelming her senses.

For a moment, all she could do was stare, her mind struggling to make sense of the sudden, violent turn. It was only when a figure stepped into her field of vision, blocking out the grisly sight, that she blinked, awareness seeping back in.

It was a boy, she realized, not much older than herself. He was smiling down at her, but it was a shaky thing, more queasy than confident. In his hand, he held a strange sword, like none Gwenna had ever seen. It lacked a crossguard, seeming to be all one piece, and the metal gleamed with the pure, untouched white of fresh fallen snow.

Who in the hells? The thought flashed through Gwenna's mind, confusion momentarily overriding her fear. She'd thought she knew every face in Frostfall, but this boy was utterly foreign to her. His hair shone like burnished gold in the waning light, and his eyes, bluer than any sky Gwenna had ever seen, held a depth of concern she'd never found in the gaze of any of the village boys.

Before Gwenna could find her voice, the strange boy spoke and she saw bright teeth, whiter and cleaner than she'd ever seen in her life. His words were gentle, but his accent was unlike anything she'd ever heard in the North.

"Hey, girlie, you doing okay?"
 
VI: Tutorial over?
I want to thank my current Patrons, a great deal. I appreciate the support and the updates will keep coming fast as I can write them. I'm not working right now because I'm at school full time. And this helps keep me afloat.

If you're fans of Where The Heart is, all the chapters all the way to the end of Season 1 are up there on the Patreon. The draft chapters under the name The Devil Went Down to Sunnydale are up to Chapter 36 of Fool Of The Devil rn and Season 1 is done.

Nerd in the North is done up to Chapter 10. I'm feeling pumped up so I'm gonna try and finish the first chapter of Season 2 tonight

Life Is But A Game is 5 chapters ahead on there, all the way to 2.17. Greg Vs is 4 chapters ahead, at 7.7a.

Where the Heart Is is written up to Issue 9, so 2 more chapters.

Thank you for reading.

Now, for the Patrons.

drake shade35, Aleksey A E, Dreamer of Nightmares, Nikhil Majumdar,

Scarecrow, Falme, Furry Bear, dimblydoorNier, ghosthammer, Sethk, LizardMessiah, Aleyte, Terran_Armor_core, Julian B, joseph m teti, TheLifeandTimes, Ironforge, XIEREN, Sebastian Hernandez, X Blade, Vu, edward cabanillas, 1536539, Dex Deer, Bailee Maple, Skipps, Pseudo Nym, StarForce_BlackAce, Christoph Pleynert, Meep_Meep, Ben Stan, krilinater, V3c4, WorkForFood, JustAUser, Murica-Man, Michael Afanasenko, Vincent Mason, Khetsun XD, Rumour, Jananakkam, Aleksei, 8thKnightofKeys, bejammin2000, Blaze Mastermind, Actedshelf088, CallOut4, Dixon Gao, Jack, Max Stevens, BubblyGhost, Jorge Benedicto, Zero_to_Nero, MagusZanin, whateverlol, Yobthog, Zach Collins, AntaeusTheGiant, Jack,

ragnarocko, theoreticaltirst, PyschoPomp, D4RK L1TCH, Annihilation951, Jordan, Ahmed, Coleman, Travis Dean, Guisarme, AriesDusk, mastergamer98007, Brett Labat, Greenfall87, Weirdo, The flying biscuit., Simon Anoma, Arkhad, Good guy Paul, Mr. Bigglesworth, Furyful Fawful, Aztracity, zero1995, Ashley Stanhope, ALEX, James Carl Henderson, Cedron Spaulding,

Ozymandias, Zack Evans, BSG_FAN, sumit pal, Diego, BarrettSlayer, Gabriel, gabriel hutcherson, Rinoa, Tret, Somebody, TheBlackenedWoods, SaintPriest, Tian Seve,

Kamden Wilson, uno, Cypher1597, Jack, Johnathan, Segev.

Also, a special shoutout to my editors and pre-readers: kenmadragon and Magus Zanin





– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Nerd In the North VI
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

"Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart," Greg sang, his voice carrying through the crisp northern air. He leaned back against the repaired gate as he sat on the ground, the rough wood digging into his spine through his thin clothes. The white sword at his side pulsed gently, almost in time with his song, as he continued, "...tell you, I tell you, the Wyvernkin comes."

The familiar words from CloudBrim felt weird on his tongue, like a piece of home that didn't quite fit in this medieval hellscape. Greg let out a sigh, his breath misting in the cold air. It had been three whole weeks, and some change, since he'd landed in this frozen knockoff of Lord of the Rings. The town was finally getting back on its feet after the Wildling attack, which was something, he guessed.

Wildlings.

That's what they called those psycho barbarians who'd tried to turn him into a Greg-kebab. Not berserkers, or barbarians, or even Vikings. Just... Wildlings.

Greg snorted, shaking his head. Kind of a lazy name, if you ask me. Wildling sounds like something you'd call a toddler on a sugar rush, not a bunch of murderous fantasy hobos.

He shifted his weight, trying to find a comfortable spot against the gate. The wood was rough and splintery, probably giving his back more acupuncture than he'd signed up for. But it was better than standing around like an idiot, he supposed. His gaze drifted over the landscape beyond the gate – endless snow and trees, like someone had taken a Bob Ross painting and sucked all the joy out of it.

Three weeks, Greg thought, chewing on his lower lip. Three weeks of being stuck in Ye Olde Shithole, and I'm starting to feel like someone dropped me off in the wrong fantasy world. He'd been hoping for elves, magic, maybe a cool guild hall where he could pick up quests.

You know, standard isekai stuff.

But nooooo.

What he got instead was a whole lot of British people. Which was bad enough on its own, but British peasants? That made it so much worse.

Like, so much.

"Because nobody fucking showers," Greg muttered under his breath, wrinkling his nose at the memory of his first few days here. The smell alone had nearly sent him running back to the Wildlings. "Nobody seems to have fucking soap, either." He shuddered, remembering the weird looks he'd gotten when he'd asked about basic hygiene. "Hell, these people think I'm crazy for heading down to the river every other day to dunk myself."

Greg's stomach growled, reminding him of the sad excuse for lunch in his hand. He glanced down at the strip of dried meat, tough as leather and about as appetizing. "My Isekai Fantasy Adventure is Lamer Than Expected," he scoffed, shaking his head. "Or at least Darker. Way darker."

He took another bite of the medieval jerky, his jaw working overtime to chew the leathery strip. How have they not invented sandwiches yet? he wondered, not for the first time. When did they even invent sandwiches, anyway? Note to self: look that up if I ever get back home. Could be my million-dollar idea here.

The thought of home sent a pang through his chest, a mix of homesickness and guilt that he quickly shoved down. Can't think about that now, he told himself firmly. Gotta stay focused. Gotta figure out how to get back. Or at least how to not die.

Speaking of not dying, he hadn't felt his soul grow anymore ever since he had shown up in the village. By the time all the chaos had ended and he'd cut down five more Wildlings, it had shot out three whole times.

One of those had left him feeling way more… intuitive.

Like, not smarter, but more capable, almost. Like he could figure things out way easier, if he put some practice into it, he was sure of it.

He wasn't sure if it actually worked like that, but he had taken to sword training pretty well, fast enough that the head guard had asked him if he'd ever held one before.

The second had gone… nowhere.

His soul had left him with another giant fart, even though he could tell that what he could have gotten would have been something really good. The Light in his soul could feel it too, it would have been incredible.

Would have been, he frowned, taking another hard bite out of the jerky.

The third was pretty good, though. Nothing to write home about, but solid.

It let him enchant stuff.

Granted, at first, he had been super excited about that, but it turns out it wasn't all that impressive, not like it seemed. First of all, he couldn't make anything all that powerful. He was pretty sure something like glasses that made you read faster would be out of his reach, let alone give you X-ray vision. On top of that, the time too.

The fuckin' time.

It took a whole three days to enchant each item, which was all sorts of bullshit. The enchanting alone took like an hour of focusing his attention on something, and then it took literally seventy-two hours to set in and activate.

Like, come the fuck on.

Multiply three days each times his windbreaker, t-shirt, jeans, underwear, boxers, socks and shoes, and you can see why he wasn't a happy camper.

Granted, now he had a pair of pants and a shirt that wouldn't get dirty, a jacket that kept him even more warm, underwear that wouldn't tear, and shoes that were much tougher as well as socks that wouldn't get his feet wet as easily. If it weren't for that wait, he might have already set out on his own to explore with Ash and find one of those major cities with a castle, instead of sitting here in the middle of Fantasy Greenland.

Greg sighed as movement caught his eye, and his gaze flicked to the right as a figure rounded the corner of the town wall. Another guard, sword at his hip, trudging through his rounds like he was programmed to.

"Hey, Lorn," Greg called out, raising a hand in greeting. His voice came out a bit too loud, too eager, but hey, human interaction was human interaction, right?

Lorn, the guard in question, simply looked at him and nodded. It was the same vague stare he always gave Greg, like he wasn't quite sure what to make of the blond-haired stranger in their midst. At sixteen – or 'six and ten' as these weirdos said – Lorn was barely older than Greg, but he might as well have been from another planet.

Greg's eyes skimmed over Lorn's appearance for the hundredth time, taking in the bland brown hair, bland brown eyes, and the blandest outfit this side of a medieval Walmart. Thick brown wool cloak, gray tunic, gray breeches, brown leather boots. The guy was so generic he could've been an NPC in the world's most boring RPG. The only thing that stood out was the tall spear he carried, like most of the guards. Actual swords seemed to be a rare commodity around here.

Lorn turned away without a word, continuing his rounds as usual. Greg sighed, watching him go. Another stimulating conversation in the books, he thought wryly. Really nailing this whole 'make friends and influence people' thing.

The silence settled back in, broken only by the distant sounds of the village and the whisper of wind through the trees. Greg shifted again, trying to ignore the growing numbness in his butt from sitting on the cold ground. His mind wandered, as it often did these days, to the villagers and their reactions to him.

They weren't sure what to make of him, that much was clear. Showing up in the middle of a barbarian raid, even if he did kill a bunch of them and save a few people (including the village chief's daughter, which he thought would've scored him more points), had left them feeling... well, conflicted.

Greg could practically feel their eyes on him sometimes, could hear the whispers that stopped whenever he got too close. His ears burned at the memory of some of the things he'd overheard. "Strange lad," "Touched in the head maybe," "Some lost southron, I figure." It was like being back in high school, only instead of jocks and popular kids, it was a bunch of medieval peasants who thought bathing too much made you sick.

Trying his best to understand the townspeople past their weird fantasy British, Irish, Scottish, whatever accents and Ye Olde English style of talking, he was pretty sure most of their gossipy whispers were about him.

Which made sense.

He was fresh and new, and before you had TV, you took all the chances you could get for something interesting.

"At least they answer my questions," Greg muttered, taking another unenthusiastic bite of his jerky. "Kind of." He chewed thoughtfully, trying to piece together everything he'd learned over the past few weeks. It wasn't much, and what he did know didn't make a whole lot of sense. He'd be much more thankful if the answers he got did make more sense, but these people really didn't know a lot about anything.

He was in some country called Westeros, apparently. A place with seven kingdoms, all ruled by seven big Lords, who were in turn ruled by one king. Which doesn't make any sense, Greg thought, furrowing his brow. Isn't the whole point of being a king that you don't answer to anybody? But whatever, not my circus, not my LARPing monkeys.

Right now, he was stuck in a town called Frostfall, which was in one of those kingdoms called The North. Greg rolled his eyes at that. The North. Real creative, guys. I bet it took you all of five seconds to come up with that one.

"Frostfall, The North, Wildlings," Greg sighed, shaking his head. "Come on."

Something RPGs and Isekai animes didn't prepare you for was how boring the past honestly was all the time. Without dragons to slay and Demon Kings to fight, it was just a lot of everyday repetitive blah.

Like, right now, bored out of his mind.

Like, mind-numbingly, brain-meltingly bored.

At least Ash got to run around in the woods before coming back every few hours. To check on me, like I'm his responsibility. He shook his head at his bear cub's antics.

Till the bear made another round, it was just his job to stare out at the endless expanse of snow and trees and more fucking snow. How do people live like this? he wondered, shoving another piece of jerky into his mouth and chewing mechanically. It's like being stuck in a never-ending loading screen.

He sighed, his breath misting in the frigid air.

He was just about to shove the rest of the jerky into his mouth when a familiar voice called out, slightly muffled by the thick wooden gate. "M'lord Greg!"

Greg's eyes widened, the jerky frozen halfway to his mouth. Shit, is that...? He quickly swallowed the tough meat, wincing as it scraped down his throat, and jumped to his feet, brushing the snow off his jeans.

Act cool, Veder. You've got this.

He'd barely managed to straighten up and clear his throat when a smiling face poked out from behind the gate, auburn braids swinging. Gwenna's smile was as bright as ever as she fully stepped into view, her laugh like a bell cutting through the crisp air. "Ah, knew I'd find ye."

Oh god, it is her. He felt his face heat up, a blush rising to his cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold. Gwenna, the chief's daughter, the girl he'd saved from a wildling attack nearly a month ago. She was pretty in a wild, girl-next door sort of way, with high cheekbones and dimples that showed when she smiled, and long lashes that framed her expressive eyes. Her auburn hair was braided intricately, the twin tails resting on the shoulders of her deep green wool dress and grey cloak, the braids bouncing as she skipped.

Stop staring, you creep, Greg chided himself, forcing his gaze away from her face.

"Lady Gwenna," he said, offering what he hoped was a cool, lopsided smile. "I thought you weren't supposed to be outside the gate?"

Gwenna giggled, the sound making Greg's stomach do a weird swoopy thing he wasn't entirely comfortable with. "I'm no Lady," she said, her accent thicker than the snow around them.

"You're the chief's daughter, right?" His smile morphed into a grin, unable to help himself as he talked to her. Something about talking to Gwenna always made him feel a little bolder, a little more... himself. Or at least, the version of himself he wished he could be all the time.

"That don't make me a Lady," Gwenna shot back, crossing her arms over her chest. "It takes more to be a Lady, you know."

"And what makes me a Lord?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in what he hoped was a suave, questioning look. Probably looks more like I'm having a stroke

Gwenna mirrored his expression, her own brow arching even higher. Her gaze flicked between his face and his clothes, lingering for a moment on the sword at his waist before returning to meet his eyes. "Nothing 't all, mi'lord."

Ugh, this again. Greg barely fought the urge to groan and roll his eyes. Ever since he'd arrived in Frostfall, the villagers had been convinced that he was some sort of lost noble, a 'lordling' from the South. No matter how many times he told them otherwise, they just wouldn't believe him. It didn't help that this whole "lord" thing had become a running joke of Gwenna's that she seemed particularly fond of perpetuating. He could still remember the first time she'd called him that, right after he'd helped her to her feet during the Wildling attack.

Back then, it hadn't been a joke – she'd genuinely thought he was some kind of nobility. The "m-milord" had spilled out along with a nervous curtsy that Greg had immediately tried to shut down.

He wished it stopped there.

Apparently, being as concerned with being clean as he was along with white teeth before people figured out fluoride and toothpaste meant you were some kind of noble.

It really didn't help that when people asked where he came from, he simply told them he didn't remember, that he just hit his head and woke up in the forest.

That just made them think he was a runaway "lordling". These people really like adding -ling to the end of words. Shouldn't that make Wildlings young Wilds, if we're going by that logic? His right eye twitched trying to understand how these people handled English… or whatever their language was, cause there was no England here. Either way, makes no sense for them to think I'm a noble or whatever.

Although, it could have been how bright and well-made his clothes were compared to everyone else's. It didn't help that he stood out like a sore thumb among the villagers, with their rough-spun wool and muddy colors. His bright blue windbreaker, jeans, and sneakers were like a neon sign screaming 'I'm not from here!' Hell, the most colorful clothes he saw in town was Jenna's dress.

Or maybeeee it was the weird-shaped white sword.

Yeah, Greg tilted his head to the side. That might do it.

Slicing a few wildling's arms off and the one he'd cut in half had been really impressive, because swords weren't supposed to be that sharp.

Well, most swords.

This low-fantasy world apparently had some sort of magic enchanted swords called Valerie swords that only a few special rich nobles could afford. Weird name, but he wasn't gonna judge.

This place had all sorts of weird names for things.

Like again, the North.
Which, to be fair, was more lazy than weird.

"How's the guard'n going, m'lord?" Gwenna asked, her head tilting quizzically.

Oh, yeah, he'd been a guard for a while now. Greg shook his head at the question, giving Gwenna a shrug and a slight smile to go along with it, trying to pull of nonchalant. "Same as usual."

Gwenna's dad had given him the temporary job for as long as he stayed in the village, which was appreciated, because he had no money. Her dad, the headman, or chief had even been nice enough to let him sleep in what they called the hall, a big old building with beds that travelers could sleep in.

Food was free, too.

Even if it wasn't all that good.
Gwenna nodded, her braids bobbing. "Aye, 'tis rather dull work, starin' at the snow all day," she said. Then, her eyes brightened, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "Though I suppose 'tis better than muckin' out the pigs, aye?"

Greg blinked, startled by the sudden shift in topic. "Uh, yeah, definitely," he said, hoping his confusion wasn't too obvious. "I mean, pigs are cool and all, but I'd rather not get up close and personal with their... y'know."

Gwenna laughed, the sound bright and clear in the crisp air. "Aye, 'tis a stinky business, that," she agreed.

Greg felt his cheeks redden further. "So, what brings you out here, not-a-Lady Gwenna?" he asked, trying to steer the conversation away from pig shit. "Besides gracing this humble guard with your presence, of course."

Gwenna's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Ah, ye've caught me, m'lord. I've come to rescue ye from the perils of guard duty." She gestured dramatically at the snowy landscape beyond the gate.

The blond blinked again. "You did?"

"Aye, me da's wantin' to have a word with ye," she said, her tone slightly more serious now. "Sent me runnin' to fetch ye, he did."


The chief? Greg felt a flicker of unease.

While Gwenna's father had been nothing but kind to him, the headman offering him food, shelter, and even a temporary job for as long as he was in town— with what he assumed was good pay, Greg always got the sense that the man didn't entirely trust him. Especially when Gwenna was around. Oh god, he doesn't think... I mean, we're not... Gaaaah, get it together, Veder!

"Huh..." Greg said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Any idea what he wants to talk about?"

Gwenna shrugged, the motion causing her braids to bounce again. "Didn't say. But he seemed right serious about it."

Great. Just great. Greg's mind raced, trying to think of anything he might have done to piss off the chief. Maybe he's seen the way you look at his daughter, idiot, that annoying voice in his head chimed in again. Greg felt his face grow even hotter.

"Well," he said slowly and carefully, "guess I shouldn't keep him waiting, huh?"

Gwenna nodded, her own expression a mix of curiosity and concern. "Aye, best not to. Shall we go together, then?"

He kept his expression neutral, hoping his inner panic wasn't showing on his face. "Sure, why not?" he said with a casualness he definitely didn't feel. "Lead the way, m'lady."

Gwenna rolled her eyes at the title but smiled nonetheless, turning back towards the gate. Greg followed, his mind racing. What could the chief want? Am I in trouble? Did I do something wrong?

As they walked through the village, Greg couldn't help but marvel at how different everything was from his own time. The houses were simple, made of rough-hewn timber and thatch, with smoke curling from the chimneys. People went about their daily tasks —tending to animals, chopping wood, mending clothes —with a diligence and purpose that was so unlike the leisurely pace of modern life.

No smartphones, no internet, no video games, Greg mused, dodging a pair of scruffy chickens that clucked indignantly at his passing. Just good old-fashioned hard work and the constant threat of death by starvation or wildling attack. Ah, the simple life.

He glanced at Gwenna, noting the confident way she navigated the muddy paths, the easy greetings she exchanged with the other villagers. She's so at home here, he thought, a pang of something like envy or longing twisting in his chest. She knows exactly who she is and where she belongs. Must be nice.

Greg had never really felt like he belonged anywhere, not at school, not online... He was always the odd one out. Granted, he was still the odd one out here, but at least now…

I'm a hero, he thought to himself. I saved Gwenna, I protected the village. I matter.

It was a heady thought, one that made him stand a little taller, his steps a little more confident.

He was so busy trying to get his blushing under control that he almost ran smack into Gwenna when she stopped in front of a large, log building. The mead hall, Greg recognized, where the chief conducted village business and hosted feasts and gatherings.

"Well, 'ere we are," Gwenna said, turning to face him. She was standing very close, close enough that Greg could see the faint dusting of freckles across her nose, the flecks of blue in her grey eyes.

"Uh-huh," Greg said eloquently, his brain short-circuiting at the proximity. Words, Veder, use your words! "I mean, yeah, great, let's do this."

Gwenna gave him an odd look but didn't comment, instead pushing open the heavy wooden door and gesturing for him to enter. Greg took a deep breath, steeling himself. Alright, Veder, game face on. Time to talk to the chief. You got this.

Greg Veder walked into the dimly lit mead hall, his eyes adjusting to the change from the bright, snow-reflected sunlight outside. The air was thick with the scent of wood smoke and roasting meat, and despite his nerves, Greg's stomach grumbled in appreciation.

He stepped further into the hall, Gwenna following close behind. The large room was dominated by a central hearth, its flickering flames casting dancing shadows on the rough-hewn walls. At the far end, seated on a sturdy wooden chair that might generously be called a throne, was Chief Harl himself.

Chief Harl was a solid, stocky man, Greg knew that. At 5'9", he wasn't exactly towering, but he was built like a stone wall—broad shoulders, strong arms, and a chest that looked like he'd been cutting wood for years, which probably wasn't inaccurate. The man had a thick black head of long hair tied back, and his beard was just as full, and only a little unkempt.

Dude looks like he could bench press a bear, Greg thought, suddenly feeling very scrawny in comparison. Note to self: start working out. Or at least figure out the medieval equivalent of protein shakes.

The chief's sharp grey eyes turned onto Greg as the blond approached, always watching him whenever he was around. Greg swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden dryness in his throat.

"...uh, Chief Harl," Greg greeted, bowing his head to the seated man and hoping it came off as respectful rather than awkward. He winced internally at the crack in his voice. "You wanted to see me?"

The chief's eyes narrowed for a moment, and Greg fought the urge to squirm under that piercing gaze. But then Harl shook his head and looked over Greg's shoulder, his expression softening slightly.

"Gwenna, leave us. Your mother has need of ye."

"Yes, Da." Gwenna's voice was soft, almost hesitant. Greg glanced back at her, catching her eye for a brief moment before she turned and left, her footsteps fading into the background noise of the hall.

With his daughter gone, the chief regarded Greg with inscrutable eyes, his bearded face unreadable. "Aye, that I did," he rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly, like stones grinding together. "Ye stumble to Frostfall with no knowledge of yer past. That change yet?"

Greg blinked, thrown by the question. "Uh, no, Chief." Unless you count the fact that I'm from a whole different world and time, but somehow I don't think that would go over well.

The chief leaned forward, the firelight glinting in his eyes. "Then we talk about th' future."

"The future?" Greg repeated, his head tilting to the side in confusion. Was this good? Bad? He tilted his head to the side, confusion evident on his face. Please don't let this be some weird medieval marriage proposal thing. I'm way too young for that.

"Aye, yer future." Chief Harl gestured to his right. "This 'ere's me younger brother, Merek."

Greg's head swiveled to the right, finally noticing the man who'd been standing there, leaning against the wall, the whole time. Huh, brothers.

Where Chief Harl was solid and well-built, his younger brother was lean, almost wiry, standing a few inches shorter—barely an inch taller than Greg—and lacking the bulk of a man used to a weapon in his hand. His face was clean-shaven too, the lack of beard making him look a good deal less rugged. But it was his clothes that really set him apart. They weren't fancy, per se, but they were different from Harl's rough practicality—less thick fur and rough tunics, more tailored lines and finer materials. All in all, they were clearly made with more expensive stuff and trimmed with something better than simple wool. Even his belt had a few more pouches than necessary.

Huh. Guess the medieval equivalent of a businessman is a... tradesman? Is that a word?

"Merek's a trader, sharp as they come," Harl continued, the gruff man nodding as he spoke. "'is lot rolled in yestermorn, and 'e's off again tomorra."

The younger brother stepped forward, his movements smooth and graceful compared to Harl's solid presence. He looked Greg up and down, assessing him with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Hi," Greg said, raising a hand in an awkward wave.

Merek closed the distance between them, extending his hand for a firm handshake. His grip was strong, his smile genuine but with a calculating edge that made Greg's skin prickle.

"Aye, pleasure t' meet ye, Greg," Merek said, his voice lighter than his brother's but still rough around the edges. "Heard a fair bit 'bout yer... exploits 'round 'ere."

Exploits? Is that what we're calling nearly getting killed by Wildlings and bears these days?

Greg returned the handshake, trying not to wince at the man's grip. "Thanks, I guess. Mostly just been trying to keep my head down." And attached to my shoulders, but who's counting?

Merek's eyes narrowed slightly, but his smile didn't waver. "Heh, keepin' yer head down, aye? I've heard ye've done a fair bit more than that. Sounds like ye're just th' kind o' man I'd need on th' road."

"What road?" Greg asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, ye know, this 'n that," Merek replied with a vague wave of his hand. "Mostly makin' sure me goods get near th' Dreadfort in one piece. Not a short trek, an' them roads... well, they've a mind t' be tricky."

The Dreadfort? Why does that sound like a place where they sell spooky Halloween decorations year-round?

Merek stepped back to stand next to his brother, and Chief Harl took over, his voice firm. The time for pleasantries was clearly over.

"Aye, Greg, ye know this village ain't much, an' we don't need no trouble, right? Now, me brother, he's headin' to th' Dreadfort come mornin'. Needs a strong lad at his back, like ye. Figured ye might be up fer it, eh?"

Greg blinked, taken aback by the sudden proposition. "Huh, I mean, I wasn't planning on leaving Frostfall just yet—"

"Thing is, see," Chief Harl interrupted, barreling forward like a conversational juggernaut, "Reckon if ye end up near th' lords, ye might, see, start rememberin' yer folk, might jog somethin' loose."

Oh. Oh, I get it. Greg stared silently at the man, wheels turning in his head. This is just to get rid of me because of Gwenna, isn't it? He couldn't help but feel like it was. He wasn't sure why though. It wasn't like he'd done anything inappropriate—hell, he hadn't even held her hand! And he wasn't going to do anything like... well, like that, in the first place. He wasn't some creep.

Not that I'd mind if she wanted to... No, focus, Greg!

"What d'ye make o' that, then?" Chief Harl asked, his gaze unwavering.

Screw it, let's just ask. "Why do you want to send me off so bad?" Greg blurted out, his tone a little more accusatory than he'd intended.

The chief's expression hardened, a hint of regret flickering in his eyes. "Ain't 'bout sendin' ye off, lad. It's 'bout puttin' yer... skills where they're needed. We're simple folk 'ere; don't have much call fer a fighter, or some runaway lordling, whatever ye are, not like th' Dreadfort does."

Ouch. Way to make a guy feel wanted. Greg swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. "What if I want to stay?"

Harl sighed, looking Greg dead in the eye. "If ye stay, ye're welcome, long as ye keep th' peace. But think on this—there's more t' th' world than Frostfall. Ye're meant fer more than 'ere."

The words hit Greg like a punch to the gut, a mix of resentment and reluctant understanding warring in his chest. As much as he'd grown to like Frostfall, with its simple routines and kind (if a bit rough around the edges) people, he knew Harl was right. He wasn't meant to stay here forever. He needed to figure out how he'd ended up in this world, and how (if possible) he could get back to his own.

Might as well, he mused, a wry smile tugging at his lips. I guess I haven't gotten any more experience since I've been here. Maybe this is the universe telling me I'm spending too much time in the tutorial area.

After a moment of hesitation, Greg nodded, deciding that the open road would probably let him grow. "Sounds like a plan. I don't have much holding me here... No offense, Chief."

Harl nodded, looking almost relieved. "Nay offense taken, lad. Better ye be where ye can do some good. That's all any man can ask, eh? A chance t' see where his path takes 'im. Merek'll set ye right on what's needed."


– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

10k words (100 GP)

Wannabe White Knight (250 GP)

Kill Interesting People [Wildling x 10] (200 GP)

Roll:
Fast Learner (400 GP) - "You learn skills incredibly quickly through practical work. It may take you a week to learn the theory behind a spell, but once you start practicing it you'll have it down within hours. This can apply even to things you might not expect. Some field work in archeology may really drill in your head the best way to locate ancient sites and treasures."

Failed Roll: Holy Sacrament (600 GP) - "You do not simply wield holy weapons -you ARE a holy weapon. Whether as a side effect of a past curse or a quirk of your lineage, you are a bit beyond the average human being - your body alone qualifies as a holy weapon, able to strike spirits and monsters as though you were the living blade of a saint, greatly damaging the demonic and the malevolent by touch alone, should you so will it. You can sense the presence of supernatural monsters or great evil within a city block-sized area, and track them with all the skill of an expert hunter. Your physical abilities are likewise enhanced - your strength is enough to bend steel, your speed is enough to keep up with a car moving at full speed, and your durability allows you to survive bullets and piercing wounds with a fair amount of ease, though removal of limbs or vital organs still can't be shrugged off with this alone. Finally, in your hands,any already-enchanted items or weapons designed as 'holy' are twice as effective, letting you tear through Dead Apostles with 'common' instruments like Black Keys and cutting a bloody swath through dozens of them with something like the Seventh Scripture. You are the one who hunts heretics and monsters in the night - and now, you embody that purpose."

Roll: Sorcery - Enchantment (One Dot) (100 GP) - "The sorcery of creating items with magical abilities and properties. The creation of such items generally takes three days per dot required to make it.

[1] The Enchanter creates a minor item with limited use only and a tight area of influence. Such as a jacket that works as abnormally good camouflage in a crowd, or glasses that never fog."


Grimoire Points: 100

Note: With his Starting Roll, I skipped the first chapter (and also Gwenna's POV because obviously) to not add it to the official narrative wordcount.
 
VII: Hitting The Road
I want to thank my current Patrons a great deal. I appreciate the support and the updates will keep coming fast as I can write them. I'm not working right now because I'm at school full time. And this helps keep me afloat.

If you're fans of Fool of The Devil, all the chapters all the way to the end of Season 1 are up there on the Patreon. I have posted the first chapter of Season 2. I'm working on the second chapter of Season 2 as we speak.

Nerd in the North is 3 chapters into Season 2. The last chapter I posted was Episode 7, so we're 6 chapters ahead.

Life Is But A Game is 3 chapters ahead on there, all the way to 2.17. I'll be working on more chapters for that this week.

Greg Vs is 5 chapters ahead, at 7.7c.

Where the Heart Is is written up to Issue 9, so 2 more chapters.

Look out for a new thread I will be posting next week. A DBZ/The Boys (comic/show) SI called A Boy's Tail.

Thank you for reading and thank you for supporting me.




VII: Hitting the Road



– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –


Greg stood at the treeline, arm cocked back, ready to launch the stick for what felt like the millionth time. The forest loomed behind him, a wall of dark pines dusted with fresh snow, their branches creaking softly in the cold breeze. He glanced down at Ash, the bear cub sitting a few feet away, staring at him with those big, dumb eyes.
"Okay, buddy, this time for sure," Greg muttered, more to himself than the bear. He let the stick fly, watching it arc through the crisp air before landing with a soft thump in the snow about twenty feet away.

He looked eagerly at the bear, pointing with his other hand. "Go on, buddy. Get it!"

Ash didn't move a muscle.

Fetch, Ash. It's not that hard, Greg sighed, trudging through the ankle-deep snow to retrieve the stick. You run, you grab, you bring it back. Easy peasy.

But the bear cub just sat there, staring at him with those big, dark eyes, head tilted slightly to the side as if to say, "What do you expect me to do with that, you weirdo?"

Greg sighed, picking up the stick and tossing it again. And again. And again. Each time, Ash remained rooted to the spot, watching the impromptu game of fetch with a decidedly unimpressed air.

"I'm just teaching myself how to play fetch," he realized, muttering under his breath. He narrowed his eyes at Ash. "I am, aren't I?"

The bear blinked back at him, utterly unimpressed.

Great. Outsmarted by a baby bear.

"Gregory!"

The shout startled him out of his one-sided staring contest with Ash. Greg glanced up, grimacing as he spotted Gwenna marching purposefully toward him from the direction of the village gates. Her auburn hair was a vibrant splash of color against the stark white landscape, her green cloak billowing behind her like a banner.

"Heyyyyy, Gwenna," he called out, trying for casual and missing by a mile. He glanced down at Ash, hoping for some moral support, only to see the little traitor hightailing it back into the trees, watching from a safe distance.

Coward, Greg thought, narrowing his eyes at the cub. Leaving me to face the music alone.

Gwenna stomped over to him, her boots crunching against the fresh snowfall with each step. As she drew closer, Greg could see the anger etched on her face, her brows furrowed and her lips pressed into a thin line.

Uh oh. That's not a happy face. That's a 'you're in deep shit' face.

"Is it true?" Gwenna demanded, coming to a stop right in front of him, close enough that Greg could feel the heat of her breath on his face.

Greg stared back at her blankly, already aware of what this was about but desperately hoping he was wrong. "Is... what true?"

She got right up in his face, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her gray eyes. "Is it true?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

Greg remained silent, his tongue suddenly feeling too big for his mouth. What could he say? That he was ditching her and the entire village to go on some wild adventure with a guy he'd just met? That her dad was all but kicking him out because he didn't want his daughter getting too close to the weird outsider?

His mind raced, trying to come up with some excuse, some explanation that wouldn't hurt her. But he came up empty. Yeah, that'll go over well. 'Sorry, Gwenna, but your dad thinks I'm a bad influence. Gotta go, bye!'

Gwenna's eyes were slightly wet but blazing with anger. "You're leaving!"

It wasn't a question, but Greg nodded anyway, slowly, like he was confessing to a crime.

"You're leaving!" Gwenna shouted again, a balled fist landing on Greg's chest. The blow wasn't hard, but it might as well have been a sledgehammer for how much it hurt.

He grimaced slightly at the hit. "...I take it your dad told you," he said, rubbing the spot where her fist had landed. The words left his mouth lamely, Greg immediately wanting to kick himself for stating the obvious.

Now, it was Gwenna's turn to nod silently, her jaw clenched tight. For a few seconds that felt like an eternity, she just stared at him, her eyes searching his face for... something. Greg wasn't sure what. Finally, she spoke again, her voice small and hurt. "Why?"

Greg swallowed, suddenly finding it very hard to meet her eyes. "I need to seek adventure," he mumbled as he stared at the ground, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears as he watched the flakes of snow land on his sneakers. "I don't belong in Frostfall."

"But you said you loved it here," Gwenna countered, a note of betrayal in her voice.

Greg's heart clenched. I do love it here, he wanted to say. *I love... * But he couldn't finish that thought. Couldn't say it out loud. "...It's nice," he managed. "It's just not for me."

"...I-it's nice," Greg stammered, still avoiding her gaze. "It's just not for me."

Not for me, or not for her dad? the voice in his head asked snidely. Let's be real, Veder. You're running away. Just like you always do.

Gwenna stared at him as he avoided her gaze, her narrowed eyes searching his face like she was trying to read his mind. "Me da wants you gone, doesn't he?"

Greg's head snapped up, his eyes going wide. How did she... "I..."

"Doesn't he?" Gwenna pressed, her voice rising and her tone hard.

Greg frowned, then nodded slowly, reluctantly. "I think he doesn't want you to get yourself tied up with me... or whatever."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Gwenna demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

Greg ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, before throwing up his hands. How could he explain this without sounding like a total loser?

"I don't know, Gwenna," he said with a groan. "I'm just some stranger who showed up out of nowhere with a weird sword and a bear cub," he glanced at the treeline, seeing Ash rolling around in the snow, "that's also a coward," he added, glaring at his so-called animal companion.

He turned back to Gwenna, shoulders slumping. "If I was him, I probably wouldn't want my daughter getting involved with some strange guy who doesn't have any..." he racked his brain for what medieval people cared about, "land or servants or something."

Gwenna stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, out of nowhere, she asked, "Are you stupid?", her voice flat.

Greg blinked, caught off guard. "I mean, sometimes, I th—"

He never got to finish that sentence. Because suddenly, impossibly, Gwenna was kissing him. Her lips were soft and warm against his, tasting faintly of honey and berries. Greg's brain short-circuited, unable to process what was happening.

Almost on instinct, his arms came up to wrap around her, pulling her closer. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart against his chest, the heat of her body seeping into his own. For a moment, everything else faded away—the cold, the uncertainty, the looming specter of his departure. There was only Gwenna, and the feel of her in his arms, and the sweet pressure of her lips on his.

As they kissed, Greg felt his soul expand again, ballooning out only to reach nothing. But for once, he didn't care about gaining experience or leveling up or whatever the hell his weird powers were supposed to do.

All he cared about was this moment, this girl, this kiss.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the kiss was over. Gwenna pulled back, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining with a mix of emotions Greg couldn't quite decipher.

"Wow," he breathed, blinking dazedly. He felt like he'd just been hit by a truck.

A really nice truck. "That was... wow."

Gwenna laughed, the sound soft and sad as she wiped the tears in her eyes with the back of her hand. "Yes, wow." She laughed again. "Ye've got a funny way o' talkin', don't ye?"

"I guess… I guess I do," Greg replied, trying to smile even as his heart clenched painfully in his chest.

He watched as Gwenna turned and walked back towards the village, her shoulders hunched and her head bowed, feeling like his chest was being squeezed in a vise. Part of him wanted to run after her, to tell her that he'd changed his mind, that he'd stay in Frostfall forever if it meant being with her.

But he didn't. He couldn't.

"...can't stay where I'm not wanted, though," he muttered to himself, trying to ignore the voice in his head screaming that he was, in fact, very much wanted.

With a sigh, Greg turned back to the treeline, where Ash was watching him with a curious tilt of his furry head.

"Come on, buddy," he said, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. "Let's go pack. We've got a long road ahead of us."

A long, lonely road, his mind whispered. But hey, that's the hero's journey, right? Leave behind everything you know and love, set off into the great unknown, become the chosen one or whatever?

Greg snorted, shaking his head as he trudged back through the snow, Ash trotting at his heels. Some fucking Chosen One.


– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

His canvas bag felt heavier than it should have.

Greg adjusted the strap on his shoulder, wincing as it dug into his skin through his thin shirt. The bag was filled with dried food, water skins, and a few personal items he'd scrounged from around the village during his month-long stay. Somehow, it felt like it weighed ten times more than it actually did.

Maybe it's all the emotional baggage, he thought with a smirk, then immediately cringed at his own lame joke.

But whatever...

He stood outside the South gate of Frostfall, eyes fixed on the caravan. Two canvas-covered wagons loomed before him, giving off a lot of "Home, Home on the Range" sort of vibe.. These would be all he'd be seeing for the next month and a half on the road, this and the snowy forests.

Month and a half, he held back a groan. God, I miss cars. Cars, phones, computers, television - he was missing a lot of things, honestly. Fantasy worlds sucked all kinds of balls, if he was being real, and boredom was the greatest enemy.

He could honestly feel his ADHD starving to death with nothing to distract him but snow, guard work, snow, and combat training.

Did he mention snow?

The blond boy fought the urge to frown, keeping his face blank as he stared at the two horses a few feet ahead of him, one hitched to each wagon. Ash, at his feet, stared at them curiously, the bear cub clearly new to the sight of an odd-looking animal that large.

At least I don't have to learn to ride a horse on short notice, Greg thought, feeling a small wave of relief. That had been a worry, at least, something he'd been confused over. He hadn't even seen a horse since he was single digits before he ended up in this hellish snowscape, so the slight anxiety was real. He quickly learned that the horses were being used to pull the cargo wagons with only Merek, his trader friend, and their two assistants actually getting to sit down.
The five guards for the caravan — him included — were walking.

Which is probably going to be another problem, but I'll stress over that later, Greg mused, already imagining the blisters he'd be nursing by nightfall.

He glanced up as he heard the crunching of snow approaching him, eyebrows rising slightly as he spotted Merek walk up to him. The tradesman wore a smile on his clean-shaven face, looking like the neatest person Greg had seen since he landed in Westeros. His clothes were well-made and practical, a far cry from the rough spun wool most of the villagers wore.

"Gregor, aye? How's th' day find ye?" Merek asked, his voice carrying a strong hint of polish that his brother Harl's lacked.

Greg winced internally at the name. "It... it's just Greg," he corrected, lips pursed as he nodded slowly. "Y-you can just call me Greg."

"Ah, me mistake," the caravan owner responded, his expression not shifting one bit. That fixed smile was starting to creep Greg out a little. "Got yerself ready t' be off, then?"

Greg glanced down at himself, then at Ash, who was now pawing at his legs. "Yeah, we're..." He looked back at the village, at the small crowd that had gathered to see off the caravan and Merek. Apparently, his rare trips back to his home village were always something of note. "...we're ready."

Merek's gaze followed Greg's, lingering on the crowd for a moment before dropping to Ash, just now seeming to notice the bear cub. His eyebrows rose slightly, but he quickly schooled his features back into that unnervingly steady smile. "Ye know," Merek began, his voice taking on a more earnest tone, "when I left Frostfall, I weren't much older than ye. I saw me future clear as day—out there, not here. There's a world full o' wonder in the kingdoms, lad. Ye don't want Frostfall t' be the whole o' what ye know."

We've been over this yesterday, Greg thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Whatever. Out loud, he just nodded, keeping his expression tight. "Yeah... I get that."

After a few moments of quiet staring, during which Greg tried not to squirm under Merek's calculating gaze, the tradesman simply nodded at him. Greg couldn't help but notice the man's face didn't even shift in the slightest bit, his smile and expression almost perfectly still which was... off. Like talking to an NPC in a game with limited facial animations.

"Right, all's sorted. Let's get movin'," Merek said, turning away.

The man walked off and hopped onto the front of the wagon in the lead. Greg turned to follow, his mind already racing with thoughts of the journey ahead. Will we run into bandits? Monsters? Please, God, let there be something more interesting than snow...

His musings were cut short as he felt a hand on his back. Greg turned around, blinking in surprise as he came face to face with-

"Gwenna?"

The girl nodded silently, looking Greg in the eye. There was a softness in her gaze that made his heart do a little flip. Before he could say anything, she lifted something over his head and let it fall around his neck. Greg glanced down at what she had just given him, recognizing the bone-white wood pendant on the piece of string. It was something he had grown familiar with seeing around her own neck over the last month.
"Your necklace...?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

"Aye," she smiled, the expression way more sad than he liked. "Old Gods brought you to Frostfall. Only right that they see you off."

"Gwenna, I..." Greg started, a lump forming in his throat. He wanted to tell her how much this meant to him, how much she meant to him. But the words wouldn't come.

She shook her head, silencing him without a word. "...I'll miss you, m'lord."

Greg swallowed hard, fighting back the urge to just say 'screw it' and stay. But he knew he couldn't. This wasn't his world, no matter how much a part of him wished it could be. "And I you, my lady," he managed, forcing a smile.

Gwenna ran back to stand with her family. Her father's face was stormy, his eyes fixed on Greg with a mixture of suspicion and resignation. Her mother, a kind-faced plump woman, offered Greg a small, sympathetic smile. They stood at the forefront of the small crowd, the village chief and his family a picture of both authority and normalcy.

Greg glanced back and waved as he walked away with the caravan, doing his best to convince himself he didn't see the tears on Gwenna's face. It's for the best, he thought, the words ringing hollow even in his own mind.
As the gates of Frostfall receded behind him against the open tundra, Greg felt a strange mix of excitement and dread settling in his stomach. He was leaving the only bit of stability he'd found in this world, heading out into the unknown. Part of him thrilled at the idea - wasn't this what he'd always dreamed of, being the hero in his own fantasy adventure?

But another part, a part that sounded suspiciously like his mom, whispered warnings about stranger danger and the perils of the wilderness. Mom would freak if she knew I was going on a road trip with a bunch of medieval strangers, he thought, a pang of homesickness hitting him hard.

He looked down at Ash, padding along faithfully beside him. At least he wasn't completely alone. "Just you and me, buddy," he muttered. "Ready for an adventure?"

The bear cub just blinked up at him, utterly unimpressed.

Yeah, Greg thought, turning his eyes to the snowy road ahead. Me neither.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –


My First Kiss Went A Little Like This (200 GP) - Fail

Failed Roll:
Crystal Immersion (400 GP) - "You have a blessing of the crystal-based magical technology of the Silver Millennium. Your body possesses a special protection spell that cannot be dispersed easily. When you are near death, your body will become encased in a diamond-hard crystal and you will enter a deep sleep. Within this sleep, your body will slowly heal or suspend itself if the wound is impossible to heal from. This crystal, however, can be shattered with enough force, and your body can still be killed. People may use magic to heal you through this crystal."

Grimoire Points: 300
 
VIII: New Friends
I want to thank my current Patrons a great deal. I appreciate the support and the updates will keep coming fast as I can write them. I'm not working right now because I'm at school full time. And this helps keep me afloat.

If you're fans of Fool of The Devil, all the chapters all the way to the end of Season 1 are up there on the Patreon. I have posted the first two chapters of Season 2. I'm working on the third as we speak.

Nerd in the North is 4 chapters into Season 2. That's 6 chapters ahead.

Life Is But A Game is 3 chapters ahead on there, all the way to 2.17. I'll be working on more chapters for that this week.

Greg Vs is 4 chapters ahead, at 7.7c.

Where the Heart Is is written up to Issue 9, so 2 more chapters.

Look out for a new thread I will be posting on Friday. A DBZ/The Boys (comic/show) SI called A Boy's Tail.

Thank you for reading and thank you for supporting me.




– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –


VII: New Friends

The afternoon sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows over the snow-covered path. Greg squinted against the glare, his eyes watering slightly from the combined assault of light and cold. The wind nipped at his face, not quite as brutal as it had been before Frostfall, thanks to the enchantment he'd put on his windbreaker and the combined effect of his ring but still noticeable, even with both of them working together. At least it's not snowing, he thought, trying to find a silver lining.

The caravan moved steadily southward, the rhythmic sound of hooves and the creak of wagons creating a rhythmic backdrop to their journey. It reminded Greg of the old Western movies his dad used to watch, only instead of tumbleweeds and desert, they had endless snow and pine trees. Yee-haw, I guess, he thought dryly.

Greg walked alongside the wagons, his sword bouncing lightly against his side. He kept adjusting the canvas pack slung over his shoulder, the unfamiliar weight throwing off his balance. Man, I miss backpacks with actual padding, he grumbled internally.

What was more annoying is he had felt his soul attempt to level up again, reaching out for another power only to get nothing. Need more excitement.

Ash trotted by his feet, the little bear cub keeping close. Greg couldn't help but smile at the sight of the furball nearly disappearing in patches of snow. At least one of us is enjoying this winter wonderland.

Ahead, Merek sat atop the lead wagon, his eyes constantly scanning the landscape. Greg had been trying to figure the guy out since they left Frostfall. He seemed friendly enough, but there was something... calculated about him. Like every smile was hiding about ten different thoughts about something else. Or maybe I'm just overthinking it.

As the path widened slightly and the initial tension of departure began to ease, Merek turned toward Greg with a nod as if on cue. "Best get t' know th' men," he said, his voice carrying that weird mix of rough Northern accent and trader's polish. "You'll be walkin' with 'em for the next few days, after all."

Greg blinked, pulled from his thoughts of how much his feet already hurt. "Uh, sure," he stammered, mentally kicking himself for sounding so lame. "Yeah, good idea." Smooth, Veder.

He glanced around slowly at the ragtag group of men who made up the traveling party, some sitting atop the wagons, others walking alongside.

"Right. Let's get you acquainted with everyone," Merek said, motioning to the first wagon. "That's Arton there."

Greg followed Merek's gesture to a man perched on the second wagon. Arton sat ramrod straight, his hands gripping the reins like they were the last controller in a multiplayer game. He didn't even bother looking Greg's way as Merek said his name. Geez, who peed in his cornflakes?

"Arton's my trading partner," Merek explained. "Bit of a quiet type."

No kidding, Greg thought, giving a short nod. He wasn't expecting much else from Arton. The guy seemed about as talkative as a brick wall, and twice as welcoming.

Merek then pointed to the two young men driving each wagon. "Brunn and Carn, those two are my assistants. Good lads, even if they're still a bit wet behind the ears."

Greg glanced at the pair, his eyebrows rising slightly. Brunn and Carn looked like they were barely out of their teens, but their weathered faces and scraggly beards threw him off. These guys looked more like they'd been through years of rough living than the fresh-faced boys he was used to seeing back home. Man, everyone here looks older than they should, Greg mused. Is it just the North, or is this whole place stuck in some medieval time warp?

Brunn offered Greg a short nod, while Carn barely acknowledged him, too focused on keeping the horses in line. Greg figured he'd have plenty of time to get to know them later. If by "get to know" I mean "awkwardly avoid eye contact for the next month and a half."

As Merek gestured toward the guards walking beside the wagons, Greg took in each one, feeling like he was selecting characters for some weird RPG party.

"Now, these here are the men you'll be walking with," Merek said, a hint of pride in his voice. "Good lads too, most of the time."

First was Brynn 'Ironfoot'—the human mountain, as Greg had started to think of him. Brynn never said much, his face set in stone, his warhammer always gripped tightly in one hand as though it weighed nothing. Greg had the sneaking suspicion the guy could clear a path through anything without breaking a sweat. The man's silence was... intimidating, to say the least. Note to self: Do not piss off the guy who can probably bench press a horse.

"Brynn's about as solid as they come," Merek said, his tone respectful. "Ain't much for talk, but you'll know he's there when trouble shows up."

Greg nodded, though Brynn didn't even glance his way. The man just kept staring ahead, as if mentally smashing everything that might come their way. Great. My new bodyguard is the strong, silent type. And probably deaf.

Next, Dael Stone moved alongside them, a light bounce in his step, his light brown hair well-kept and his face wearing a perpetual goofy grin. He reminded Greg of the class clown back in middle school, only with more beard and probably more knife-fighting skills.

"Dael there's the one you'll hear before you see," Merek explained, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Man's got a joke for everything, though I'd wager half of it goes over most folk's heads."

Dael winked at Greg, sidling up to him as they walked. "Oi, Greg, heard this one yet?" he asked, his accent lighter and more playful than the others. "What's the difference between a woman from Dorne an' a stallion?"

Greg blinked, trying to figure out where this was going. His mind raced through all the inappropriate punchlines he could think of, each one worse than the last. Oh god, please don't be what I think it is. "Uh, no, I haven't—" he started, his voice cracking slightly.

Dael laughed, slapping Greg on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Ha! I'll save the answer for later, mate. Wouldn't want t' scare ye off before ye've had a proper taste o' the road."

Great, Greg thought, forcing a smile. Medieval dick jokes. Just what I needed to make this trip complete.

He chuckled awkwardly, still trying to wrap his head around Dael's endless stream of Westerosi jokes. The other men seemed to find them funny, judging by the laughs and smirks, but half the time Greg wasn't even sure what they were talking about

As they continued their trudge through the snow, Merek nodded toward the back of the caravan, where a man with a bow kept pace. "That there's Jory Longbow," Merek said. "Quieter than most, but if there's trouble comin' from behind, he'll see it afore anyone else does."

Jory nodded but didn't say anything. His bow was slung across his back, but Greg could tell it was well-used, the wood polished from constant care. Dude looks like he walked straight out of Lord of the Rings, Greg mused.

Jory struck him as one of those guys who didn't say much because he didn't need to—his actions probably spoke for him when the time came. Greg couldn't help but wonder if the guy ever smiled. Bet he's a blast at parties.

Merek then pointed ahead to a smaller figure moving like a shadow ahead of the group. "And that there's Threnn," he said with a hint of amusement. "We call him 'The Rat'—well, ye see why.."

Greg glanced at Threnn, who barely looked like he was taller than a twelve year old. He was thin, almost unnervingly so, and seemed to move through the snow without making a sound. The man's eyes darted around constantly, his hands never leaving the twin daggers at his sides.

He definitely looks like a rat. Threnn noticed Greg's gaze and gave him a nod, his lips curling into a smirk. It wasn't threatening, but something about the man felt... slippery.

"Don't mind 'im," Dael added, noticing Greg's wary glance. "Threnn's just a bit twitchy, is all. Ain't nothin' to worry 'bout, long as he's on yer side."

Greg smiled weakly, still taking in all the men he was traveling with. Each one had their quirks, but they seemed capable enough. As Dael kept up his string of jokes—half of which Greg still didn't understand—he fell into the rhythm of the group, his unease about the journey fading slightly as the hours passed.

But as the sun began to dip lower and the temperature started to drop, Greg couldn't help but notice Merek glancing back at him every now and then, his eyes lingering just a bit longer on the sword at Greg's side.

"A good group we've got here, eh, lad?" Merek said, breaking into Greg's thoughts. His tone held something Greg couldn't quite place—like he was fishin' for somethin'. "Ye stick close, we'll get ye where ye need t' be."

Greg nodded, smiling back at Merek. "Yeah, seems like a good crew."


– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –


The next evening, the caravan moved steadily through the forest path, with the horses pulling the wagons and the men walking alongside. Greg found himself walking with Ash in his arms, the bear fast asleep after scrambling off into the woods to eat berries or whatnot.

Lucky little guy, Greg thought, looking down at the cub with only a little jealousy. Wish I could just conk out whenever I wanted. No worries, no responsibilities, just... naps and berries. He glanced up, noticing Dael weaving between the wagons, the man's curious gaze flickering to Greg's sword every so often. Here we go, Greg thought, bracing himself for another round of questions.

Sure enough, Dael spoke up, his voice casual but his eyes sharp. "That's a fine blade ye've got there, Greg. Not like anythin' I've seen 'round these parts. How'd ye come by somethin' like that?"

Greg glanced down at the sword, its pristine white blade a stark contrast to the dull grays and browns of the forest around them. The entire thing was a single piece, the metal of the blade fusing seamlessly into a hilt that felt... different, somehow. Wrapped around a bright blue gem where the crossguard should have been, it was unlike any sword Greg had ever seen, in video games or otherwise.

Greg glanced down at the sword, its pristine white blade different to the color of any steel he'd expect from any sword. The entire thing was all one piece, the metal of it fused to a hilt that felt different from the blade, all of it wrapped around a bright blue smooth gem where the crossguard should have been.

Play it cool, Veder, he told himself, offering Dael a friendly but simple response. "Found it on me when I woke up. Lost my memory, remember? Last month. Just a day's walk outside Frostfall."

Dael nodded, but his curiosity didn't seem entirely sated. "Ah, right. Can't imagine wakin' up like that, with no memory. But that sword... that's somethin' else. Ye're sure ye don't recall anythin' at all about it? No markin's, no inscriptions?"

Greg shook his head, a little more firmly this time. Dude, I already told you, I don't know. What, you think I'm hiding some secret sword lore from you? "Nope. Like I said, just woke up with it. Lucky find, I guess."

The gregarious man nodded thoughtfully, but before he could press further, Merek's voice chimed in from the lead wagon, the man not even bothering to look back. "That the blade ye used to save me niece?"

Greg blinked, surprised. Okay, wasn't expecting that. He shifted slightly, feeling the weight of the sword at his side. "Uh, yeah. Same one."

Brynn, the massive man with the warhammer, turned his head at the mention of Greg's rescue, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Saved yer niece, did 'e?"

Merek gave a small chuckle and nodded. "Aye, that he did. Wildlin' had her cornered, about t' do gods know what. Greg here came in an' cut 'im clean at the waist. Turned a whole Wildlin' to half a man."

Greg felt his cheeks heat up slightly, and it had nothing to do with the cold. Okay, wow, way to make it sound like I'm some kind of badass. I mean, I am, but still. "Just did what I had to," he said, trying to sound humble. "She needed help."

Dael's eyebrows shot up, his interest clearly piqued. "To cut a man in twain? That's no small feat."

You're telling me, Greg thought, suppressing a shudder at the memory of blood on snow, the sickening give of flesh beneath his blade. I'm just glad I didn't puke again.

"It was more instinct than anythin'," he said aloud, shrugging. "Lucky, really."

Merek's voice took on a slightly different tone, though he still didn't bother to turn around. "Lucky, eh? That sword's a bit more than lucky, I'd say. Ye've got a good hand with it, an' ye'd need a fine blade t' make a cut like that."

Greg gave a noncommittal nod, not really sure how to respond. Is he complimenting me or the sword? Both? Neither? Why is everyone so obsessed with this thing?

Dael squinted slightly, his eyes still glued to the sword as they walked. "Aye, I'll bet. Doesn't look like anythin' I've seen before. Ye sure ye don't remember where ye got it?"

Oh my god, this again? Greg shook his head, trying not to let his annoyance show. "Nope. Like I said, woke up with it."

A brief silence fell over the group, but Greg could still feel Dael's eyes on him, the man's mind clearly turning over something. Probably trying to figure out how much he could pawn it for, Greg thought uncharitably. Good luck with that, buddy. This sword and I? We're kind of a package deal.

The silence was broken by a low chuckle from Brynn at the front. "Sharp enough t' split a man, but doesn't make ye a killer, eh?"

Greg let out a light laugh, feeling the tension ease slightly. Finally, someone gets it. "Hope not. I'd rather avoid more Wildlings if I can."

Merek glanced over his shoulder, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Can't always avoid trouble, lad. 'Specially not with a sword like that strapped t' yer side."

What's that supposed to mean? Greg raised an eyebrow, but didn't push it. He knew this sort of ribbing was just how Northerners talked—always ready for a fight, always expecting trouble. But the way Merek said it didn't feel like much of a joke.

More like a warning.

"You know, lad," Merek continued, his voice dropping slightly, "a sword like that? People pay fortunes for less."

Okay, that's... concerning. Greg furrowed his brow, suddenly very aware of the weight at his hip. Is he... is he trying to buy it? "I'm not looking to sell it, if that's what you mean."

Merek waved the thought away with a short laugh. "No, no, nothin' like that. Just... be careful. Folk might see it an' wonder how ye came by it. Folk might ask questions. Might do terrible things for it."

Terrible things, huh? There it was again, that tone. No threat, but enough of a warning to make Greg's skin crawl.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said aloud, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "Make sure to keep it sharp just in case."

"Good idea," Threnn chimed in from the back, his voice casual but with an edge that made Greg's hair stand on end. "Always best to be prepared in these parts."

Greg gave him a nod, appreciating the advice even as it set his nerves on edge. Prepared for what, exactly?

He glanced around at the group, taking in their varied expressions. Dael, still eyeing the sword with undisguised curiosity. Brynn, stoic and unreadable as ever. Threnn, his sharp eyes always seeming to catch everything. And Merek, that hint of calculation never quite leaving his face.

They don't seem to want anything from me, Greg mused, absently petting Ash's fur as the cub slumbered in his arms. But they definitely have questions.

Questions that Greg wasn't sure he had the answers to.

He shook his head, pushing the thought away. No, come on, positive thinking. These guys seem alright. A little nosy, maybe, but they've got my back. Probably. Hopefully.

Yeah,
Greg thought, looking around again. These guys are alright.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –


10k Words (100 GP)


Failed Roll:
Restraint & Sanctuary (600 GP) - "These twin orbs are powerful, though rather simple. They appear in a location at your demand. They're dumb but they do follow orders well enough. The Orb of Restraint knows a lot about debuff magics through the Shadow element, and the Orb of Sanctuary is good at healing."

Grimoire Points: 400
 
VIII: New Friends II
I want to thank my current Patrons a great deal. I appreciate the support and the updates will keep coming fast as I can write them. I'm not working right now because I'm at school full time. And this helps keep me afloat.

If you're fans of Fool of The Devil, all the chapters all the way to the end of Season 1 are up there on the Patreon. I have posted the first two chapters of Season 2. I'm working on the third as we speak.

Nerd in the North is 10 chapters into Season 2, working on chapter 10 right now. That's 11 chapters ahead. Chapter 9 is my first NSFW chapter of anything ever. Unfortunately, it won't be posted here.

Life Is But A Game is 3 chapters ahead on there, all the way to 2.17. I'll be working on more chapters for that this week.

Greg Vs is 3 chapters ahead, at 7.7c.

Where the Heart Is is written up to Issue 9, so 2 more chapters. Working on Issue 10

I was supposed to be posting a new thread, A DBZ/The Boys (comic/show) SI called A Boy's Tail, but I've been sick since last week.

Thank you for reading and thank you for supporting me.



IX: New Friends II


– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Seven days.

It only took seven goddamn days on the road for the forest to explode with the sound of steel clashing and grunts of men locked in battle. And here Greg was, whining about being bored just hours ago. Careful what you wish for, idiot, he thought bitterly as he dodged another wild swing.

Greg's shining white sword cut through the air, gleaming like freshly fallen snow in the faint light that broke through the thick canopy of trees. The teenage boy spun to the side, his messy blonde hair whipping across his face as he narrowly dodged a bandit's thrown axe. It whistled past his head, embedding itself in a nearby tree with a dull thunk.

Holy crap, that was close, Greg's mind raced, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. His movements were instinctive, precise—far beyond what someone with only a month of practice should be able to do. But that didn't mean he felt ready for this.

Not by a long shot.

He barely had time to get his bearings before another bandit rushed him from the side, swinging wildly with a crude iron blade. Greg's eyes widened, body moving almost on its own. Move, idiot! He barely parried the attack, sword scraping against the bandit's with a ear-splitting screech, sending a jolt of pain through his arm. The force of it nearly knocked him off balance, his feet sliding in the snow.

"Shit!" he hissed, stumbling back, desperately trying to keep his footing on the treacherous ground. This isn't like training at all. Everything's trying to kill me!

The bandit grinned, yellowed teeth bared in a feral smile as he sensed weakness. He swung again, aiming for Greg's midsection. A flash of intuition hit the boy—move!—and Greg ducked just in time, the blade slicing through the air where his torso had been moments before. The whistle of steel cutting air sent a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

Without thinking, Greg lashed out with his own sword, tip grazing the bandit's arm

It wasn't a deep cut, but it was enough to make the man recoil, giving Greg the briefest moment to breathe.

He was out of breath, his chest heaving. His body was still adjusting to this new level of skill, far more advanced than someone with just a month of training should have. But it wasn't perfect—it was raw, unrefined. He'd learned fast, but there were gaps in his form, weaknesses in his stance that a more experienced fighter would exploit in a heartbeat.

Come on, Greg, remember what the guards taught you, he coached himself, trying to recall the endless drills and sparring sessions. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, grip firm but not too tight...

Another bandit charged at him, this one smaller but quicker, with two daggers flashing in the dim light. Greg raised his sword to block the first swipe, the clash of metal on metal ringing in his ears. But the second dagger came in low, grazing his thigh. The pain was sharp and sudden, like being stabbed with an icicle.

"Frick!" Greg hissed, biting down the urge to yell something much worse. Mom would be so proud, he thought sarcastically, even as he stumbled back.

The bandit pressed the attack, slashing again with frightening speed. Greg barely managed to step back, his foot catching on a rock hidden beneath the snow. He stumbled, arms windmilling as he fought for balance. No no no no— His efforts were in vain as he fell to one knee, the impact sending a jolt through his entire body.

The bandit grinned, a predatory look in his eyes that made Greg's blood run cold.

But just as the bandit lunged forward, aiming to finish him off, Greg's intuition flared again. It was weak, like a whisper in a crowded room, but clear: Roll!

Greg's body moved almost on its own, clumsily but just fast enough to avoid the strike. He rolled to the side, snow and leaves clinging to his clothes, his world a dizzying blur of white and green. As he rose, he swung his sword wildly, more out of desperation than skill.

To his surprise, the blade caught the bandit in the side. It wasn't deep—Greg doubted he could manage a truly devastating blow in his current state—but it was enough to slow the man down.

Greg scrambled to his feet, his legs unsteady, his grip on the sword so tight his knuckles were white. His breath came in ragged gasps, visible in the cold air. His arms ached, muscles burning from the effort of swinging the sword. Man, they make this look so easy in the movies, he thought, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat.

The bandit, though wounded, snarled and came at him again. The man's eyes were wild, filled with a mix of pain and rage that sent a shiver down Greg's spine. Oh crap oh crap oh crap—

Greg raised his sword, more out of desperation than skill, and blocked another swipe of the daggers. The impact sent shockwaves up his arms, nearly making him drop his weapon. But somehow, whether through dumb luck or that strange intuition, he managed to get in close.

Before he could think, before he could hesitate, his sword drove into the bandit's chest. The man's eyes widened in shock, a look of disbelief that Greg was sure mirrored his own. Then, like a puppet with its strings cut, the bandit crumpled to the ground.

Greg staggered back, panting heavily. These guys were more skilled than the rabid Wildlings he'd faced a month ago and he didn't like that for his odds. Too big for the tutorial, you said.

His movements were sloppy, his strikes unrefined, but he was surviving. Somehow. Is this what being a hero feels like? he wondered, the thought tasting bitter in his mind. Because it sucks.

He turned quickly, scanning the battlefield. The forest around him was chaos, a blur of motion and violence that made his head spin. Eight bandits had ambushed them, coming out of the woods like wolves smelling blood. One already down by Greg's hand, but that left seven more, each of them as vicious and desperate as the last.

Yet another bandit was coming toward him now, this one with a long spear. Greg's grip tightened on his sword, but his hands were trembling. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep this up.

The bandit jabbed with the spear, the weapon's reach giving him a clear advantage. Greg moved just a second too late, his reactions dulled by exhaustion. The spearhead nicked his arm, a sharp pain that made him yelp. He clutched the wound with one hand, warm blood seeping between his fingers.

Focus, Greg! he berated himself, swinging his sword clumsily with his other hand. The strike missed completely, cutting through empty air. "Dang it!" he cursed under his breath, frustration mounting.

The bandit laughed, a harsh sound that grated on Greg's nerves. The man twirled his spear with practiced ease, clearly toying with his younger opponent. Greg's mind raced, trying to figure out a way to close the distance. He couldn't fight at range—not without getting more questions on him. He needed to get in close, where he could do some damage.

But every time he tried to approach, the spear kept him at bay. "Fuck me running," he muttered, readying himself for another attempt.

His intuition buzzed again—dodge left. Greg jerked to the side, his feet slipping slightly on the blood-slicked snow. The spear's tip whistled past, so close he felt the rush of air on his cheek. Too close, he thought, his heart hammering in his chest. Way too freaking close.

He gritted his teeth, frustration and fear warring inside him. He wasn't good enough for this, wasn't trained enough. A month of practice, no matter how intense, couldn't prepare him for a real fight to the death. But he couldn't stop.

He had to keep going.

If I die here, Mom will kill me, he thought hysterically, a bubble of laughter threatening to escape his throat.

"Take that! And that!" Greg yelled, his voice cracking.

The bandit tried to block with the spear, the wooden shaft splintering under Greg's wild blows. Eventually, one strike broke through, his sword driving into the bandit's side with a sickening thunk.

The man gasped, stumbling back, his eyes wide with shock and pain. Greg took his chance, though every fiber of his being screamed at him to stop, to run away. He stepped forward and, with a grunt that was half effort and half terror, drove his sword through the bandit's chest.

For a moment, time seemed to slow. Greg stared into the man's eyes, watching as the light faded from them. Then, abruptly, it was over and the bandit slumped to the ground

Greg pulled his sword free with a wet sound that made him wince. He was breathing hard, his lungs burning with each intake of frigid air. He knew he could go for much longer—some strange quirk of his new abilities—but the blood from his wounds was starting to freeze in the cold air, and he was already feeling winded. I really need to work on my cardio, he thought absurdly. If I survive this, I'm gonna start jogging or something.

He looked around, scanning the chaos of the battlefield. The forest, which had seemed so peaceful just minutes ago, was now a hellscape of violence and blood. Snow flew up in great plumes as men fought and fell, the white quickly stained red.

Dael was a few paces away, locked in combat with one of the bandits. His sword moved defensively as he tried to hold his ground, his usual joking manner replaced by grim determination. Brynn, with his massive warhammer, had already taken down one attacker. The man's body lay crumpled in the snow, skull crushed like an overripe melon. The sight made Greg's stomach lurch.

Greg's breath came out in quick bursts, visible in the cold air. His muscles burned with effort, a deep ache settling into his bones. It didn't make sense—how his body moved, how easily the sword seemed to obey him. He felt like he'd been training for at least a year, not just a month, every strike more controlled, every movement sharper than the last.

But there was no time to question it now.

All that mattered was survival.

He glanced over at the wagons, worry clenching his gut. Merek was holding his own, fending off an attacker with a short sword. His usual smooth demeanor was gone, replaced by a fierce intensity that Greg had never seen before. One of the younger assistants, Brunn, had taken a nasty hit and was on his knees, trying to push a bandit away with shaking hands.

Greg didn't think—he just acted. He sprinted toward Brunn, lifting his sword high. The bandit didn't see him coming until it was too late. Greg's blade came down with a sickening thud, slicing into the back of the man's neck. The bandit crumpled to the ground, motionless.

"Brunn, get back!" Greg barked, jerking his head toward the wagons. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, too high and tight. Brunn nodded, eyes wide with fear, and scrambled back, leaving the fighting to the others.

Four down, Greg thought, trying to calm his racing heart. Four left. We can do this. We have to do this.

His eyes flicked toward the rest of the group, assessing the situation like he was analyzing a raid boss in World of Warcraft. Merek had disarmed his opponent, driving a knee into the man's gut and throwing him to the ground with a practiced move that spoke of experience Greg hadn't suspected. Brynn swung his warhammer like a battering ram, keeping two more bandits at bay. His grunts of exertion echoed through the forest, primal and terrifying.

A flash of steel caught Greg's attention. He turned just in time to see Threnn ducking low to avoid a blow, his twin daggers flashing in the dim light as he slashed upward, catching a bandit in the thigh. The bandit screamed, staggering back, and Threnn followed up with a quick, precise stab to the throat. It was brutal, efficient, and utterly terrifying.

It's almost over, Greg told himself, trying to summon up the last dregs of his courage. Just one more. You can do this.

He squared off against the last bandit, a grizzled man with a thick beard and a scar running down the side of his face. The man grinned, showing broken teeth, and raised his axe. With a roar that seemed to shake the very trees, he charged at Greg.

Oh crap oh crap oh crap— Greg's mind raced, his body tensing. He planted his feet, gripping his sword with both hands. The bandit swung his axe down with all his strength, aiming to cleave Greg in two. But Greg was faster, his body moving almost on its own. He sidestepped the blow, the axe burying itself in the snow where he had stood moments before.

Without hesitation, Greg brought his sword down in a clean arc, slicing through the bandit's back. The man collapsed face-first into the snow, his blood pooling around him, staining the white a deep crimson.

The forest fell silent, save for the ragged breathing of the caravan men and the occasional groan of the dying bandits. Greg stood there for a moment, his sword dripping with blood, heart still racing.

He'd just taken down four men.

Dael limped over, wiping blood off his blade with the edge of his cloak. He gave Greg a half-smile, but there was a hint of something else behind his eyes.

Respect, maybe. Or caution.

"Ye fight like a bloody whirlwind, Greg," Dael said, his usual jovial tone subdued.

Greg shrugged, trying to play it off even as his body hummed with the residual energy from the fight. "Just lucky, I guess," he mumbled, not meeting Dael's eyes.

Dael let out a low laugh, slowly shaking his head as he wiped dirty sweat from his brow. "Aye, luck."


– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –


The cold Northern night wrapped itself around the camp, the fire crackling low in the center of the small circle of men, casting long shadows across the snow-covered ground. Greg shivered, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The caravan had stopped for the night, the horses huddled together near the wagons, their warm breath visible in the frigid air. The smell of burning wood mixed with sweat and the lingering metallic scent of blood, a grim reminder of the day's battle.

Greg sat with his back to a tree, Ash curled up at his feet, snoring softly. The bear cub's warmth was a small comfort in the biting cold, something he'd been used to over the nightly camps of the last week. The rest of the men—Dael, Brynn, Threnn, and Jory—sat around the fire, each at varying distances, some closer than others. The orange glow flickered across their tired faces, shadows dancing across the snow and their bloodstained clothes.

It had been a long day, the memory of the bandit attack still fresh in their minds. They had buried the bodies—or what was left of them—not far from the campsite earlier. Greg's hands still felt grimy, like no amount of snow could wash away the blood and dirt.

Dael leaned back against a log, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes flicked to Greg, who was sitting quietly, staring into the fire. Ash let out a soft grunt in his sleep, drawing a small smile from Greg despite the tension in the air.

"That was some fine work ye did today, Greg," Dael said, breaking the silence. He poked at the embers with a stick, his voice carrying that sing-song Vale accent that still caught Greg off guard sometimes. "Quick, too. Cut a man's arm clean off, ye did."

Greg didn't look up, just shrugged lightly, though his mind raced. He knew this was coming. The men had been eyeing him all day since the fight, their gazes a mix of curiosity and wariness. Here we go, he thought. Time for Twenty Questions: Medieval Edition.

"Thanks," he mumbled, holding back a grimace. "Guess I got lucky again."

Dael let out a small chuckle, though there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. "Lucky?" He shook his head, clearly not buying it. "Luck don't swing a sword like that, lad. You must be some noble's get. Learned at a keep, you did."

Greg glanced up at Dael, the flicker of suspicion in the man's words catching his attention. Noble's get? What am I, a stray dog? Before he could respond, Brynn grunted from across the fire, his warhammer resting against the log beside him.

"Aye, lad," Brynn rumbled, his deep voice matching his imposing size. "Yer not half bad with that sword. Still rough 'round the edges, but I've seen the castleborn." He shifted on the ground, his massive frame dwarfing the log he sat on. "You must've trained with some master-at-arms, eh?"

Greg blinked, unsure how to answer. What's that even mean? "Master-at-arms?" he echoed, confusion evident in his voice.

Before he could ask for clarification, Jory spoke up for the first time all evening, his voice low but clear, each word measured as if it cost him something to speak. "Aye. A knight. A noble's swordmaster."

Oh great, more fantasy terms I don't understand, Greg thought, frustration bubbling up. "No... I don't remember any knights," he said slowly, trying to keep his voice steady. Unless you count the chess piece, I guess.

The silence stretched a little longer this time, the crackle of the fire filling the space between them. Threnn, sitting furthest from the fire, tossed a small rock into the flames, watching as the embers flared up. When he spoke, his voice was quick and low, almost conspiratorial.

"Come now. No one gets handed swords for nothin'," Threnn said, his eyes darting between Greg and the others.

"Aye," Brynn agreed, his gaze fixed on Greg's sword. "And that sword of yours—it's no common blade."

Greg shrugged, forcing a small laugh as he ran his fingers through his messy blonde hair. "Nothing to tell, really," he said, trying to sound casual but knowing he was failing miserably.

There was a beat of silence, the crackle of the fire filling the air between them. Then Brynn's eyes flicked down to Greg's hand, his brow furrowing slightly. "That ring on yer finger..." he said slowly, each word deliberate. "A piece like that, and ye say ye're smallfolk?"

Greg tensed, instinctively glancing at the golden ring on his right hand. The V carved from sapphire on top of it caught the firelight, glinting with a faint blue shimmer. It was a strange thing, not just in appearance but in the way it felt—like it was more than just jewelry. It made him hardier, more resilient, maybe outright slightly more durable than he'd been before. It had already saved his life many times, keeping him on his feet during the worst of the fight earlier that day.

Crap, I forgot about the ring, Greg thought, his mind racing. How do I explain this without sounding like I stole it or something?

"It's just a ring," he said quickly, trying to downplay it. Even to his own ears, the lie sounded weak.

Dael leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly, but his tone remained light, almost teasing. "Just a ring, eh? Looks more like a nobleman's crest to me."

Greg shrugged, trying to seem casual but feeling like he was failing miserably. "I don't know where it came from," he said, the words tumbling out faster than he intended. "It was on me when I woke up, same as the sword."

"Veder, ye say yer name was?" Brynn leaned forward slightly, his massive frame casting a longer shadow over the fire. His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Greg with an intensity that made the boy want to squirm. "I never heard of no Veders in the Kingdoms."

That's because I'm not from your stupid kingdoms, Greg wanted to shout.

Instead, he took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady. "Probably because there aren't any," he said, a hint of frustration creeping into his tone. "I told you, I don't remember much."

The silence held for a while, heavy and uncomfortable. Greg could feel their eyes on him, sizing him up. He knew they were curious, and he couldn't blame them. A strange sword, a noble's ring, and a boy with no past? It sounded suspicious even to him. If this was an RPG, I'd definitely think I was the secret prince or something, he thought wryly.

Finally, Dael broke the tension with a smile, though there was something sharper behind it. "Ah, no need to hide yer noble roots out here in the cold North," he said, his tone light but his eyes keen. "Ain't no shame in it. We're all friends here."

Yeah, right, Greg thought, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. Friends. Because friends totally interrogate each other around campfires.

Greg felt the weight of their eyes on him, the intensity of their gazes almost palpable in the flickering firelight. He shifted uncomfortably, leaning forward to pick at a loose thread on his jacket, unsure how much to say. The truth was, he didn't know how to explain any of it, least of all his fighting skills. How do I tell them I'm basically living in a real-life RPG without sounding totally insane?

"Honestly," Greg started, his voice wavering slightly, "I don't know where any of it comes from. I woke up... and it just kinda..." He paused, searching for the right words, his mind racing. "It feels natural, I guess." As natural as swinging a magic sword can be, anyway.

Dael raised an eyebrow, his interest visibly piqued. His Vale accent lilted through the crisp night air as he spoke. "Natural? Now that's somethin'. Most lads I know struggle with a sword for years 'fore they get as good as you." His eyes drifted to the blade again, a mix of curiosity and suspicion in his gaze.

Brynn grunted, his gravelly voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Aye, trainin' like that don't just come to a man overnight." He leaned forward, his massive frame casting long shadows in the firelight.

Greg shrugged again, feeling increasingly cornered. "Maybe I trained before, I dunno," he mumbled, trying to sound casual. "Like I said, I don't remember much of anything from before I woke up near Frostfall. Bits and pieces, nothing useful."

Dael exchanged a glance with Brynn, his expression softening slightly. "Bits an' pieces, eh?" The jokester's voice was casual, but his eyes told a different story. He leaned forward slightly, poking the fire with a stick again, sending sparks swirling into the night air. "Funny how things come back to ye, though. Don't forget a good swing like that. A blade always remembers."

Greg didn't know what to say. Part of him wanted to explain that his sword seemed to have a life of its own, that it wasn't just his skill but something deeper, something tied to the weapon itself. But another part of him felt like that would only make things worse. He already avoided shooting energy beams from the thing since he showed up in Frostfall, to avoid suspicion after the way the townspeople already looked at him crazy.

There was a pause, the fire crackling between them, filling the silence. Dael looked like he wanted to press further, but Brynn let out a loud grunt, breaking the tension.

"Well, whoever ye are," Brynn rumbled, his words clipped and blunt, "ye swing a damn fine sword. That's enough for me."

Threnn, who had been quiet until now, chimed in with his quick, sharp tone. "Aye, that's enough. No use pokin' at what's past."

The others murmured their agreement, though Greg could still feel Dael's eyes on him, lingering a bit too long. Okay, that's over with, Greg thought, relief washing over him. For now, anyway.

Dael broke into a grin as he laid back against the log. "Like, I said... we're all friends here."



Grimoire Points: 400
 
X: New Fiends
I want to thank my current Patrons a great deal. I appreciate the support and the updates will keep coming fast as I can write them. I'm not working right now because I'm at school full time. And this helps keep me afloat.

If you're fans of Fool of The Devil, all the chapters all the way to the end of Season 1 are up there on the Patreon. I have posted the first two chapters of Season 2. I'm working on the third as we speak.

Nerd in the North is 15 chapters into Season 2, working on chapter 16 right now. That's 15 chapters ahead.
Chapter 9 is my first NSFW chapter of anything ever. Unfortunately, it won't be posted here.

Life Is But A Game is 3 chapters ahead on there, all the way to 2.17. I'll be working on more chapters for that this week.

Greg Vs is 3 chapters ahead, at 7.7c.

Where the Heart Is is written up to Issue 9, so 2 more chapters. Working on Issue 10

I was supposed to be posting a new thread, A DBZ/The Boys (comic/show) SI called A Boy's Tail, but I've been sick since last week.

Thank you for reading and thank you for supporting me.


X: New Fiends


– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –


In the still, deep darkness of the night, Greg's body snapped to life before his mind caught up, an odd, wrenching sensation tearing him out of sleep like a physical jolt. His eyes blinked open, the first blurry vision in his line of sight not quite adding up. A silhouette, hunched, almost spider-like, hovered above him, the firelight flickering just enough to reveal the face.

It was Threnn, the wiry scout of the caravan, his face contorted with strain, his hands gripping Greg's sword. It barely budged in his hands, the weight of it obviously dragging his scrawny frame down. The guy was struggling to lift it just a foot off the ground.

What the hell...?

Greg's reaction was immediate and instinctive. Lurching upwards, his body acting faster than his still-groggy mind, his hand shot out toward Threnn. The sudden movement caught Threnn off guard, causing him to stumble back awkwardly, almost tripping over himself in his scramble to escape Greg's reach. The clatter of his belongings scattered on the ground—his pack, the half-empty water skin, the small hunting knife—rattled loudly in the night air, reverberating through the silence like a gong.

Ash, who had been curled up at Greg's side, perked up, little snout twitching as if sensing the tension in the air. But it wasn't just them who'd heard the commotion.

"What's goin' on 'ere?" Merek's groggy voice sliced through the darkness as the rest of the caravan began to stir. Greg whipped his head toward the sound, seeing Merek rubbing sleep from his eyes, half-stumbling out from his tent, his breath visible in the cold night air.

Greg, still panting from the adrenaline spike, grabbed his sword from the ground, clutching it like a lifeline as he shot a glare toward Threnn, who now looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The heat in Greg's voice came from somewhere deep, that place where fear, anger, and confusion all mixed.

"He tried to steal my sword!" Greg gasped, his words still a little breathless. "Caught him red-handed."

Eyes snapped to Threnn, who stood there looking like a cornered rat—nervous, twitchy, but not exactly apologetic. His gaze darted between Greg and Merek, as if calculating his next move.

"Is that true, Threnn?" Merek asked, his voice more annoyed than surprised, which struck Greg as… off. The older man was usually sharp, but he was rolling with this a little too easily. Too practiced.

Threnn's head bobbed in a quick, jerky nod. "Aye," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck like a sheepish kid. "It's true."

The betrayal hit Greg like a punch to the gut, but what hit harder was Merek's next words, spoken so casually that it made Greg's skin crawl.

"Threnn, ye dumb cunt, I told ye to wait."

The world seemed to freeze. Wait? Wait for what?

Before Greg could piece it together, an explosion of pain tore through his side. A ragged gasp ripped from his throat, and when he glanced down, his mind struggled to make sense of the sight. One of Threnn's daggers was buried deep in his flesh, glinting faintly in the firelight, blood already seeping through his shirt.

Oh shit, Greg's mind raced, the pain suddenly very real and very present.

For a moment, the pain was distant, almost unreal. But when he looked back up at Merek, the shock bled into a cold, crawling horror.

Merek hadn't even flinched. The bastard looked calm, his expression as indifferent as if Greg had simply dropped a coin, not taken a dagger to the gut. His words, when he spoke, carried an eerie logic, like this was all part of a plan.

"T'aint personal, lad," Merek said, almost conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather. "Ye understand? With a sword like that, and the thing's I've seen, tales I've 'eard—men sliced clean at the waist by such sharp, white metal—a find like that could make us rich as any lord. T'aint Valyrian steel, not quite the look I've heard in tales, but a prize, still."

Greg's breath came in ragged bursts, pain surging through his side as he stared down at the dagger lodged in his flesh. The cold night air seemed to freeze around him, the weight of Threnn's betrayal heavier than the weapon in his gut. I... I can't believe I trusted these guys. They... They're Evil.

His eyes flicked up, locking with Threnn's. The wiry man still stood there, his face twisted in a mix of fear and desperation. Threnn took a shaky step forward, blood on his hands—literally—and Greg knew in that moment that there'd be no talking his way out of this.

"Should've just stayed asleep, ye daft cunt," Threnn hissed, his words sharp and quick.

"Damn it," Greg muttered under his breath, gritting his teeth as he yanked the dagger out with a sickening squelch. Blood flowed freely from the wound, but he didn't have time to care. His sword was still on the ground, heavy and unyielding, but now it was his lifeline.

Threnn lunged at him again, wild and frantic, but Greg's body moved on its own, instinct kicking in. He dodged, the bandit's dagger barely missing his ribs. His soul pulsed, expanded—reaching out, straining for something—but it was weak. Unfocused.

With a grunt, Greg grabbed Threnn by the wrist, twisting until he felt the bones shift under his grip. Threnn yelped, jumping back, his hand hanging limp and useless at his side.

Greg lunged forward, his sword catching the weak light of the fire as the blade angled toward Threnn's exposed throat. But Threnn was quick, scrambling away, avoiding the death blow by mere inches. His foot caught on a rock, sending him crashing to the ground, scrambling backward in a pathetic display of desperation.

"Wait! Wait!" Threnn gasped, his eyes darting wildly between Greg and the rest of the camp, his voice high and panicked. "I wasn't gonna do nothin', I swear it!"

But Greg didn't wait. He couldn't. Not after what Threnn had tried to do. In one swift motion, he slammed his knee into the man's gut, knocking the wind from him and sending him sprawling back into the dirt.

This is for trying to kill me in my sleep, you backstabbing prick, Greg thought savagely, bringing his sword down in a vicious slash across Threnn's neck.

The blade found its mark, the sharp white metal darting across Threnn's throat, cutting off whatever pleas or excuses he had left. Blood sprayed from the wound in a crimson arc, splattering hot and sticky against Greg's torso.

"You daft cunt," Greg spat, his voice shaking with a mixture of rage and adrenaline. I trusted you. I trusted all of you.

Threnn collapsed, choking on his own blood, his body twitching and jerking in its death throes. And as he lay there, Greg felt his soul lunge again, that strange, desperate sensation of something within him grasping, reaching, yearning...

And this time, it succeeded.

Greg's breath hitched, the world spinning slightly around him as a surge of something flooded through his veins. It was like a rush of pure energy, raw and untamed, setting every nerve ending alight.

What the fuck was that? he thought wildly, staggering back a step.

But there was no time to process. Because just as he was trying to catch his breath, staring at the slightly shocked Merek, a voice cut through the night.

"What in the hells—"

It was Dael, his voice groggy and confused, coming from somewhere behind Greg. Relief surged through the blonde's chest at the sound. Dael. Dael would help. Dael had to help, right?

"Dael!" Greg gasped out, spinning around to face the man. "They— they're trying to—"

But the rest of his sentence was cut off by a sharp, blinding pain as the tip of a sword pierced his gut, the cold steel sliding through his stomach like a hot knife through butter.

Greg's hands shot to the blade on instinct, gripping it tight. This… can't be happening.

But it was.

Dael stood there, and Greg met his eyes. The man looked almost... sheepish, as he twisted the sword just enough to send a fresh wave of agony rippling through Greg's body.

"Apologies, lad," Dael said, his voice heavy with something that might have possibly been regret if not for the smile on his face. "But coin is coin."

With a sickening, wet sound, he yanked the sword free, leaving Greg to stumble back, his hands pressed tight against the gushing wound in his stomach. Hot blood spilled between his fingers, soaking into his shirt, his pants, the ground beneath his feet.

This is it, Greg thought dimly, his vision swimming with black spots. This is how I die. Stabbed in the back by lovable rogues. Fuck Han Solo.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, as the manic laughter spilled from his lips, even as he felt his legs start to give out beneath him, something... changed.

That same energy from before, that rush of power he'd felt after killing Threnn, it surged through him again. Stronger this time, more intense. He could feel it spreading through his body like wildfire, could feel it knitting together torn skin and shredded muscle, could feel the wound in his gut stitching itself closed bit by bit.

It wasn't a complete healing, not by a long shot. But it was enough. Enough to keep him standing. Enough to keep him fighting.

"Fuck," Merek muttered from somewhere off to the side, his usually calm demeanor cracking at the edges. "What in the hells is this?"

Dael, too, looked stunned, his eyes wide as he watched the impossible happen right before him. "He's... he's healing..."

But Greg barely heard them.

His mind was too full of the pounding of his own heart, the rush of blood in his ears, the searing pain of his wounds. His body moved on pure instinct, ducking and rolling out of the way as Brynn, the massive mountain of a man, barreled towards him with a roar, his warhammer raised high.

Shit shit shit, Greg's mind chanted as he scrambled to his feet, his sword coming up just in time to catch a glancing blow from Brynn's hammer. The impact sent shockwaves up his arm, nearly knocking the blade from his grip, but he held on tight.

Greg could feel the sting of sweat in his eyes, could taste the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. His leg burned where Dael had slashed him, his gut throbbed where the sword had pierced him through.

And yet, despite it all, despite the pain and the panic and the overwhelming odds, Greg kept fighting. He slashed and parried, ducked and rolled, his movements clumsy and raw but fueled by the sheer, primal need to survive.

But it wasn't enough.

A hard elbow from Brynn caught him across the jaw and sent him down to the floor like a ragdoll, sword only still in his hand thanks to a tight grip. Stars exploded across his vision, bright and blinding, as he gasped for air that wouldn't come.

"Should've run, lad," Brynn growled, looming over Greg's prone form like a mountain over a molehill. He raised his hammer high, ready to bring it crashing down in a final, crushing blow.

Move! Greg's mind screamed. Move, you idiot, or you're dead!

Somehow, miraculously, his body obeyed. He rolled to the side, the heavy hammer slamming into the ground where his head had been just a heartbeat before. Dirt and snow exploded upwards in a choking cloud, momentarily obscuring Brynn from view.

Greg staggered to his feet, his sword held out in front of him in shaking hands. His heart raced, his breath came in ragged gasps, his whole body thrummed with pain and fear and the desperate, all-consuming need to live.

He tightened his grip on his sword, the strange white blade almost seeming to hum in his hand. The energy within him pulsed, surged, like it was responding to his determination, his will to survive.

Alright then, Greg thought, setting his jaw as Brynn charged forward again, murder in his eyes. Let's fucking do this.

The big man swung, a brutal overhead blow that would have split Greg in two if it connected. But Greg was ready this time. He ducked to the side, letting the hammer whistle past his head, close enough to ruffle his hair.

Then, in a move born more of desperation than skill, he lashed out with his sword, aiming for Brynn's exposed side. The blade bit into flesh, drawing a pained grunt from the big man, but it was barely more than a scratch. Brynn was too tough, too strong, his skin like leather and his muscles like iron.

Shit, Greg thought, jumping back as Brynn rounded on him, fury etched into every line of his face. Shit shit shit.

He dodged another swing, then another, his body moving on pure instinct and adrenaline. But he was tiring, his wounds taking their toll, his strength fading with every desperate maneuver.

And Brynn just kept coming.

As if on cue, his foot caught on a rock, sending him stumbling. It was a tiny mistake, a fraction of a second of lost balance, but it was enough.

Brynn's hammer slammed into Greg's side with all the force of a freight train, sending him flying back. He hit the ground hard, pain exploding through every inch of his body. Something cracked, snapped, a sickening sound that Greg felt more than heard. Fuck.

Brynn loomed over him, the giant of a man with a face twisted in fury. "Ye seemed a good lad. Would've rather not done this," the man growled, bringing the warhammer down again.

Greg rolled, barely avoiding the crushing blow that would've ended him right then and there. The hammer slammed into the ground where his head had been just moments before, sending up a cloud of dirt and snow. "Fuck."

Greg stumbled to his feet, his vision blurry and his head pounding. But even through the haze of pain and shock, his instincts kicked in. He swung his sword clumsily, the blade connecting with Brynn's side in a glancing blow. It wasn't a deep cut, just enough to make the man grunt in pain, but not nearly enough to stop him.

"Gonna need more than that, boy!" Brynn snarled, his face contorting with rage as he yanked his warhammer back, preparing for another devastating swing. The man's size made him slow, but powerful—one wrong move, and Greg knew he'd be nothing more than a smear on the ground.

Shit shit shit, Greg's mind chanted, his heart racing as he scrambled for a plan, any plan. A weak pulse of intuition flickered through him—move right—and he barely managed to sidestep the next crushing blow, his legs shaky beneath him.

Seizing the opening, Greg swung again, this time managing to land a solid hit on Brynn's thigh, the blade biting deep into the muscle, forcing the big man to stagger.

Fuck yes! Greg thought, a surge of hope rising in his chest.

As Greg pulled back, panting, his hands shaking from both fear and exhaustion, he realized with a sinking feeling that Brynn wasn't going down. Not from one hit, not from two. The pain in Greg's side screamed louder with each movement, each desperate dodge and clumsy swing.

Brynn came at him again, this time swinging the warhammer with both hands, aiming to crush Greg's skull like an overripe melon. Greg had no choice—he raised his sword in a desperate attempt to block, but the impact was like a lightning strike, sending him stumbling back, his arms numb from the shock.

Fuck, he's strong, Greg thought, his vision swimming. Fucking OP, nerf plz.

Brynn was coming at him again, the man's warhammer raised high, murder in his eyes. Greg ducked, his movements a little more fluid now, a little more sure. He lashed out with Threnn's dagger, catching Brynn in the side, the blade sinking into flesh with a sickening thunk.

The big man let out a roar of pain, but he wasn't down yet. "T'aint gonna be enough, lad," Brynn growled, his breath coming in heavy puffs. "Yer tough, I'll give ye that. But I'll break ye all the same."

Greg's eyes flicked towards Merek, who was hanging back, watching the fight with calculating eyes. This was a game to him, Greg realized with a surge of white-hot rage burning up his spine, raw and unfiltered.

With a surge of strength he hadn't known he possessed, Greg lunged forward, swinging his sword with all the strength he had left. The blade cut through Brynn's defenses, biting deep into the man's chest, parting flesh and muscle and bone.

Brynn's eyes widened in shock, his warhammer slipping from his grasp as he staggered back, clutching at the gushing wound. But Greg didn't hesitate. He followed up with another strike, this time driving his sword through Brynn's throat, the blade punching through the back of the man's neck in a spray of blood.

The big man collapsed with a loud thud, the life draining from his eyes as he dropped to the floor, his blood staining the snow crimson.

It was over.

Or so he thought.

A movement caught his eye and Greg turned, his sword raised, just in time to see Dael, the man's hands raised in surrender even as he held his sword at the ready.

"No need for this, lad," Dael said, his voice shaky, his face pale. "Was just a job, is all. We didn't mean nothin' by it."

Didn't mean anything by it? Greg thought, a laugh bubbling up in his throat, high and hysterical. Oh, sure, you just tried to fucking murder me in my sleep, but hey, no hard feelings, right? Fuck you.

He took a step forward, his sword raised, ready to end this, to make them all pay. But then Merek's voice cut through the haze of rage and pain, only a little shaky and almost impressed.

"Ye might've just cost me a fortune, lad," Merek said, shaking his head. "But ye've got some fight in ye, I'll give ye that."

Greg stood there, panting, his body trembling, blood dripping from his own wounds. He could barely see straight, his vision blurring in and out of focus.

But Brynn was down.

Threnn was dead.

And he was still bleeding out.

He turned, eyes locking onto Dael, who was frozen in place, his sword still in hand, his face pale.

"You… you should be dead," Dael muttered, backing away unsteadily.

Greg turned, his eyes locking onto Merek's, blue meeting blue in a clash of wills. He wanted to scream, to shout, to demand answers.

Then an arrow whizzed through the air and Greg flinched as it shot just past his head. His eyes widened as he spotted Jory, the bowman a good distance away and hidden behind a tree, nocking another arrow.

He wanted to kill all of them.

But he didn't have the strength. His body was failing him, the adrenaline fading, the pain rushing back in like a tidal wave.

So instead, he ran.

He turned and he ran, his legs barely carrying him as he stumbled into the forest, Ash at his side, the little bear whining softly as he tried to keep pace.

"Greg!" Merek's voice called out, but Greg didn't stop. He couldn't stop.

He ran, crashing through the underbrush, branches whipping at his face, roots trying to trip him up. But he kept going, kept pushing, the trees swallowing him up, the darkness closing in around him.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.


It was the only thought in his head, the only word that seemed to make sense anymore. Fuck Merek, fuck Dael, fuck Jory, this whole fucking world that seemed determined to kill him at every turn.


– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –


He ran until his lungs burned, until his legs gave out beneath him, until he collapsed in a heap on the forest floor, Ash curling up beside him, the little bear's warmth the only comfort in this cold, cruel world.

I'm going to die out here, Greg thought, staring up at the canopy of trees above him, the branches seeming to twist and writhe like grasping fingers. I'm going to die, and no one will even know. No one will care.

Greg collapsed against a thick, rough-barked tree, the cold from the night air biting at his skin, though he could barely register it. The adrenaline still pumped through his veins, mixing with the steady thrum of pain radiating from his side and chest. He gasped for breath, his lungs burning, and he pressed a shaky hand to his side, where the wound from dael's sword should have been gaping and raw.

His side still throbbed, the deep stab wound from dael's betrayal pulsing with pain. his chest ached where Brynn's warhammer had slammed into him, leaving a bruise the size of a dinner plate. The cut Threnn had left along his ribs stung with every breath he took. He could feel each wound, could still feel the ache, the damage, but... it was healing.

Too fast.

Way too fast.

The torn muscle and skin stitched itself like invisible threads were pulling it all back into place. His side, the deep gash where Dael had run him through, was closing before his eyes, pink and raw, but whole.

He didn't understand it—he couldn't—but the feeling inside him, the strange pulsing of his soul, the way it seemed to swell and expand, made him dizzy. He could feel it reaching out, grasping, searching for something again. and this time... it found it.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

Greg gasped, clutching at his chest as the surge hit him all at once. It wasn't like before, when his soul had reached out and come back empty.

No, this time it brought something with it. something... tangible.

He glanced down at his hands, his vision swimming as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. his clothes—his t-shirt, windbreaker, jeans, canvas bag—they were different now.

Replaced. He blinked, trying to process the change, but it was like his brain couldn't keep up.

His hands were wrapped in fingerless leather gloves, the material tough but flexible, reaching all the way to his forearms. A ring—new and unfamiliar—glinted on his finger, the polished green band etched with intricate symbols that looked older than anything he'd ever seen. the ring felt... heavy, not in weight, but in significance. like it meant something.

Thick golden bands wrapped themselves around his gloves, powerful things that were inscribed with the symbol of three different triangles stacked in the shape of a single larger one.

And then the memories hit.

They weren't his—at least, not memories he'd made himself—but they were there, lodged in his brain like they had always belonged. His body, his senses, everything had shifted, refined. more controlled. more experienced.

Greg blinked, shaking his head as if he could dislodge the flood of information trying to settle in his brain. Skills he didn't know he had, movements he'd never practiced but somehow knew—it was all there.

All in him.

He pressed his back harder against the tree, gasping, trying to steady himself. "I..."

He blinked again, his breath shaky, the world spinning around him. "I hate this place."

Ash, who had been hovering nervously nearby, scampered closer, nuzzling at greg's side. the little bear cub seemed confused too, like it could sense something had changed but didn't know what to do about it.

Greg let out a bitter, half-hearted laugh, running a gloved hand through his hair. "This isekai sucks."


– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –


Thorrick wiped his hands on the stained cloth tucked into his belt, the rag doing little more than moving the grime around his knuckles. He'd been behind this bar for the better part of twenty years, long enough to know that the mess didn't end, not in a place like this.

The familiar stench of sweat, stale ale, and the faint bite of vomit lingering in the air like a well-worn cloak. The dim glow of the hearth cast long shadows across the rough-hewn walls of his tavern, the wood darkened from years of smoke and spillage. The floor was uneven beneath his boots, worn down by countless feet trudging in from the cold with mud and snow clinging to their heels. but it was home, and Thorrick wouldn't trade it for any lord's fancy hall.

Tonight wasn't much different, just the usual lot.

Old Tarrin sat at the far end of the bar, cradling his mug like it was a lover. Thorrick filled it up without so much as a word, sliding the half-full pitcher across the counter.

"Cheers, Tarrin. Keep ye warm, eh?"

The old man gave a grunt of acknowledgment, his weathered face hidden behind a tangled mess of grey. Thorrick wasn't much for conversation, but the old men who came by had a way of making a man feel like they'd talked for hours, even if not a word had passed between them.

"Ye hear about ol' tom's sheep?" Jonn grumbled, wrapping his hands around the mug Thorrick set before him. His knuckles were as gnarled as the branches of the trees outside, fingers trembling slightly as he brought the drink to his lips.

"Aye," Thorrick replied, his voice rough from years of shouting over rowdy crowds. "Eaten to the bone like a fish, they say. Wildlings, most like."

"Bastards," Jonn muttered, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "They're comin' closer every year. Soon enough they'll be at our doors."

"Aye," Thorrick agreed, though he didn't give it much thought. Wildlings had been creeping down from beyond the wall for as long as he could remember, but they rarely made it this far. Stonegate was a sturdy place, tucked between the Lonely Hills with the natural pass serving as both a gateway and a shield. Most trouble passed them by, along with traders and travelers alike, headed for Last Hearth or the Dreadfort.

He turned his back on Jonn, his hands automatically reaching for another mug to wipe down, when the door to the tavern creaked open, a gust of icy wind sweeping in along with the figure that stood in the doorway. He grunted, already annoyed at the thought of the draft creeping through his bar. He was about to bark at whoever was daft enough to leave the door open when his gaze caught on the boots stepping inside.
They were too clean.

Too fine.

He frowned, his hands pausing mid-wipe on the counter. The boots were tall, made of soft brown leather, and rolled at the top like a lord might wear on a hunt. His gaze followed the boots upward, curiosity piqued in spite of himself. Fine leather, brown and new, not a scuff or mud-streak to be seen.
Thorrick's frown deepened. not the sort he was used to seeing, that much was certain.

He was a lad, Thorrick realized.

No older than ten and five, if that. His face was... odd. not in a way that set him apart like some disfigured beggar or a man who'd seen too many winters.

No, this lad was clean.

Too clean.

His skin smooth and unmarred by the harshness of Northern life, his hair the color of wheat, untouched by snow or dirt, and his eyes... The barman almost blinked. They were blue, bluer than the lake on a summer's day, clear and deep

And his clothes. Gods, the clothes.

He wore a green tunic, finely stitched with embroidery so subtle Thorrick wouldn't have noticed if not for the firelight catching the thread. An off-white undershirt peeked from beneath the short sleeves, a long cap flopped backwards atop his head of blond hair, and there was a belt—leather, but fine—holding it all together. A strap crossed the lad's chest, brown leather as neat as the rest of him. even the gloves—fingerless and extending to his forearms—looked new.

Like he'd just stepped out of a lord's hall and not the muddy road leading from Last Hearth.

But it wasn't just the boy's appearance that made the barman pause. Perched on his shoulder, as calm as a pet dog, was a bear cub. A brown one, small now, but Thorrick had seen enough in his forty years to know what that cub would grow into.

"What in th' name o' the gods..." Thorrick muttered under his breath. He straightened, his hands coming to rest on the bar in front of him, fingers splayed against the rough wood.

The lad stepped inside fully now, pushing the door shut behind him. The air in the room shifted, conversations dipped and died, all eyes turning toward the boy. It wasn't his youth that stood out, nor his clothes, but the face. Thorrick had seen a highborn lad or two in his time, and his fair share of noble bastards, but this one... he looked almost pretty, like a woman. but that wasn't it, not really.

No, it was the fact that his skin was untouched by weather or dirt. No scars, no rough patches.

Just smooth, clean, unweathered.

The room stayed quiet, save for the crackling of the fire. Thorrick cleared his throat and leaned against the bar, his voice rough but not unkind.

"What'll ye have, then?" Thorrick asked, his voice gruff, masking his unease.

The boy smiled, and Thorrick noticed his teeth—white, straight, like they'd never known the rot that plagued smallfolk.

The boy's head turned, those blue eyes locking on him. Thorrick didn't flinch, though the lad's stare was piercing, like he was sizing up everything in the room in one sweep.

"Ale," the boy said, his voice soft but clear. "And some food."

Soft, but firm, too.

"We've got food," Thorrick replied, nodding toward the small hearth where a pot of stew simmered. "t'ain't much, but it's hot."

The boy nodded, not saying much.

"Ain't from 'round here, are ye?" Thorrick said, not really asking, more observing.

The boy shook his head, still smiling. "No."

Thorrick grunted, turning to fill a mug from the barrel behind him. The tavern had gone back to its usual hum, but he could feel the curiosity hanging in the air, thick and heavy. Everyone was wondering the same thing: noble get drinking with us common folk?

He set the mug down on the bar, watching as the lad reached into his belt and pulled out a few coins, Thorrick spotting more silver than Thorrick'd seen in weeks, before settling on five coppers and laying them on the table.

Thorrick raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he scooped up the coin.

The boy took a sip, barely reacting to the taste of the strong northern ale. Thorrick gave him credit for that.

"What brings ye t'Stonegate, then?" Thorrick pressed, his eyes narrowing slightly. It wasn't every day a lad dressed in clothes fitting a lord came through here, especially not with a bear cub on his shoulder. "Passin' through, are ye?"

The boy's smile faltered for a moment, just a flicker, but it was enough.

"Aye," he said at last, his voice low. "Passin' through."


– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Trust No One (200 GP) - There Is… Another Way
Betrayal's Sting (250 GP) - Sky Armor
Still Standing (100 GP) - Power Bracelet
Blood and Steel (500 GP) - Seeker of the Hidden

Roll:
There is... Another Way [Endless Legend] (400 GP) - "The energy within Dust sustains you, not Dust itself. This energy can be found elsewhere. In the living. By taking this, you become a spiritual vampire, able to suck the very soul from creatures to sustain your body. Any wounds you inflict on your foes will restore a sliver of your health, while slaying your foe will restore a portion of your health. The stronger the foe, the more it will restore. Let the slaughter begin."

Roll: Power Bracelet [Legend of Zelda: Oracle of Ages] (200 GP) - "The Power Bracelets are a pair of thin gold bands with a marking of the Triforce on them. As one might expect, they enhance your power - that is to say, your lifting strength. With proper usage, one can lift up and throw heavy boulders, statues, small trees, even some enemies. Alongside these bands comes a Green Holy Ring, which grants you immunity to electricity and electrical attacks so long as you are wearing it. Now nothing is safe from your mighty muscles!"

Roll: Sky Armor [Skyward Sword] (200 GP) - "What, you didn't think the clothes that the Knights and Recruits wear is entirely for show did you? Sorry, but it's just not so. This outfit is heavily enchanted, though mostly in breadth of options and not the depth of their ability. Resistant to the wind and the rain, using a fragment of air magic to ensure you can actually breath at such high altitudes, preventing the sheer speed of the fancier maneuvers from knocking you unconscious. I'd call it a flight suit, but it's also a decently protective suit of armor. Not to mention decently stylish."

Roll: Seeker of the Hidden [Neverland: The RPG] (200 GP) - "Traditionally the Cunning Folk were called upon to hunt down witches, criminals, and missing people. You now have exceptionally tracking abilities, especially when you are searching for criminals, missing persons, or witches. On the flipside, you become more skilled at staying hidden from pursuers. In addition, you get a minor boost when fighting or defending against opponents that could be considered witches."

Grimoire Points: 450
 
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