Sherry

Trial Ground of The First Step

Oof, that was creepy. Not as nauseating as that creepy old mage Silver knows and his teleportation, but that kinda sensory deprivation is unnerving.

Pretty bland place, this. I lean down and drag my finger across the stone-tiled floor, but feel no dust or dirt, just completely smooth stonework. I guess someone takes good care of the place, but to not feel even a little grit? Something about that doesn't strike me as being natural. But hey, magic exists in here, so fuck logic, am I right?

My math professor would either spontaneously combust in here when confronted with the concept of magic or cream his pants trying to figure out how the systems under the hood made this whole thing work. This game may be a janky shit show, but I can appreciate the amount of work that goes into getting it this far, even if they made some questionable design choices along the way.

The only things of note in here otherwise are the eerily impenetrable wall of bright white light beyond the windows and the elevated throne at the end of the room. Curious about where I am, my first instinct is to walk over to the nearest window on the left and wave my hand over the 'surface'. Nothing happens, but when I go to stick my head out, I'm interrupted by an exaggerated cough from the direction of the throne.

 

 

The old steampunker dude from character creation is sitting in the chair now, and he smiles with a mix of amusement and concern, "I would strongly advise against that, though your curiosity is appreciated."

I frown, and almost do it anyway out of spite, "Why's that?"

"We are in something of an...isolated space outside the bounds of the material plane. You would likely suffer for the attempt," he says, checking a stopwatch from his breast pocket, "But we are not able to chat for long, I'm afraid. You have a decision to make, child, and I am here to assist you in whatever ways I can - though I must reiterate from our last meeting that I am...restricted...in how much I am allowed to impart at this juncture, as much as I'd relish the opportunity to teach you properly."

Shrugging, I amble closer, stopping at the foot of the raised platform, "Believe me, I've been getting way more lectures than I can stomach lately, so, no offence but I don't wanna hear any more."

He laughs, "One should never scorn an opportunity to learn. But I digress; Have you given any thoughts as to your plans for the future?"

"I wanna shoot a gun instead of this fucking caveman shit," I scowl, "I feel like I've gone back in time where people throwing rocks with scarves was a viable method of killing people - which I mean, it is but we're like, soooo past that by now."

Mauvon smiles, "I can sympathise, to a degree, but I've come to appreciate all forms of technology in my centuries of isolation. The steps taken to evolve to the pinnacle are a beauty of their own, even if, as you put it, they are primitive in comparison. Nonetheless, with Merrow in it's present state, there is little you can do but make your own - if it were in my time, buying a rudimentary pistol would be a simple endeavour, but that was millennia ago, and times have changed."

"Yeah, my windbag of a party leader said as much," I sigh, "Fucker hasn't deemed fit to reveal how exactly I'm meant to go about that other than to stare at glowing balls of whatever turning into swords and other distinctly not-guns."

"A foundation in blacksmithing is useful for any aspiring Mechanist as it borrows some of the same principles, so I wouldn't write it off completely," Mauvon advises, "As for learning the Mechanist profession itself, that is something I believe I can provide some assistance with once you have grown sufficiently."

I roll my eyes, "So you're telling me I've gotta put up with this bow and arrow bullshit for another ten levels? Grrreeeeat."

"Just so. To that end, I would like to ask you what style of combat you would employ, given the freedom of choice and the benefits of a Mechanist's production capabilities?" The old man leans forward, staring intently through his thick, tinted glasses.

"I dunno," I shrug, "Run and gun, throw whatever else works best at the time out to do it's thing?"

"You would prefer the tactics of a mobile gunslinger? I'm assuming a pair of pistols, then?" He strokes his goatee.

"Yeah. Mainly," I nod.

"Then, may I suggest becoming a Harrier?" Mauvon suggests thoughtfully, "That would mostly align with what you wish to become, as they focus on swift movements and swifter shooting."

"Sounds good to me," I shrug, "How's it work with bows? Am I gonna need to switch to crossbows for this?"

"A bow will work fine, child," the old man says, "An ordinary crossbow would likely prove cumbersome, however. They are not designed with rapid shooting in mind, after all, but a single penetrating shot at short to medium range, not too dissimilar from a musket."

"Alright. We done here then?" I ask impatiently.

"We have time enough for one unrelated question, I believe," Mauvon offers.

I consider it, "Anything you think I oughtta do besides mindlessly stare at little balls of crafting light before level 20?"

"That would be cheating," he chuckles, "However, don't get too enamoured by the thought of combat alone. Muscleheaded fools are of little use to me, child. There is a world of impossibilities waiting to be disproven, should you put your mind to the task. Keep it keen."

I tilt my head in apathy, "Uh-huh. Sure."

Clearing my throat I announce my decision.

 

 

 

"Yeah, sure, whatever," I tap my foot.

The creak of a door behind me draws away my attention for a moment. An open door has mysteriously appeared, the implications here pretty obvious. First things first, though, I turn back to Mauvon and bow my head a little, "Thanks for showing up, I guess?"

He shakes his head, then pushes his glasses back up with his index finger, "Think nothing of it. I wish you good luck, child, and I hope to see you again soon."

"Yeah later - oh, hey, just remembered something Silver mentioned. What was it uhhh...oh yeah, what Eclipse are you from? Whatever that's supposed to mean," I scratch the back of my head.

Mauvon's expression is haunted for a moment, "The 12th. Farewell, child."

In a blink and you'll miss it fashion, the old man vanishes with no fanfare or particle effects, as if he weren't even here to begin with and I've been hallucinating this whole thing. Which, I mean, VR, but that's besides the point.

"What manner of murder is behind door number one?" I mutter, turning on my heel and strolling towards it.

 

 

---

 

???

I jolt back into consciousness, inhaling sharply. I scramble to my feet and look around wild-eyed, seeing nothing but densely thicketed forest with thick trunked trees that stretch out of view into an even denser canopy that blocks out all but a few speckles of sunlight that come down in shafts of misty light. Exhaling, I can see the condensation of my breath, and when I look down at myself, I find myself in an unfamiliar set of leathers and padded cloth armour, with a discarded bow lying at my feet and a quiver whose contents have partially spilled out.

This is trippy.

Where am I, exactly? I pat myself down, and rummage through a few pouches, finding nothing more than a carved bone whistle and a brass badge with a chimaera-like creature embossed upon it with the number 97 at the bottom. I guess I'm supposed to be a soldier of some kind?

 

 

An entire squad, huh? Tall order.

Not helped by the fact that I have no idea where they are or where the camp is, "Err...where the hell am I supposed to go?"

I ask the empty air, and receive no response in return. Great. Guess I'm going to fail this if I can't even find the fuckers, forget killing them.

Taking in the surrounds again, I try to figure out whether there are any obvious context clues or trees I could feasibly try to climb, but come up short, as I'm neither a tracker nor equipped to climb any of these trees even if I thought that might help. The only thing I can think to do is blow this whistle and hope for the best, but at the same time I don't want to give away my position to the enemy on the off-chance they're in range to hear it.

Hm. Unless I use the whistle as bait to make them come to me, which would definitely be viable, but a little riskier than I'm really comfortable with. Demonstrate the qualities of a Harrier, huh? Guess that means not getting caught rather than not being discovered. I'm not trying to become a Killer Spy - an assassin - here, am I?

Alright. If that's how it's gonna be, then let's dance motherfuckers.

Taking a deep breath, I place the whistle in my lips and blow as hard as I can for a good five seconds, the sharp trilling sound carries through the still forest pretty well and continues to echo well after I put it away. Closing my eyes and listening closely, I hear very, very distant shouting at the edge of my hearing range. My ears flick in recognition of the sound of people.

Racial traits, fuck yeah. Alright, best get to cover before the goons arrive. Harrier or not, I'd like to at least start this off with an ambush for a free shot or two. No need to give up an advantage when I can gloat over a corpse for greater effect.

Bending down to retrieve my weapon and ammo, I run to the left a good way and hide behind a tree just thick enough to conceal my body and equip the quiver to my belt, nocking an arrow in anticipation in a half-drawn state.

It takes a few minutes, but I finally hear the approach of people stomping through the brush heedless of the noise they're making, and chatting with one another without a care in the world.

"Fuckin' beasts making us trek all the way into the fuckin' forest. Should have just accepted their deaths gracefully," one loud-mouthed moron laments.

"Shurrup!" barks an older looking moron, "The whistlin' came from over here. Spread out and catch me a beastman scout. If we squeeze it maybe it'll take us back to it's nest for a treat."

That'll be me. Refugees and a band of racist pricks, huh? Guessing they're fleeing some kind of genocide attempt by some bigoted piece of shit and the idiots who ate it up. Demihuman discrimination. Very original a century ago.

This'd be where Silver goes on a 5-minute long presentation about how it makes sense in-universe, but honestly, I don't give a shit? Not as if I needed any more excuses to kill them, really. Faceless mooks are faceless no matter how many bad guy cliches they have stuffed in them.

Taking one last deep breath, I crouch, draw and peek out in one motion, selecting the nearest target for death and releasing the string, putting an arrow in flight and into his eye socket before dipping back into cover, nocking another arrow and repeating the process once more before the rest of them catch on to my presence.

"Fuckin' animals got Ertol! Get the bloody thing!" their leader calls out.

I snicker under my breath, nock a third arrow and run out under the effects of Camouflage, releasing it when I have a clear shot at his throat in the middle of his run to my original hiding spot. Unfortunately, my aim is slightly off, and catches him in the shoulder instead, but penetrates well as the effect of my stealth dissipates.

"Only animals I see around here are you sorry bastards," I taunt, dropping a speedy little shit with an arrow to the chest mid-charge and continuing to run, my arrows bouncing and jostling in the quiver such that I feel like they'll scatter around the place if I'm not careful.

"Get the little bitch you whoresons!" the wounded leader shouts, red with fury and hunched over from pain.

The rest of them start jeering various cliched insults about my species and gender, which I tune out, focusing entirely on the fight. Run, identify a target, retrieve an arrow, draw and shoot. If my aim's good, one of them drops dead in one shot, but having to account for travel time, the arrow's arc, wind resistance and the movements of the both of us makes this trickier than I'm used to. I end up missing more than I really should, so when only four of the dozen or so remain, I find myself running low on arrows to shoot and the actual running around is taking it's toll on my Stamina.

The lead soldier's gums flap something along the lines of 'animal fuck you kill rape animal animal torture'. My eyes have already glazed over blocking their inane bullshit from my conscious recognition. I have six shots left for four soldiers, which is enough to miss twice, but with all four closing the distance around me now, I can't afford to make any mistakes.

Idly, I remember that Steady Hands is a thing I have. Not enough to directly help me out of this situation, but it'll minimise the risk of a bad shot. Labelling them 1 through 4, I identify 2 as the closest to me and the most immediate threat, but trying to aim at him in this situation is a trap for the hasty - the better target would be number 1, as the second closest, wielding a spear. If I kill him, I can put some distance between myself and avoid 2 during the aiming process.

"<Steady Hands>" I whisper, feeling a little strange but trusting that it's an improvement.

I run towards 1 in the opposite direction of 2, avoiding the immediate danger and giving me a better chance with the arrow fired at 1, taking him in the side of his neck at a bit of a strange angle. I can definitely feel the improvement in my stability.

The encirclement broken, I keep running over, dodging a last-ditch thrust from the dying mook while I reload with a quick hop to the right, twisting mid-air to aim at 3, making better distance towards me than 2 or 4, putting two simultaneous arrows in his center of mass to drop him immediately.

Two left. I've basically already won, but they're too stubborn and stupid to realise it.

Steady Hands wears off, however, so it's just me and my own aim again. 2 catches up to me before I can make a break for it and swings desperately. Leveraging my smaller stature and high reflexes, I duck, roll and retrieve an arrow in the same motion, jumping from the balls of my feet to standing, sticking the arrow in the moron's back before he has a chance to turn around.

"Just you left, 4," I cackle, the last man losing all sense of reason as he charges to his inevitable demise.

Right between the eyes. Heh.

I feel my body lurch, like my mind is being sucked out and sent someplace else. I no longer see anything, feel the wind or smell the blood and forest.