Notch Below Neutral

The road to Largo Largo wasn't exactly long but Dorge did wish he had a horse. It wasn't that long ago he'd walked damn near all the Hurry, but, here he was. It'd be easier, too, if he wasn't doing most of the walking in the woods along the road to try to avoid bandits, or other adventurers, or anyone, really. He'd never been to Largo Largo but did know it was home to a pretty robust theives guild and thought with his current quest he'd better try to keep his head down and his eyes open.
He probably wasn't going to get any points in the stealth column though. His new leather armor wasn't broken in yet and that made it a little hard to move, crunching through the undergrowth and stopping to listen ever so often had become his mode of travel, one hand on his sword hilt, the other around the sack draped over his shoulder. It's a wonder the dead hadn't crawled up with the noise the sack was making, like a bunch of King's dinnerware clanking around. The blacksmith had told him to keep it closed and so he had. He wasn't that interested in whatever it was he was carrying, anyways, and figured the less he knew the better. The last time he'd had a mission to transport goods he had looked, when he had been told not to, and at the end of the day had taken a morality penalty. Fine by him but it'd taken him a notch below neutral and that kind of thing comes with consequences.
Dorge stops and readjusts the sack, trying not to let it make too much noise. The blacksmith didn't seem to be too concerned with his ability to get it out of the city. Even though it had a baker's mark stamped into the canvas it was pretty clear he wasn't carrying flour, but the guards didn't give him a second look. Probably happy just to see him on his way, and headed west? Figures. Looking like hell but being able to go up against half-ogres had it's advantages, and it makes sense that's just what Caryle was thinking. The only problem with being mistaken for a higher level was that a lvl 40 could take two Healing Surges a day and he wasn't really there, yet. He shrugs and hopes it doesn't come to that. Just a delivery job, mead and mutton by sundown. Then back to Adver.
Only Adver was going to be able to answer any questions about him waking up in that field and-wait,
horses on the road, three, no, two. Dorge squats down hard, forcing the armor to flex, covering the hilt of the sword with his gloved hand, the only thing that might shine through the foliage.
The horses are going full gallup when they pass his spot in the woods. Dorge does a spot check and picks out the insignia on their armor, but he already knew: Banda Cate Soldiers. Moving in a damn hurry, too. He needs to move fast.
Dorge pulls the sack off his shoulders and dives against the soft earth, scraping a hole into the dirt, his gloved fingers digging deep grooves. He sits back on his haunches and listens, not hearing anything. He knows the shallow hole he's managed isn't perfect but figures it'll do for now, dropping the sack into it. He's about to start pushing the loose dirt on top of it but pauses. It may not be just a delivery job now, and so he wants to know. He has to take his gloves off to undo the cord, his bare hands feel cold and wet in the moist air, fumbling with the knot after having clawed a hole into the ground. Eventually the bag falls open and Dorge can see inside, the gleaming silver and gold trinkets, bejeweled and gaudy, truthfully. His heartbeat is beginning to approach something close to normal and he can hear something other than his pulse in his ears. He reaches in a pulls one of the items out. It's heavy and polished to a high shine but still wouldn't fetch much gold on the market. He purses his lips and thinks maybe the soldiers weren't looking for him, after all. Maybe not everyone had heard of Dorge the Mighty Level 36 Warrior, Scourge of Taverns Everywhere. But, he thought he'd better do another spot check just to make sure, turning the little knickknack round and round.
Oh, shit. ohshit. Dorge sits back on his ass and his fingers go numb all over again, shouldn't-have-looked-shouldn't-have-looked. What he had been burying in a hole in the woods was a sack full of Holy Relics. Fuckfuckfuck. Let's see how far those health surges go when he's burned at the stake. Maybe they're fakes, Dorge thinks.Or maybe he could spot check again and free-action it all day in the woods like the noob he was being.
"Warriors never make it too far alone, do they, Dorge?" he mutters to himself and starts pushing the dirt back on top of the sack. "You could at least find a Rogue to do some thinking for you, right?" He wipes the dirt from his hands before pulling the gloves back on and listens. He can't hear anything, and doubts the riders could hear him at the rate they were going. He uproots a pale white mushroom and puts it on top of the little mound then stands, making his way to the road. He'd stay out of sight in the woods but can move faster out in the open and what he needed right now was distance. Leaning down he breaks a few low-growing stems to mark his place along the road, a Ranger trick he'd learned once upon a time.
Stepping out onto the road he stretches his arms and wonders if he should push west or go back the way he came. If the soldiers knew he was headed to Largo Largo then odds were that information was supplied to them, and the supplier probably game them a description of his armor, too. Damnable blacksmiths. Biggest bellies and biggest asses.
He furrows his brow, but maybe backwards was better, turning to look in the direction he'd come from, he froze. There had been a third rider, and there he was now, sitting still on top of his mount just in the bend of the road.
"That's all it took to flush you out, Warrior?" the half-elf Paladin smiles, stroking his blue-black beard.
Dorge freezes, his heart pumping ice.
I believe you have something that belongs to Banda Cate," the Paladin says, his eyes holding Dorge in place, "Nay, something that belongs to Mashrata the Merciful. And I, Rolan D'so, have come to restore her rightful property."

Charmed Somehow

Dorge takes a swig of beer and watches his charisma buff till the end of turn. That was his last copper which means he'll have to catch dinner later and sleep in the stables, so he'd better make the drink count. Risk the +5 on the dirty blonde in the corner or see if the bard knows any songs about Adver. He probably should have kept the copper to tip the bard with, but he'd spent the night on a grind killing wererats in the sewers and after upgrading his sword with that thief of a blacksmith he just wanted a beer.
The side quests were killing him. He never dreamed he'd be stuck running errands for a two-bit druid again or chasing ghosts out of cemeteries, but here he was.
He'd started squatting at this bar because it was a little seedy and he figured some Adventurers would come in at some point and he'd get taken on, but that wasn't going so well. Quest wise it was a little dry, and whenever a group did come in that looked a little promising, he'd either get a polite "No, thank you" or outright laughed back to his seat after the self-righteous Paladin/Cleric/Hunter gave him the old up and down. And that's when they didn't mistake him for an NPC. He was actually starting to prefer that though because he could usually take a few coins off them and give them hints about Nish-To's Tomb really being buried under the library in Largo Largo, which he'd then split with the bartender just to keep the peace.
The IPA he's drinking is a little stronger than he bargained for so he's about to ignore the bard and give the dirty blonde a smile when a Story Element slides into the seat in front of him. This is a little unexpected so Dorge checks his stats to see if he's been charmed somehow. Nope, just the charisma buff and still a long way to go before leveling up. Sometimes the dice just land weird.
"My name is Caryle Hogan and I have a tale of woe th-" the story element begins, but Dorge cuts him off. "Listen, Carl, we don't have to talk like that, we can just talk normal."
Caryle looks taken aback for a beat then shrugs, "I hear you've been grinding the board."
"Yeah, and- heard from who?" Dorge asks, pushing his glass away.
"I hear you go to the board to see new job postings every day, take five shit jobs, clean up a bit, and then drink. And that you're not as low level as you look. I got all that from buying the bard a drink, Warrior."
Dorge sighs and his scratches his beard, "Well. All that checks out. So?"
"So you want to go wacking wererats again tomorrow or you want a real job?" Caryle spreads his hand like one of those people that know when to use the word magnanimous.
Dorge smiles and shrugs, "Hey, I'm getting pretty good at that."
"You going to plateau at level 40 then or do you plan to cross-class? What's next, monk?"
That was a dig and Dorge let it show as such. But what he was really doing was wondering if this guy really thought he was lvl 40 or if the bard told him as such. Maybe he should have been splitting the take from the noobs with him. "What's the job?"
Caryle sniffs and looks at his fingernails, "Maybe you're not quite ready."
There are some parts of the game Dorge hates and this was one of them. He had a penalty in diplomacy because he wanted another point in strength. So now he was thinking of breaking the table in two with his bare hands and drowning the story element in the nearest well.
Carlye might have seen Dorge's fingers go white against the wood grain or just really needed the job done, so he sat up and cleared his throat, "I need something taken to Largo Largo, two days, tops. I'll pay you half, plus something to stay at the Iron Hoof with, then the rest when you get back."
"Why not post it on the board?" Dorge asked, his hands relaxing. "Ah. Contraband?"
"Not exactly, but might as well be in this place, huh?" Carlye laughs dryly and his eyes tilt over to a trio of holy guards praying over their soup. Dorge was picking up what was being put down. Cities with temples could be tiresome, borish, and hopelessly fucked up under the sheets, but what would be innocuous in some places could put you in the stocks here. "If you'll agree I'll upgrade your gear one tier. Not much from the looks of it, no offense, but."
"Fine," Dorge says before Carlye realizes he's not really thinking it over, and changes his status to Under Contract.
"Excellent," Carlye says and stands, "when you see the blacksmith about your upgrade, he'll give you the package and the first half of your pay."
"Wait, how do I find you when I get back?" Dorge asks.
"Ask the bard," Carlye replies and walks away.
Dorge slides his fingers through his beard and shifts in his seat. Sometimes the dice land weird, but they always land.

Headed North

Dorge stands on his tiptoes to try to see over the counter into the box on the other side. A less-than-human girl was carefully going through the contents of the box. His sword was not going to be in that box, was she even listening? We're talking about a sword here, child, can you spare me the friendly-service routine? He knows he's not supposed to use the phrase "less-than-human" anymore, but could never get behind the polished version "more than human". At what point is being, and he's only guessing here, a half elf more than human? Human with a little extra? She may just have a slight point to her ears and have some gluten problem. But he bet if he said "Nee'janni brupbrup" to her she'd know what was up.
She smiles and tells him that the sword he described to her does not appear to be in the lost-and-found box. He smiles and tells her he's going to salt the earth of her village. He smiles and thanks her for looking, yeah, that's the one he went with.
The last few days were filled with a lot of walking. Thankfully the weather hadn't been terrible and he had made a good pace despite feeling like seven hells. The worst of it was not knowing where he was or where he was going. The stars wouldn't be much help to him; he wasn't a sailor. So he just headed north, that much he could figure out. Eventually he found himself on a road with a stream not too far off. There had been a mapmaker, too, but Dorge didn't have any money. Which was just as well, as he'd find out in a few months that the mapmaker was bogus and would have only led him to certain death. X marks the spot where a band of brigands will descend upon you and take all your earthly possessions, including your pulse.
Now he was here, Banda Cate. At least that's what it sounded like in Common. The guards had only let him in because he could recognize the deity on the temple he could see from the road and told them he was on a pilgrimage. It was pretty flimsy everyone involved had to admit but apparently the guards feared upsetting the deity more than whatever vermin Dorge was clearly carrying with him. He had tried to wash up a little in the stream but that water wasn't mending his clothes or doing much at all at in the way of making him look less crazy.
He scratches his beard and wonders where else he could hopelessly look for Day Ruiner. Helluva thing to be warrior class and not have a weapon. Normally he would find the closest tavern and wait for a pack of adventurers to miraculously come to town and need his services. But those guys always had a warrior anyways and if not a warrior a barbarian. Good Christ he hated barbarians. He briefly thinks about changing classes and wonders what the lvl penalty would be, then figures Adver would enjoy this too much and decides against it. He wonders if he should ask the elf-girl if Adver's in the lost-and-found box.
He may just have to find an odd job on a bulletin board like a noob to make enough to at least have a weapon. The thought of this chafes his ass pretty bad, considering all the shit jobs he's already had to do, and how little xp they'll get him as a lvl 36. But what the hell else is he going to do when he's not even super sure what continent he's on.
He makes his way to the town hall he passed earlier to give the postings up on the board a look. He was going to have to stand there with a bunch of little kids and go Deliver Magic Scrolls or Gather Mooka Berries or some such shit to earn some silver to just have some something to eat. That's when he saw a quest that was a little more interesting.
Faded and torn was a handbill with the likeness of a hooded magic-user hastily scrawled onto it, and below: ADWER. WANNTED.

Dead Enough for Government Work

There was grass and mud and probably a little bit of blood. Scratch that. There was a lot of blood. This was fighting Atma Weapon listening to Sound Garden, this was come together with your plan, this was bad. Wiggle your toes, count your fingers, what is today.
There had been a fight, he had been fighting a skeleton horde.
No, that didn't seem right, didn't sound right. There's a noise and it doesn't sound like it belongs here. Besides, only magic works on a skeleton horde in the end and he didn't have any spells. Casting Poor, Cast Broke, Low Dust/No Dust. He pushes a clump of sod from his eyes and blinks into the white sky. Skeletons would have reanimated, he would be dead, savagely so. He turns his head to release the blood from this mouth and wipes at his eyes again. He is aware of the smell of smoke and pitch and wet grass. The strange noise recedes a little. He rolls onto his side, slowly, and brings his knees up and finds he is too weak to snot-rocket the sputum from his nose, so he snorts and spits and his eyes roll in their sockets.
There is now a tingling urgency in the balls of his shoulders that he should really be going now, thanks for the coffee. He thinks he is alone, but he doesn't really know that for sure. He thinks he may have been left for dead. He hopes that he was been left for dead. He wonders if this is necromancy and he wonders if he would know whether or not it was and tries to think human thoughts but all he can think about are those Little Debbie cakes that weren't chocolate, but orange cream, and how good they were and wonders if this is enough to cogito ergo sum.
Where was his sword? He called it Day Ruiner, but it was supposed to ruin other people's day, not his. His fingers bite into the empty leather sheath and he breathes the word "shit" into the air. He needs a cleric, a fucking useless cleric, who the hell chooses cleric, and now he needs one.
Piece it together. Remember the dog's name. Remember the street name. Start with the familiar, build the world. Ranger. Euclid. "Ranger. Euclid."
He pushes himself into a sitting position and dizzying embers flash against his eyes. Day Ruiner is not in his local radius unless it is behind him, and he's just not there yet, thank you for your concern. If he saw himself sit up among all this carnage, he would certainly be looking for the local necromancer. "Ranger. Euclid. Cleveland."
It may have been a dragon, or just something big like that, that just assumes its opponent is dead or dead enough for government work. But he's lvl 36. Would he take on a dragon at 36 with a sword? "Ranger. Euclid. Cleveland. Thirty-Six."
No, that would be suicide. A shitty suicide, considering he was thinking he was still alive. He wouldn't have been alone. "Ranger. Euclid. Cleveland. Thirty-Six. Adver." That's right, the mage, the wizard, lvl 52, bee-tee-dubs, not Cast Broke, bee-tee-dubs. Where is Adver now. He tried to twist his head around to look behind him, but the swell of pain and dizziness nearly bowled him over. Did Adver hit him with a Rez? That's a big owe, if he did. Piss, did Adver hit him with a darker spell? One that did not bring to mind shafts of golden light and cherubs and Saturday morning cartoons? What's Latin for Not a Zombie?
He couldn't find any visible wounds. His belly was white and hairy where it wasn't streaked with blood and grass and dirt. The Nearest Old Navy might be his next quest he thinks and smiles. He really thought The Nearest Gap, but was afraid it wouldn't make sense when he wrote if all out later.
Damnit, Adver. What happened?
"Ranger. Euclid. Cleveland. Thirty-Six. Adver. Dorge."

Jesus in the Grass

Dad died in October. I may have mentioned this. My four year old took the news pretty well, and I first thought it was just a failure on my part in explaining death to her. I feel like she does understand that PawPaw isn't coming back but I don't think it's any of my explaining that did the trick. If anything, I'm sure I just made it all the more complicated by dancing around it and salting it with Christian lore and culturally acceptable pap. But she had no qualms with it, just a detail to remember when planning dinner: Mommy will be there, and Daddy, and my sister, and Grandmom, and aunt Joo-Loo, but not PawPaw, he died.
It's probably because I'm not sure myself what happens when our ticket is punched and I don't really want to count anything out. Heaven sounds great...but I can't stand the thought of going to church now, so I'm not sure I'd want to hang out in the Gardens with what I assume would be church-going folk. Hell sounds bad, for sure. But, I'm not really afraid of it. I'm not a Saint, and I don't think I deserve the corner office in the Kingdom, but Hell? Come on.
I wrestle with what to tell my daughter because I feel like what I tell her about my beliefs, or lack thereof, will have greater implications in the future. I want her to believe her own thing and not to find out I was so wrong about all of it. Which is counter-intuitive considering I have no trouble writing her notes from the tooth fairy or the Easter bunny, or making a mess in her room and telling her the Skull Lilly Pirates did it. She'll find out soon enough, as her sister did, why it seemed strange that all those characters had the same handwriting, despite the writer's best efforts to disguise it. And the heart of it all may be something I just realized while writing this. Would I ever write them a note from God? No.
But, sometimes I'm cornered into a question. The other morning on the way to daycare my daughter says to me, "Is PawPaw still in the grass?" Which, I suppose is a little nicer than her usual declaratory "PawPaw's in the dirt."
"Yes, baby, he's still there."
"Is Jesus in the grass?" the unforeseen natural progression.
"Yes, baby," I said, looking at her in the rear view mirror.
"Is the dirt Heaven?"
Well. and then I said, "Well." I could rattle off all day the worth of incisors and molars at the Star Bazaar, or how Rance Red saved Tin Rood Sulley from a cat during one of his pirate adventures, but I was stuttering on the bit about Heaven and God and the afterlife.
"Honey, PawPaw is in Heaven with Jesus, and that's all...above us. It's just Dad's body in the dirt, that stays here. But his soul is up in Heaven and your soul is what makes you you."
"Oh. Ok," she relinquished.
That seemed to have put to rest any more questions she had about the subject for a while. Then, yesterday, "I don't want to die because when you die your body breaks apart and it will hurt." These non sequitors of hers are going to keep me hopping for quite  while, I'm sure.

Tonight I asked Adver to bring me a pizza. His exact response was: I don't think I have the supplies to make that trip...not with the dead zone, and all those mutant bears in the way. Much less with a Pizza.

Which is just as well. If Adver had agreed to bring me a pizza I would have just assumed he was really coming to kill me. But now I'm thinking Would he have let me eat the pizza first? I'm thinking he would.

I'm also thinking about the mutant bears. In my mind their coat has a purple sheen to it, in the moonlight. Or maybe that's just how they look in the dead zone. Maybe it just looks like perpetual night in the dead zone? No, I wouldn't think so. I think the dead zone has a dirt road and it just feels real still and gray, like it is before a storm. Maybe it's a place out of time? I'm not sure a place like that needs to exist for our purposes. But, if there's a need for it, who would need it? Some agents from VChicago? I'm not sure what for? It seems like Everett and Forester would have needed something like that at some point and maybe did use a place like that.

Lock the Door

"Are you here to blubber about people forgetting your birthday?"
"No," Dorge responded, somewhat sulkily.
"What'cha got there, another list?"
"This is clearly a skull. This is not a list."
The half-orc frowned and squinted at the skull, "Why did you write a name on it, then?"
Dorge sighed and set the skull on the table next to his keys, "I wrote 'JUMP' on it, that isn't a name here. It's not a name where you're from, either," and then Dorge told him what it meant in Common.
"I had a name once, but you for-"
"That was a long time ago," Dorge cut him off, "What are you doing here, anyways? You still have a key?"
Half-Orc looked like he winced at that, but he was so horribly disfigured by the fire it was hard to get a read on a lot of his expressions. "I do still have a key, yes. But you didn't lock the door. So I was just waiting for you."
"Well, I'm here," Dorge said and toed off his shoes. He was a little irritated that Half-Orc hadn't removed his boots with God-Knows on them, but. Choose your battles, he decided.
"I'm just checking on you. You're writing stupid."
"Writing stupid?" Dorge parroted, shrugging off his coat.
Half-Orc nodded and shifted in his seat, "Writing about who came to what and all this. That's your mother talking," then blew a snot rocket onto the floor.
"Jesus! Seriously? You're not outside! That's not a thing, people don't do that."
Half-Orc considered, then asked if there was coffee made.

It didn't occur to Dorge until later to ask how long Half-Orc would be staying. He was surprised he had been there this long. He didn't mind it so much except that he hadn't been expecting anyone and catching up on chores while someone who fundamentally didn't understand them could be a little exasperating. He briefly considered putting out a scented candle but thought the benefits of such would not out weigh the barrage of badgering questions it would invoke and decided against it. He zipped his pointer and middle down the crease of his towels while wondering what word he would write on Half-Orc's skull.

Everyone knew that writing names was too dangerous. Incantations were one thing, summoning was a whole other ball game.