Of course this Dread Lord is strong enough to have conquered the kingdom all alone. They have a dark army because that kind of menial labor is for servants.
This wizard has a distinctive facial scar, but the next person to say they resemble a certain other well known wizard is going to get hit with "Ceaseless Emesis."
When an adventuring party goes through a dungeon it has horrifying consequences on the local ecology. From the perspective of a naturalist or an anthropologist the average adventuring party safely escaping a dungeon is the equivalent of a small natural disaster, often acting as a wound that the ecosystem may never fully recover from. Looking here at a dungeon that's just been 'completed'.
The local town has a major influx of gold from an adventuring party spending a few nights there. The innkeeper and blacksmith have both gotten more money than either of them could have overwise made in years. The local lord will come through here in a few days and falsely accuse both of them of treason so that he can take their possessions, and the town's economy will return to normal. The innkeeper and blacksmith with be banished, their sons conscripted into the war effort, and their daughters doomed to poverty, but what matters to the lord is the gold. The adventurers will never know.
The hydra guarding the dungeon who was killed was the alpha in the area. Countless male hydras will fight to take his place, most of them younger, their species' territory is shrinking due to the expansion of humans in this area, this gate and this marshland is one of the last good areas for hydras to nest in the valley left. Male hydras are the ones to take care of the young after they hatch, the ones taken care of by the hydra the adventurers killed were too young to compete with the hydras coming in to take his place, some will run off into the woods and die when the winter comes, most will be cannibalized by the males coming to replace their father.
The dungeon was a rare example of untouched ruins. It had art and artifacts that can never be replaced. Every "puzzle" that was "solved" and every pillar and carving that the adventuring party destroyed in a fight is an example of something lost that will never be replaced. Anthropology's understanding of the culture will forever be smaller. The "treasure" that the adventurers found is a bit better off, but most of it will forever be stripped of important context, even if any of it is studied one day elements of its origins will be forever lost, not to mention to many magic items that will very likely be destroyed in battle with the adventurers that stole them.
The mimics that were killed were an endangered species. They weren't common mimics, not that the adventurers know the difference. Those mimics were some of the only things capable of eating slimes, an invasive species in the area. The local town will have an infestation of slimes in a few years, and nobody will have any understanding as to why. They might even hire another adventuring party to deal with it. Luckily the adventuring party that went through this dungeon was able to kill a nominal amount of slimes, but this valley has far more slimes than it does mimics, and slimes breed far far faster.
The demon the adventuring party killed at the end of the dungeon was a servant of the brass goddess, sworn to protect the arts of a people long forgotten. Upon his defeat he will respawn in the underworld and finally reunite with the people who summoned him two thousand years ago. With one less sacred place of the old gods in this land, the conquest of the hanged king grows stronger, and an apocalyptic event that will bring this continent under his power a thousand years from now is ever so slightly more likely. The adventurers understood none of this of course, they don't care to know where the things who fight them come from, and one member of their party was a priest of the hanged king anyway.
The kobolds the adventurers killed will be found by members of their village in the morning, when their families begin to realize that they didn't come home after a hunt. Their kind is small and often killed by humanity when it is convenient to them. If their bodies are found they will be burnt at the village center, and the entire community will mourn them. One of the bodies will never be found, as its skull was used as an adornment to one of the adventurer's armor. The kobold elders will assure the children that those who are lost have returned to the great dragon below the earth, in a land where meat is plentiful, and humans never tread. The village will wonder if it can survive the coming winter, with less and less places to hunt every year, and more and more souls taken by human hands.
The adventurers will come to another town soon, and the wave of destruction will strike another part of the valley.
This adventurer has been doing a lot of thinking about their chosen vocation and is starting to have some serious second thoughts regarding the ethics of it all.
Written to the prompt by @makingupadventurers — This adventurer is only lucky when it counts.
You can download the first four instalments of Some Guy Party as 8-page printable zines on my itch.
Originally posted on cohost on September 2nd, 2024.
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Not far from the county governing body, a former wetland now wetland once more swamps the former county governing body. With no other jobs of particular interest to take up, the party concedes to participating in the years-going effort to retrieve materials from the flooded body. They’re afforded a wide boat that rides high on the water and skims over shallows. While shifting the boat’s load, the sizeable stone dropper manages to dip one side low enough to take on water.
At camp—a proper long-term set up, complete with cook house—one tells the sizeable stone dropper not to beat himself up too much about it. “At least you didn’t sink the thing.”
“Might not I tomorrow?” he bellyached into the belly-satisfying meal provided by the effort’s cook.
One pats the sizeable stone dropper’s shoulder. “Tomorrow might not you in the boat?”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
For the floors above water, with a building emptied of its contents and accoutrement, plaster was to be knocked out to pull timbers. The sizeable stone dropper drops the cloth protecting his face from plaster dust to drink water, the resulting coughing fit has him tumble between wall-less timbers into the swamp.
At camp—a proper long-term set up, complete with firepit burning day and night—one stamps out embers that burst from damp wood and land too near the former damp sizeable stone dropper sitting too near the fire. “Could have been worse.”
“Could have?” his tremulous of cold voice turns credulous of ‘this is better, you mean that?’.
One puts an arm across the sizeable stone dropper’s shoulders. “Could have been shallows.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The distance from above water to boat was aided by a pulley system. A heavy timber would be securely affixed and slowly lowered. Having near sunk the boat and having struggled with plaster dust, the sizeable stone dropper is on pulley duty when the affixed timber tumbles prematurely. His borrowed leather gloves oversized catch in the pulleys before his hands can, halting the timber’s fall onto one on the boat below.
At camp—a proper long-term set up, complete with curative tent—one studies the remarkable lack of injury to the sizeable stone dropper’s hands and applies salve regardless. “Foolish of you.”
“Would been worse of you if I’d not,” he countered, once again recounting which of the two had been in peril.
“I am of mind.” One’s voice, for all its surety, is a little thin from said peril’s scare.
Adventurer who knows that the best lie is built around a grain of truth.
Written to the prompt by @makingupadventurers — Adventurer who knows that the best lie is built around a grain of truth.
You can download the first four instalments of Some Guy Party as 8-page printable zines on my itch.
Originally posted on cohost on August 23rd, 2024.
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Having broadly agreed no caravan guarding jobs since the return trip is rarely included, the party found themselves on a meandering road between governing bodies with paperwork to make the return trip. They mostly clear deadfall, spending no small portion of their time sawing rounds that they take turns chopping into firewood at evening camp. It’s the the third evening when some guy ties a rope with a forgiving tension knot and makes quick work of the round.
Newer to the party and no lesser less a fan of caravan guarding jobs watches with a ‘well, damn’ expression. She’s not the sole audience member, but when no one else speaks up she asks, “Where might have you learned that?”
Some guy pauses between ax swings, taking the opportunity to pull from their waterskin. “Where I was real lil.” They drop their waterskin against the rapidly grown stack of firewood and pick up the ax again.
“Where might that be?”
Hefting the ax into a familiar balance of weight, some guy simply says, “Where doesn’t exist anymore,” and returns to splitting wood.
No lesser less a fan frowns and looks about but neither of the other party members watching the display have an answer for her. One shrugs and indicates they ought to busy themselves lest someone else bother them for idling.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The caravan stops just outside of their destination, sending a representative ahead into the body to sort out the caravan’s arrival, stowage of wagons and other such logistics that had the party standing around kicking stones. It was early enough in the day that they could make good distance on the return trip if the caravan representative made quick and retrieving paperwork made quicker. Alternatively, they could spend the night and start out in the morning.
Some guy shakes their head with a wince. The party watches until they nod at markings on the top stone of where the body’s stone wall met gatehouse.
No lesser less a fan looks about but none of the other party members can interpret the chisel marks either. She levels some guy with a look unimpressed about their evident unforthcoming nature. “What might they read?”
They point at a zig zag, then chips in the stone over a line. “Water’s bad. Expensive lodging.” There were more symbols but the sizeable stone dropper and one were already advocating for quick departure while some guy busied themself with the rut they’d been toeing in the road.
With a party consensus for a quick departure, with the caravan representative returned, with the party’s own representative sent to retrieve the paperwork, no lesser less a fan finds a space next to some guy against the stone wall. “Wherechance might you have learned that?” She taps the wall with a fist to make clear “that” what was on the wall.
“Wherechance I was not me what is now.”
No lesser less a fan watches some guy watch the field, then matches their gaze. Her initial flame of frustration at their obscure, evasive response abates as she considers some guy’s words at their own merit. “Wherechance I might relate to that.” At the edge of her vision, some guy nods.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Travelling without wagon, the party’s return trip is not bothered by fresh deadfall. They are instead bothered by an unseasonable chill breeze that cuts through their clothes and has them pulling apart packs for blankets to cloak themselves in. When comes their first evening camp, their fire is hard won and sputtering in the now relentless dry wind, the pot of water to warm them struggles to warm at itself.
Patience drawn thin, some guy stands from their crouch, breaking the huddle of the party shielding the sputtering flames. The party watches as some guy draws a circle in the ground with the toe of their boot and stamps three times in its centre.
One sputters aloud “oh oh oh” as the fire steadies and feeds unfettered on its fuel.
Some guy adjusts the pot of water to not be engulfed by flame before seating themself. Next to them, no lesser less a fan—having thought she’d grown accustomed by some guy’s eccentricities—finds herself wide-eyed, and asks, “Whereupon might you have learned that?”
“Wizard taught me,” some guy says simply, watching the pot of water for steam.
“Whereupon might a wizard teach you?”
Some guy smirks. “Whereupon might I know better than upset a wizard.”
No lesser less a fan barks a sharp laugh, the first any of the part has heard from her. “Might well.”
★☆★☆★
In the governing body where the party acquired work, definitely not a wizard and some guy meandered through narrow streets between wattle and daub buildings with shingle roofs. Some guy finished off a baked treat with a hum and a pull from their waterskin, stopping when definitely not a wizard paused at the apex of one of the many stone bridges across the canals that drew a net across the body.
“You do know they surmise you’re of a forgotten citadel?”
“Ha.” Some guy leans back against the bridge wall, watching the mix of body residents and visitors cross this and the next bridge along the canal before the canal curved out of sight behind wattle and daub buildings. They glance at definitely not a wizard peering down at the waters when definitely not a wizard posits, “You aren’t.” “Nah.”
“So?”
Some guy considers vague answers to the vague inquiry, but they’ve been enjoying the stroll. “Ah, well,” they elbow definitely not a wizard to direct their gaze to children running down the street, “when moved house, the new occupants tore down and rebuilt.”
Slowly, definitely not a wizard nods. “And?”
A smirk draws across some guy’s face. “Well, no doubt we’ve all been someone else before.”
The same smirk echoes across definitely not a wizard’s face. “And?”
“And what?” Some guy turns to definitely not the wizard who taught them the bolstering spell.
“For what must you persist so?”
Some guy grins. “Oh none, present beheld, make inquiry with any precision.”
It dawns on definitely not a wizard that some guy was, essentially, fucking with everyone—present beheld. Then it dawns on definitely not a wizard how much fun some guy must have, the many times it has happened. They school their own smile, refusing to admit aloud it is funny. “So, in what county was this house?”
“Ah.” Some guy tilts their grin to roof eaves and sky. “Don’t suppose you know…”
The goblin woman Jania stalked the streets of Lizon looking for Valer.
She had hunted far and wide for the right present, risked… not life, but certainly limb to get it. That farmer, who was not eating it and so had nothing to complain about, did not want her to have it. Those birds, even though it was clearly hers, tried to take it from her. And there was that thing with the guards at the gate.
She had it now, and there he was. Tall (even for a human) and beautiful and generous.
Jania walked up behind Valer, grabbed his cloak, and gave it a little tug. Valer looked to her and she held the present up: a ripe sunflower head, full of its seeds. He looked confused while he took the present and examined it. Then he looked down at her.
"Thanks?"
"So!" Jania could not contain herself anymore "You will be Jania's husband!"
"What? No. Why would, no."
Jania's eyes went wide and her voice took on the honey tone only goblins can adopt when she said "why the fuck not?"
Valer dropped the present on the ground and left it with her.
This adventurer has an old country remedy for just about everything.
Written to the prompt by @makingupadventurers — This adventurer has an old country remedy for just about everything.
You can download the first four instalments of Some Guy Party as 8-page printable zines on my itch.
Originally posted on cohost on August 16th, 2024.
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After successful negotiations—and successful “negotiations”—the cave exploring party partly-mostly retained membership onto the next job. The next job was helping clear a collapsed farm site. Stone walls and fences to pull apart and rebuild, sorting through rock. When someone drops a particularly sizeable stone on his foot, some guy says,
“Spit on it.”
All eyes on definitely not a wizard get shooed away with a furious, “You can’t possibly expect me to interpret this,” so someone else finally asks, “What?”
“Th’rock.”
From where he lays on the ground with his smarting foot tending to by way of numbing salve, the sizeable stone dropper asks, “Might like for vengeance?”
Some guy makes an appraising face, as though the sizeable stone dropper wasn’t necessarily wrong in his interpretation, before turning back to sorting rocks. Most everyone’s turned back to sorting rocks when the sizeable stone dropper returns to their feet and audibly spits.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Rebuilding the fallen section of fence done, done for the day the party sits around a fire. Their talk of meal and meal itself past, their planning tomorrow’s work as well, the chatter dies down with the died down flames. The sizeable stone dropper keeps his leg outstretched, where a sudden spit of ember catches light to a pant leg. It’s a momentary and insignificant distraction until some guy says,
“Throw it some lint.”
All eyes on some guy wait for an explanation that is behind a long steady pull from a waterskin. And then wait as some guy continues to watch the fire, until someone else finally asks, “What?”
“Th’fire.”
After sharing questioning looks with everyone else in the party, the sizeable stone dropper plucks at raw edges of his shirt and scoots over to the flames. “Would some sort of offering?” He adds the fibres to the fire’s fuel after watching some guy bounce their head with the same sort of appraising expression.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Owing much to the expertise of two of their party and to some locals that came to help with the more expert requiring walls, the party again make their way back to the county governing body for their pay. They wonder aloud if they’ll see past party members, if there’s another job that will interest enough of them for keep as a party. They talk of what jobs they would and definitely would not accept. When the sizeable stone dropper claims that he refuses to stand watch for bears again, some guy says,
“Can a’nails.”
All eyes again turn to some guy, who pulls out a container and gives it a pointed, illustrative single shake. The apparent nails inside shak shak at a volume that might indeed ward off bears. They hide it away again as everyone more or less takes yet another unexpected interjection in stride but for someone else, who lets out a bewildered, “What?”
Adventurer who says the right things the wrong way.
Written to the prompt by @makingupadventurers — Adventurer who says the right things the wrong way.
This is the first part of Some Guy Party! I fell so in love with some guy and their adventuring crew that I quickly wrote a second, then third and fourth, and there's more on the way.
On top of being a fun flash fiction series about an adventuring crew, Some Guy Party is a venture in autistically playing with the English language.
You can download the first four instalments of Some Guy Party as 8-page printable zines on my itch.
Originally posted on cohost on August 16th, 2024.
[First] [Previous] ~ 1 ~ [Next] [Last]
Mostly carved from rock, more than any other underground settlement they had explored these particular caves had little in manmade structure. The party—few in number, not well acquainted, professional—had passed over the first two timber bridges across bottomless divides after much inspection. Here, at the third, a so-far taciturn member held out an arm to stop their procession.
“Tha’s fucked.”
Who was definitely not some kind of wizard pretending to be a simple sword-carrying adventurer, frowned at the arm barring their chest, then the person staring at them for an acknowledgement. “What?”
The rest of the party peered on as, after a snort and eyeroll, the equally ‘I guess you’re some guy with a sword’ pointed their arm away from restraining the party and to a support of the bridge. “Tha’,” they waved their finger at splintering timber, “fucked.”
After some peering at the bridge, they continued on one-by-one with safety lines.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The objective of the excursion—conditions for the party’s pay—was a complete map of the underground settlement, long abandoned and therein prone to dangers. One such danger was a rockslide that two of their party had lost footing on and, with more rope, had taken some good time to retrieve them. Resting for the evening in what had surely been a sort of communal area for meals and conversation, the definitely not a wizard pretending to be a simple sword-carrying adventurer was met again with some guy with a sword.
“Fucked m’ankle. Can ya unfuck it?”
Looking up from the last of their meal—a little smaller than originally rationed, as they had underestimated the size of the settlement—they found the same staring hold for acknowledgement. “What?”
With the rest of the party done eating now pouring over their developing map or napping, there was no audience to peer as some guy who had found themself at the the bottom of a rockslide earlier pointed at their foot. “Ankle. Fucked. Unfuck.”
Definitely not a wizard frowned at the boot they had been directed to. “I don’t imagine how you think I can go about that.”
With a laugh, some guy dropped themself to the ground next to definitely not a wizard and started to shuck off their boot. “Sure bud.”
The point of pretending to be a simple sword-carrying adventurer was to have no one else know they were definitely not a wizard. In the very least, it was polite to pretend along.
“Look, y’know I’ll make slow for us if y’don’t unfuck me.”
Definitely not a wizard, having checked the rest of the party was still mapping or napping and not at all peering, sighs shakily. “Can you not phrase it so?” they complain, setting aside their meal and avoiding the smirk on some guy’s face.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The party winds up mapping two more entrances than originally outlined and so spends much of the way back to the county governing body discussing how they will negotiate for higher pay. When someone voices the concern that negotiating for higher pay may not even be possible, some guy speaks up for the first time since leaving the caves.
“Fuck’em if they don’t.”
It takes a minute of the rest of the party peering at definitely not a wizard for definitely not a wizard to grumble, “I think they mean to indicate we can take our pay by force if need be.” They avoid the smirk on some guy’s face.
romaincrisis
annaxmalina
origamiaround
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titsay
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