Description

  NPCs dealing with NPC problems, often created directly or indirectly by Players.

  Asher is done with adventuring. Too much loss, too much craziness, not enough reward. He opens a potion shop instead, but fate has other plans.

  Ugly Ivana has found the perfect job. The pay is good and her boss doesn't belittle her for her face. It doesn’t last long though. Now the nobility wants Asher to head an expedition into the southern wilds to found a settlement. Mostly to pull the players out of Colspire. Its going to be dangerous. Monsters, bad guys, and the never ending insanity that is dealing with Player Characters.

  AI Note: AI was used in the creation of this story.

  Info:

  Archwarden Asher -

  Taron Timberfell - High elven lumberjack (Hatred of trees)

  Captain Landon Merrick - Human, roguish. (Lazy Soldier is more interested in gambling than working.) (thrives on charm and wit to mask his shortcomings.)

  Drunken Priest who fumbles his blessings.

  Cowardly Hunter afraid of the wilds.

  One-Handed Carpenter struggling to keep up.

  A miner/mason with a fear of small places.

  A herbalist with allergy issues.

  A bartender/innkeeper who looks creepy.

  Here are brief physical descriptions for the player characters:

  Jace_Macer (Male Half-Elf Paladin) - Jace has a lean, athletic build with the pointed ears and sharp features typical of a Half-Elf. His sandy blonde hair is tied back, and his youthful face. Dressed in a basic chainmail shirt and a slightly oversized tabard bearing a generic holy symbol, he clutches a plain longsword and a weathered wooden shield.

  Kill-a-dor (Male Half-Orc Warrior) - Kill-a-dor is broad-shouldered and muscular, with greenish-gray skin and small tusks that curve from his lower jaw. His dark, unkempt hair is tied in a short knot, and a few scars mar his otherwise youthful face. He wears a simple leather cuirass and wields a rusty greatsword slung over his back, its chipped blade matching the scuffed boots and worn bracers completing his gear.

  Chapter 1

  Asher stared down at Mina, bile rising in his throat. He tried to swallow it down as he tore his eyes away from what remained of his partner’s head. Harrock stood against the cavern wall, panting. Looking for all the world like he was working just as hard to keep his lunch where it belonged. This wasn’t the first time they’d lost someone, but as the sounds of further fighting echoed from deeper in the cavern, Asher couldn’t help but hope this might be the last.

  “I quit,” he said. The dark, musty cavern wasn’t exactly quiet enough for his words to echo off the stone walls, but he looked to Harrock anyway, as though expecting some judgmental glare. None came. Harrock merely gave a single, solemn nod of his helmeted head. That was it. Asher had quit.

  ***

  Ivana, sometimes called “Ugly Ivana,” supposedly to distinguish her from some noblewoman also named Ivana and considered far more attractive, dropped a few coppers on the peddler’s counter and took the loaf of bread she was buying. The man glared at her but never denied her service or said anything. Good enough for her.

  The narrow streets of Colspire were already packed as she navigated the market district to its main crossroads, a large, open intersection serving as a town square. Her goal wasn’t the residential, guild, or industrial sectors that branched off, but rather the large billboard occupying one corner of the square, its iron spikes bristling with job postings. She waited a moment while a “player character” whose incomprehensible name, a jumble of letters, numbers, and odd symbols hovering above his head, finished browsing the board and moved on. In her experience, it was best to avoid player characters, who ranged from pleasant enough to psychotically insane. Usually, the weirder the name, the weirder the character. Once he left, she stepped up to examine the postings in another vain attempt to find new employment.

  She ignored the fetch quests, the mercenary pleas, and the “kill X-many monsters” notices. Her eye caught a job for a kitchen aide. She scanned the required skills and the address, then frowned. She’d been there last week, where the tavern owner had bluntly told her he’d never hire someone with her face “unless all the hells froze over and the moon fell from the sky.” That was for a barmaid position, though. Maybe he’d change his tune if she worked hidden in the kitchen. She kept searching. Worst case, she could return there later as a last resort.

  Sales Clerk Needed for New Potion Shop — Must Be Trustworthy, Good with Numbers, Dependable, Able to Read and Write, Perceptive, and Trustworthy.

  She paused. Trustworthy had been mentioned twice. It seemed redundant, but it also hinted that this potion shop catered to “player characters.” That alone made her uneasy. Still, the listing promised a standard wage plus “+1”—likely 1 copper or silver more. The flyer looked brand new, and she wasn’t likely to do better. Odds were the owner would take one look at her and dismiss her based on her face. There was, after all, a reason people called her “Ugly Ivana.”

  Heading back through the market district, she branched off halfway down, taking a side street that led to a back alley. Asher’s Potion Emporium wasn’t in an ideal location. The building itself looked battered and worn, but Ivana peered at the items in the display window: basic mana, stamina, and health potions, plus antitoxins, antidotes, and other lesser potions. The reason for “trustworthy” appearing twice on the notice became apparent. Even the cheapest item—a so-called “lesser” potion—cost fifty gold. She stared at one bottle. She’d probably be earning a few silvers a week, if that. Fifty gold for the lowest-tier product almost made her choke.

  Eyeing the closed sign on the door, she took a breath, summoned her courage, and knocked twice on the solid wood. Then she tried the handle. To her surprise, and her mild horror, it turned, and the door opened.

  Ivana stuck her head into a dimly lit room filled with glass cabinets displaying various potions and shelves of equipment, no doubt the supplies required to make them. The man at the counter didn’t even look up from his work; his voice, ringing with an authoritative drawl, carried off the walls.

  “We’re not open yet. Try again tomorrow.”

  Ivana froze. Part of her wanted to do exactly that—leave and come back tomorrow—while another part reminded her of the job posting. Really, there was only one choice.

  “Um… The job board said you were looking for a sales clerk?”

  The man looked up from the papers in front of him, and Ivana waited for him to flinch. She knew what he was seeing. Born “devil-blooded,” birth and tragedy had collaborated to shape her face into something that provoked unease, if not outright disgust. She had two horns: one large, and one considerably smaller protruding just above her left eye socket—giving her eyebrow minimal room for expression. Her canines were slightly too sharp, her eyes a bit too red, her skin tinged with magenta, and that was the “good” side of her face.

  The other side, she kept covered with her long, black hair, brushed straight as best she could. To her surprise, the man didn’t flinch. Instead, he simply nodded, lifted a hand to beckon her inside, and told her to close the door.

  Standing there, just inside a potion shop unlike any she’d seen or smelled before. Ivana noted it lacked the overpowering herbal scents typical of an apothecary. Instead, subtler, more peculiar perfumes drifted from odd corners.

  “What is ten plus thirteen?” the man asked abruptly.

  Ivana blinked at the question but answered promptly: “Twenty-three.”

  “Eight plus six plus five?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “One-twenty-eight divided by two, plus seven?”

  She had to think about that for a few seconds. “…Seventy-one?”

  The man, too, seemed to do a quick mental calculation, then nodded. “Good. Now read this back to me,” he said, flipping a sheet around and pushing it toward her side of the counter.

  Ivana ventured a few steps deeper into the shop until she reached the counter, bending down to look at the scribbles she was now meant to read:

  “Canice Root, six copper per pound. Tittering Fungus, two copper per ounce. Qualle, Quett, Quattlefeather, two silver per inch…”

  “That’s good, thank you.” He flipped the sheet over and handed her a stylus. “Write down: seven spined truffle-shrumps, seventeen gold per ounce, plus twelve—” he paused in thought “—times turned, divided by the amount of chicken feathers.”

  Ivana tried not to laugh at the clearly made up instructions and wrote it out in her neatest block print. The man inspected it, nodded, and took the stylus from her.

  “What’s your experience with players?”

  Again, he looked at her straight in the face, focusing on her one unobscured eye, and didn’t appear to judge her for her appearance.

  “Um…I used to…work as a barmaid,” Ivana offered. “Players were…” She hesitated, searching for a diplomatic way to say they were a giant pain in the ass. “…tedious and difficult at times, though sometimes the locals were just as bad.”

  He gave a slight chuckle and nodded. “Okay. I’m willing to give you a chance. But here’s the deal: I’m dealing with highly expensive materials. I need someone vigilant against theft by my patrons, and I absolutely won’t tolerate theft by my employees. Clear?”

  Ivana nodded, though she had no clue how she was supposed to stop a “player” from stealing. “How am I supposed to keep a player from walking off with something?”

  The man grinned. “By activating the various wards I’ve enspelled on this building.”

  Ivana stared at him, not entirely sure if the man was joking. She couldn’t even fathom how expensive such wards might be, but he seemed serious enough. For the first time since she’d entered the shop, he rose from his seat. Reaching an arm over the counter, he offered a handshake.

  “Name’s Asher.”

  Ivana took his hand. “Ivana.”

  He was taller than she was. No surprise, given that men tended to be slightly taller. He also had a broader, more athletic build. What unsettled her was his face. The set of his jaw and his eyes, along with a scar on his right cheek, made him look older, yet his hair—untouched by gray—seemed younger. A human was probably between twenty and forty. It bothered her that she couldn’t narrow it down.

  “Well then, for now, consider yourself hired. I suggest you head back to the job board and remove the posting. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at dawn. Oh, and is there a reason you cover half your face?”

  Ivana’s stomach churned violently, but she kept herself upright and responded evenly, “I’m blind in that eye, sir.” She brushed her hair aside, revealing the gruesomeness that was the right side of her face. This time, Asher did wince, though she sensed it was less about finding the burnt flesh and pale, sightless eye hideous and more about understanding how much pain someone must endure for such a severe burn.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked.

  “Can’t feel a thing,” Ivana replied, watching his expression. Asher nodded, then said, “See you tomorrow, then.”

  ***

  For two and a half months, Ivana worked for Asher as a sales clerk in his potion emporium. Business was slow at first. He was still getting established, and neither of them seemed to mind. Players came and went, and Ivana noted their bizarre names, which ones came to sell ingredients, which ones came to buy potions, which were polite, and which were arrogant jerks.

  She only had to activate the wards seven times. The wards temporarily froze everyone on the sales floor and caused a ringing alarm that summoned the guards. Ivana was sure she’d be fired the time she paid for a look-alike flower instead of the real thing, or the two occasions when a display potion vanished under her watch. But Asher seemed to expect small scams and petty theft. Ivana shared a laugh with him when he explained that the display potions were little more than colored water.

  All in all, things were going well—until a non-player character in regal attire arrived at the shop with two bodyguards, asking specifically for Asher. Ivana politely asked the man to wait while she stuck her head into the back room to inform Asher that someone was there to see him.

  When Asher emerged and asked what they wanted, the noble-looking man handed him a sealed envelope. Everyone stood in silence as Asher broke the seal and read its contents, his once neutral expression turning dour.

  “Ivana, close up the shop and take the rest of the day off,” Asher said. She did as instructed, leaving the building with Asher and his three serious-looking visitors.

  The next couple of days proceeded much the same, though Asher was in and out more frequently and seemed on edge. Then he told her not to purchase any new ingredients. Gradually, over the following week, the stock dwindled, with no fresh potions arriving. Players would enter, discover that the items they sought were no longer available, and promptly blamed Ivana. Those days were hectic. Eventually, Asher posted signs in the window listing what remained in stock. As the merchandise vanished from shelves, Ivana’s anxiety grew. She knew the job she was holding—a better-paying job than she’d ever had, run by a man who didn’t seem to care about her disfigurement—was nearing its end.

  One day, when the shop was nearly empty and Ivana found herself sweeping the floor for the thirteenth time, the door opened to reveal a large non-player character. She froze, staring up at him. Tieflings were rare but not unheard of—she had seen others, though none quite as unsightly as herself. The man before her had almost catlike features: his yellow eyes scanned the room, and his horns perched atop his head like a crown. Despite his slightly more demonic traits—cloven hooves and a tail with a tuft of fur at the end—he still managed a rugged handsomeness that nearly offset his infernal heritage.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  “Is Asher around?” The man inquired in a deep voice.

  “Ah…no,” Ivana replied.

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “He’s been in and out a lot lately, but he’s usually here before sundown,” she answered.

  The big man nodded. “Then I’ll be back by then. Please tell Asher that Harrock’s here to see him.”

  When Asher returned and received the message, he ordered Ivana to close up shop and pick up some alcohol. By the time she came back with the requested bottles, Asher and Harrock were in the back room, chatting amicably over a table. She was dismissed for the night.

  In hindsight, it made sense that Asher hadn’t judged her appearance as he had a tiefling for a friend. That was more plausible than him simply being a kinder sort of person. In almost three months working for him, Ivana hadn’t gotten a clear read on the guy. Asher often seemed aloof, expecting his orders followed precisely, yet otherwise he was fair. As a boss, she would miss him—and she’d certainly miss the wages.

  The next morning, Ivana found a note instructing her to pack the last of the items into the crates left around the floor. She spent the first hours doing just that, then wiping down the showroom once more. With little left to occupy her, she moved to the back room. Normally, she didn’t touch that area. Though not expressly forbidden, her primary role was to monitor the front, so no one stole anything. Yet now she found it nearly empty as well. A few tools remained, along with piles of books, papers, and a modest kitchen setup in the corner. She started sweeping the floor.

  Ivana nearly jumped out of her skin when she turned to find Asher standing behind her. Her first thought was that she’d broken some unspoken rule, and he was angry, but he looked just as surprised that he’d startled her.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said. He walked to the center table and slumped into a chair. “Why don’t you put on some tea for us?”

  Ivana set the broom aside and did as she was told, working in the kitchenette corner while trying to summon the courage to ask when she was to be let go. The tea seemed to take forever to brew. Eventually, it was ready; she poured two cups, placing one in front of Asher and, assuming the other was for her, she sat down across from him and waited for him to speak.

  With an almost exaggerated sigh, he leaned forward, sipped at his cup, and said, “I made it two and a half months.”

  The statement hung in the air like a foul odor. Ivana wasn’t sure how to respond, so she settled on a quiet, “Sorry.”

  Asher’s gaze lifted, and his expression looked vaguely surprised. “I’m not blaming you. This is a confluence of my own success, political nonsense, and a few other things beyond my control.”

  He sipped his tea again while Ivana stared into the dark liquid in her own cup. She had to say it—she needed to say it. “Um, sir,” she ventured, “when are you going to fire me?”

  Asher took another long drink of his tea, clearly thinking. When he finally lowered the cup to its saucer, he spoke. “That depends. The soonest I’m likely to fire you is in the next few minutes.”

  There it was: a deadline, looming like a hangman’s noose. Ivana wasn’t looking forward to returning to the old job board, searching for a new place where she’d be mocked, ridiculed, and underpaid yet again.

  As Asher took another deep breath, he leaned back in his seat and posed a different question. “Where did you learn to read?”

  “My mother taught me,” Ivana answered.

  Asher nodded. “That’s good. She live here in Colspire?”

  Ivana shook her head. “She’s dead.”

  “Mind if I ask what happened?” he asked, his tone not unkind. Unfortunately, death was a common occurrence in these parts.

  “When we were moving to Colspire, our caravan was attacked,” Ivana said, tapping the scarred half of her face. “That’s how I got this.”

  “Your father?” Asher ventured.

  “Monster attack, a few years before we tried moving here,” she said quietly.

  “Siblings?” Asher asked.

  Another headshake from Ivana. “My parents didn’t want to risk having more kids because…well.” She gestured at her face.

  “So what keeps you in Colspire?” he asked.

  It seemed like an odd question, and she lifted her gaze to see his cool stare fixed on her. “Um…work.”

  “That’s it?” he pressed.

  Ivana merely nodded.

  Asher took a slow, deliberate sip of his tea, draining the cup. “They want me to lead an expedition south to set up a new town.”

  Ivana blinked. She’d been wondering why he was giving up the potion shop when business had seemed decent, but she’d assumed a more mundane reason—less…grand, perhaps. “Oh.”

  He nodded. “It’s tied up in treaties and political bullshit. There’s a fear the players will settle that region, maybe from a nation of their own, which scares the nobility. They want me to found a settlement—something that’ll grow into a region or vassal kingdom under their nominal control, but with enough deniability to say, ‘It’s not us down there.’ The tricky part is managing the players. And, essentially, they’re also trying to push a lot of those players out of Colspire.”

  Ivana couldn’t think of anything to say besides “Oh.” It was a lot to take in, and clearly just a rough summary.

  “So I guess the question is…would you be interested in joining us?” Asher asked.

  “M-me?” Ivana stammered, before realizing, of course, he meant her.

  “It’s not exactly a paid position at first. There’ll be a bit of coin upfront for supplies, but mostly I’m promising you a job after a whole lot of hard work—some kind of administrative role, if possible.”

  “Administrative?” she echoed.

  Asher nodded. “I need someone I can trust with paperwork. Dealing with townspeople, taxes eventually, that sort of thing. And you’d be on the payroll once we’re set up. But this’ll be dangerous. Not just because the southern wilds can be lethal, but because of all the player issues. Don’t decide right now,” he added. “We’re pressed for time, but take the night to think it over. If you agree, you’ll basically be my assistant for a good while.”

  He stopped talking, shifting to pull out his coin purse. Counting out a few silvers, he placed them on the table. “Here’s this week’s pay, plus a little extra. Take the rest of the day off. Let me know by tomorrow’s end what you decide.”

  A long pause followed. Then, with a jerk of his head toward the door, he said, “Go on. Out of here.”

  ***

  Ivana wandered the dark streets of Colspire in a daze. The city held nothing good for her, but at least it was “safe.” She didn’t have to worry much about monsters or bandits while within its walls. Yes, there were places and people just as likely to harm her as any random beast would, but it was still some semblance of security—albeit a miserable one.

  What the hell should she do?

  Author’s notes: I don’t have more than a chapter one. I was at work listening to an audiobook. Thought up a character. And the next day, this was in my head. Any thoughts?

  Chapter 2

  Author’s notes: I’ve been using AI more often. I really have no idea what I’m doing with this story yet. Because people seem to really like it, I don’t want to “Generate” the story. Here is an example of how AI might get used in a story I’m just stuck on.

  Give me an opening dialogue between Ivana and an elven lumberjack in charge of clearing a path through the forest. Ivana is trying to figure out what is delaying the clearing. The lumberjack is concerned about dreads and other fey creatures hiding in the trees. He doesn't like them and seems to want to find and kill them. Include a comment about how he doesn't like fey like he was some damn elf. Ivana stares At his elven ears and he adjusts his comment to mean wood elves.

  Here’s a draft for the opening dialogue:

  ---

  **Ivana**: “This path was supposed to be cleared days ago. What’s holding you back?”

  **Lumberjack**: “Damn forest is crawling with dreads and other fey nasties. Every time we take an axe to a tree, you get that prickling feeling, like something’s watching you from the shadows.”

  **Ivana**: “Fey creatures? I thought you were an elf. Aren’t they supposed to like you?”

  (*The lumberjack snorts loudly, his tone dripping with disdain.*)

  **Lumberjack**: “Hah! Just because I’ve got these ears doesn’t mean I have a soft spot for them. I’m not some damn elf—”

  (*Ivana raises an eyebrow and stares pointedly at his elven ears. He shifts uncomfortably under her gaze before clearing his throat and amending himself.*)

  **Lumberjack**: “—wood elf, I mean. They’re the ones that go skipping through glades singing with sprites. Me? I cut trees. I don’t talk to them.”

  (*Ivana crosses her arms and steps closer, voice cold.*)

  **Ivana**: “Right. So instead of clearing the path, you’re sitting here planning a war against things most people never see.”

  **Lumberjack**: “Planning nothing. If they’d show themselves, I’d take care of it quick. They’re the ones playing games, hiding in the shadows. And if they want this forest, they can keep it—once I’ve had my way with it.”

  (*Ivana’s eyes narrow.*)

  **Ivana**: “Well, while you’re having your little feud with the fey, this path isn’t getting cleared. I suggest you decide which is more important—your grudge, or your job.”

  (*The lumberjack scowls, hefting his axe over his shoulder.*)

  **Lumberjack**: “Fine. But don’t come crying when those shadow-dwelling little bastards start making trouble.”

  Also, you have LordB13 to thank for the idea that all the “managers” in this town builder are screwed up in some way. It's great. I love it. Here’s what I have so far.

  Taron Timberfell - High elven lumberjack (Hatred of trees)

  Landon Merrick - Human, roguish. (Lazy Soldier is more interested in gambling than working.) (thrives on charm and wit to mask his shortcomings.)

  Drunken Priest who fumbles his blessings.

  Cowardly Hunter afraid of the wilds.

  One-Handed Carpenter struggling to keep up.

  A miner/mason with a fear of small places.

  A herbalist with allergy issues.

  A bartender/innkeeper who looks creepy.

  Keep the ideas coming. I still don't have a real plot yet.

  Chapter 2

  “This forest is crawling with dryads and other little fey nasties.” Taron Timberfell leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. His eyes darted to the trees as though expecting them to sprout legs and charge. “Every time we take an axe to a tree, you get that prickling feeling, like something’s watching you from the shadows.”

  Ivana took a slow breath and leaned back, clasping her hands behind her back in a practiced attempt to appear professional. “Fey creatures? Is that what’s holding up the clearing? I thought elves could, I don’t know, talk to them.”

  Taron straightened, his jaw tightening as if she’d just insulted his ancestors. “I ain’t no damned elf.”

  Ivana cocked an eyebrow and tried her hardest not to glance at his pointed ears. She failed.

  Taron’s frown deepened, and he crossed his arms. “Wood elf, I mean. They’re the ones that go skipping through glades singing with sprites and holding hands with pixies. Me? I cut trees. I don’t talk to them.”

  “Right,” Ivana said, her tone flat. “Have you actually seen any of these fey?”

  “Well, no,” Taron admitted, bristling. “But that’s their game, you see. They let you feel all safe and cozy, lull you into a false sense of security. Then, when you least expect it, they strike.” He made a dramatic chopping motion with his hand, which Ivana suspected was not entirely unrelated to how he handled his axe.

  Ivana’s lips twitched, but she wrestled them back into a neutral line. “So instead of clearing the path, you’re sitting here plotting war against things you haven’t seen yet?”

  “I ain’t plotting nothing,” Taron huffed, clutching his axe. “If they’d just show themselves, I’d take care of them real quick-like. But no, they’ve gotta skulk around in the shadows, waiting.”

  Ivana screwed her face into what she hoped was a serious, no-nonsense expression. The muscles in her forehead betrayed her, as usual. “Well, while you’re busy waging your imaginary war, this path isn’t getting cleared. And I’m stuck evaluating candidates for your replacement.”

  It was a lie. She wasn’t looking for a replacement yet. But Ivana was slowly realizing that her inability to express the right emotions on her face made her great at bluffing.

  Taron scowled, hefting his axe over his shoulder like a soldier bracing for battle. “Fine. But don’t come crying to me when those tree-dwelling little bastards make a mess of everything.”

  They exchanged glares, and Ivana held her ground until Taron stomped off, muttering under his breath. As soon as he was out of earshot, Ivana allowed herself a long, slow exhale.

  Ivana made her way down the wagon train, the mingling smells of cooking sausage, warm porridge, and the forest's floral decay creating a strange blend in the cool morning air. The small clearing was alive with activity as people packed up their gear or prepared breakfast. She weaved through the bustle until she spotted Asher near his personal cart, meticulously organizing supplies.

  Before she could speak, Asher glanced up, his expression taut. “Have you seen Landon anywhere?”

  “Landon? No.” Ivana shrugged. That wasn’t unusual. The captain was nearly impossible to find—unless he wasn’t needed, in which case he was annoyingly present.

  Asher’s jaw clenched, his frustration spilling into his movements as he yanked a strap tight. “Any news from the scouts?”

  “I haven’t heard anything,” Ivana said, shifting her weight. “I was busy talking to Timberfell about the road clearing.”

  “Timberfell?” Asher rubbed his face, a gesture that screamed why is everything a disaster today?

  Ivana folded her arms and gave him an amused look. “He says the forest is crawling with fey. Dryads, shadows, and... I don’t know, angry squirrels? Apparently, every tree feels like it’s watching him.”

  Asher paused mid-motion and stared at her. “And what did you say?”

  Ivana smirked. “I told him I was evaluating replacements for his job.”

  For a moment, Asher just blinked. Then a wry grin spread across his face. “Maybe we should do the same with Landon.”

  Ivana chuckled. “Not the worst idea.”

  Before Asher could respond, a scout sprinted toward them, his face pale and his breathing labored. “Sir!” the scout said, snapping a poorly executed salute.

  “What?” Asher asked, his tone shifting, all humor gone in an instant.

  “We’re missing two scouts, and I can’t find Captain Merrick.”

  Asher straightened, his voice calm and measured. “Two scouts?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Understood. Get the rest of the scouts and meet me in front of the train.”

  “Yes, sir!” The scout ran off, shouting for his peers.

  Asher grabbed his sword and started toward the front of the wagon train, his movements brisk but steady. “Ivana, if those two wake up, send them to me immediately.”

  “Okay,” Ivana called after him, watching as he jogged off. Her attention wandered to the two Player Characters sitting in one of the carts.

  Both were semi-transparent, staring blankly into the distance like unsettling mannequins. Ivana shivered. Gods, I hate it when they do that... it’s fucking weird. Neither of them had gear even close to Asher’s quality, which likely meant they were noobs—low-level Players who often had no clue how the world worked.

  Just as Ivana turned away, a loud voice burst from the cart she’d just been staring at.

  “Alright! Random Encounter!”

  Her heart leapt into her throat. She spun around, her gaze darting to the Players. One of them had stood, a wild grin on his face. The other Player remained seated, working a kink out of his neck.

  “Where’s the fight?” bellowed the standing half-orc, Kill-a-dor, his name tag floating above his head in glowing letters. His shout drew every pair of eyes in the clearing.

  Ivana closed her mouth with an audible snap, scrambling to remember what she was supposed to do. Right, send them forward. She forced a bright smile onto her face, raising her hands to get their attention. “Oh, brave adventurers!” she called, her voice dripping with theatrical enthusiasm. “Your valor is needed at the front of the wagon train!” She pointed forward, her gesture overly dramatic, mostly because she wasn’t sure if the noobs knew which direction the front was. “Seek Archwarden Asher! He will guide you to glory!”

  Kill-a-dor vaulted out of the cart like an overeager hunting hound, landing with a thud before breaking into a sprint. “I call first blood!” he yelled, probably to his fellow Player, who climbed down with far more restraint.

  The blonde-haired half-elf, Jace_Macer, adjusted his tabard and gave Ivana a polite nod. “Thanks, miss,” he said before jogging off after his companion, his chainmail rattling softly with each step.

  Ivana let her hands drop, scanning the clearing. Sighs of relief rippled through the gathered expedition members. The tension that had gripped the air seemed to dissipate, and she caught more than a few muttered prayers of gratitude.

  Yeah, she thought, releasing her own quiet breath. I’m relieved too.

  Author’s notes: I still have no idea what happens next. It’s a game world. Its a forest. There are Players. Any thoughts?

  Chapter 3