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