A menu of sorts—an interface—etched into its irises like a burnt screen.
[Choose your Reward!]
[1x Soul Fragment: Bogheart
OR
[1x Putrid Splitter: Two-handed Axe
+5 STR
+2 DEX
Bonus effect: Melee attacks seep with poison]
Sludge looked down at the Trappers Handaxe that the old man had gifted it. Its heft and weight felt familiar and safe in its grip—it had been with it through death and misery and murderous mire.
“Like… axe… good,” it heaved. “Mine.”
The ferret-faced man smiled, raising his eyebrows like an unimpressed teacher might chide a child.
“Yes—your axe has proven more than formidable,” he started. “The fragment, then? My lord commander would be pleased to host you with haste.”
“Fragment,” Sludge nodded. “Eat.”
The burnt menu in its eyes flashed and flickered and faded from view.
[Sludge has gained 1 Soul Fragment. Currently 1/2 available. Currently 1/1 equipped.]
It felt something slither inside it. The cold pang crawled and hissed like a sleeping cat that had been disturbed mid-dream.
Soulpit Level 1 unlocked>
Usurper, seethed a rime-ridden voice inside.
Oddly enough, though, Sludge felt itself feeling the formation of thought; feeling; emotion, its limbic system folding and stretching and… creasing? Grey knuckles of matter kneaded against themselves. Sludge felt a pain in its head, but then it fizzled and popped and a single world came to mind—
“Me..”
—and then another—“... Sludge.”
“Me. Sludge,” the lumberjack confirmed with a nod.
The ferret-faced man creased his eyes in a smile again, his upper lip half-crumped like an envelope.
“Yes,” he replied, “quite. Sludge. A fine name. I trust my lord's rewards are to your liking. He regrets that they are slim-pickings—long discarded trinkets—but times are testing of late. Halbrecht's most capable arsenal is occupied to the North. Other heroes, such as yourself, proudly fly his banner. I’m sure our lord would like to discuss—”
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Other Sludge?” Interrupted Sludge, lumberjack nostrils flaring.
The seneschal stood taken aback, if only for a brief moment. His movements still held the long practiced orchestra of etiquette, and everything from the pout of his slim mouth to the folds of his robes held a measured restraint.
“No, not other Sludge. You are wholly unique in that namesake. Though there are others—others indebted to our lord commander in servitude, others who have chosen to stable here in our fine city; protect its walls as if it were their own beneath the banner of the Southern March.”
He stepped forward, delicately padded sandals clicking, echoing out into the vestibule in which they stood.
“The demesne of Dunden is but a small shard in this fractured land—the kingdom of Monthia being the de facto protectorate in the region, though my lord commander treads a precarious tightrope in regard to that levy.”
The ferret-faced man smiled fully.
“Though thanks to your decisiveness at Skaggad, our fortunes may be on the up-and-up.”
[Reputation Gained: Southern March Banner +15]
[Title Unlocked: Initiate (Unverified)]
Sludge stood quizzically. A thought bubbled and belched. It felt odd. Slightly painful, but quicker this time.
“Who you?” asked Sludge, pointing its axe in the seneschal's general direction.
“Ah,” he replied hastily—coughing as he straightened. “Apologies. One's formalities may not always be as obvious as one assumes.”
“I am Mav Keddery—chief administrator, steward, and judiciary of our lord commander's affairs. It is my lifelong honour to serve at his behest. His pen, his eyes, and his iron fist.”
Sludge nodded, as if this answered something important. It didn’t, but nodding felt correct. The cold thing inside it purred, settling deeper, rearranging weight and want.
“Iron… fist,” Sludge repeated slowly. “Good fist.”
Mav Keddery’s smile twitched—an almost-smile this time, cautious, like a man approaching a dog that had just learned the word bite.
“Quite,” he said. “Symbolic, of course. Though occasionally literal.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace, boots whispering over old stone. Around them, the vestibule loomed—vaulted and damp, banners sagging like tired skins from iron hooks. Sludge smelled old torch-smoke, wet wool, and something faintly coppery beneath it all.
“You now stand within the Accord,” Mav continued. “You will find other halls of similar function across this land. A place where oaths are witnessed, debts recorded, and… assets assessed.” His eyes flicked briefly to Sludge’s axe. “Given your recent demonstration of aptitude, my lord commander sees fit to extend you a provisional standing.”
The burnt light flared again, uninvited.
[New Status Available: [Initiate (Verified)]
[Access Granted: Southern March Bounties] [Warning: Soulpit instability detected]
Sludge growled low in its chest, a swamp-sound, displeased. “Lights,” it muttered. “Stop.”
They did not stop. They settled, shrinking to the corners of its vision like patient insects.
Mav noticed the growl. He stopped pacing.
“You feel it, don’t you?” he said softly now. “The… adjustment.”
Sludge’s grip tightened. Frost crept along the axe head, crackling faintly. “Something in,” it said. “Cold. Thinky.”
“Yes.” Mav exhaled through his nose. “That would be the fragment asserting tenancy. Bogheart fragments are… willful, and wholeheartedly out of fashion. You may experience intrusive ideation, dream-echoes, a compulsion to assert unsolicited chivalrous deeds. Though capable enough.”
“My lord commander offers his sincerest of apologies for providing such… outdated schema.”
Usurper, whispered the rime-voice again, sharper now. Hungrier.
Sludge bared its teeth. “Quiet,” it told the inside.
Mav’s eyebrows climbed. “Ah. Fascinating. I appear mistaken. You seem to have another fragment in your charge. How…”
The seneschal smoothed his fingers across the thin wisps of moustache. He seemed distracted in a way that even he couldn't place.
“How… could that be?”
He reached into his robe and produced a small iron token, stamped with the sigil of three spears atop a sunburst.
“Nevertheless. If you wish to continue under our lord’s banner,” he said, offering it, “you will present this to the quartering hall. They will assign you lodging, rations, and—should you be inclined—work. There is no shortage of things that need killing.”
Sludge took the token. It was warm. Pleasantly warm, like the days it had spent crawling over sun-baked mire, marsh, and fen.
“Work,” it said. Then, after a pause, correcting itself with effort: “I… work.”
Mav smiled again—this time, openly satisfied. Footsteps thudded slowly from a winding staircase at the furthest most end of the hall.
“Excellent,” he said. “Sludge. Allow me to introduce you to our Lord Commander—”
A tall man with a thin, pale face stepped from the shadows.
“Halbrecht.”