CHARACTER SHEET

  Greg the Barbarian

  Race: Human

  Class: Barbarian

  Level: 1

  Vitality: 125 (125)

  Essence: 25 (25)

  Might: 25 [+24]

  Agility: 20 [+19]

  Fortitude: 20 [+19]

  Intellect: 10 [+9]

  Cunning: 10 [+9]

  Willpower: 15 [+14]

  Charisma: 10 [+9]

  Manipulation: 10 [+9]

  Appearance: 15 [+14]

  Abilities

  Acrobatics + 2, Animal Handling +1, Charm +0, Intimidate +5, Investigate +0, Knowledge +0, Nature +1, Stealing +0, Stealth +0, Wisdom +2

  Skills

  Primal Rage unlocked!

  Dense Muscle unlocked!

  Great Cleave unlocked!

  Greg flung open the cellar door and stumbled out covered in sweat and blood. And muscle. Lots more muscle than he was accustomed to, which was pretty much zero. The most consistent exercise Greg had endured was a brief stint at a retail job where you weren't allowed to sit down. He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the grubby tavern windows and estimated he must have almost doubled in size. Maybe tripled. His pants were about to rip open violently and his shirt already had. He felt like a mountain. Every inch of his body was rigid with muscle definition, and that included his neck and face. Even his hair was on 'roids now, a chestnut mane that flowed down to his shoulders like a manly waterfall. He didn't need his glasses anymore, but he decided to keep them anyway—one thing to stay the same. A reminder, to keep himself grounded.

  He was also back to full health, and his stats no longer sucked shit. Look at me go, Greg thought to himself. I'm such a dimwit. I could have done this a long time ago. He clenched his fists, flexing his muscles and admiring himself in the dirty makeshift mirror for a moment before Bartholomew piped in.

  “Thanks for taking care of those rats, adventurer. No telling how much of my larder they ruined, but ah, listen to me, complaining to a hero. Here’s your reward.”

  *gained 50GP*

  The gold pieces landed in Greg’s Inventory with the faraway sound of a cash register and the hollow echoes of regret. His nephew had been down there. Did he even know?

  “Those were some… big rats,” Greg said, suddenly startled by the sturdy bass of his new voice. Everything seemed so much… smaller. He was five-foot-eight on a good day before, now he must have been... what? Six-five? Six-six?. And almost as wide. He felt like a human wrecking ball. “Where did you say they came from, anyway?”

  “Ah, who’s to say, who’s to say, lad. They come up from the Southlands when the weather, and the monsters, get fierce. Probably nothing to it. Thanks again.”

  Greg left it at that. The man didn’t have any idea. The monsters down there, they weren’t just rats. They were cursed. Human, once. They hadn’t migrated from some godforsaken swamp, they’d been cursed. One had been Bart’s nephew. The others… probably other villagers Greg had met. Would it have been different if he’d done the Quest when he first got here, like he was supposed to?

  Greg fussed with his glasses, adjusting them. They were a little small for his swole-ass head, which was swimming. He could blame himself later. He was good at that. But now, he had to move. It was time for the real Quest. It was time to be a Hero.

  Greg stepped out into the morning air, half-expecting the morning sky to give him a round of applause. The world seemed lighter. Sharper. Smaller. He walked with the strange sensation that the ground was further from his feet than usual.

  He barely made it three steps before a purple blur slammed into his shins.

  “OUT OF MY WAY-”

  Violet barreled into him like a magically propelled bowling ball, bounced off his newly rock-solid thigh, staggered back three full paces, and stared up at him with a look of pure, mouth-wide-open disbelief.

  She dropped the handful of tools she’d been carrying.

  “Oh,” she said flatly, eyes widening. “Oh fuck. You did it.”

  Greg had to look even further down than usual to find her. She was comedically small before; now she seemed like a plaything to him. “Was there ever any doubt?”

  Violet’s mouth hung open. She paced furious circles around him, muttering strange calculations under her breath.

  “You’re huge! You weren’t huge! You were… well, kind of huge, to me. But actually kind of diminutive. Which your posture made worse. And now you’re…” she reached out, caressing a single leg muscle that was bigger than her head, “…this!”

  “I leveled up,” Greg said, awkwardly flexing.

  “NO SHIT you leveled up,” she snapped, grabbing his forearm like she was trying to physically understand the physics of it. “I thought you'd pick something smart, like Wizard. What even...”

  Greg coughed. “I chose Barbarian.”

  “Well if that don't fuckin' track...” Violet slammed her hands on her hips, her cloak fluttering around her like a disgruntled storm cloud. “You got this ripped fighting rats?”

  Greg’s smile died.

  Violet instantly froze.

  “…Greg?” she said softly. “What did you find?”

  He took a long, slow breath. “Not rats.”

  A gust of wind tugged at Violet’s hair. Her expression shifted from irritation to dread.

  “Tell me everything,” she said.

  Greg swallowed. “They weren’t vermin. They… talked. One of them was Bart’s nephew, Tim. The bread boy.”

  Violet’s mouth finally closed.

  “Ratlings,” she whispered. “Real Ratlings.”

  “They were cursed,” Greg continued, voice cracking. “Human, once. I think all six of them were villagers. Or travelers. Or… someone. They all used to be... someone. But they were feral, insane. Some of them begged me to end them.”

  Violet squeezed the bridge of her nose in frustration. “At the risk of stating the obvious: fuck.”

  “This happen before?” Greg asked.

  “Not above ground,” she said. “And not this close to town.”

  She began pacing, muttering rapidly.

  “They’re not normal monsters. Ratlings only appear near corrupted zones, places where moon-tainted magic pools too long. And the only major corrupted site near Blucliffe is—”

  “The Shattered Vault,” Greg finished.

  Violet snapped her fingers. “YES. Exactly. Something is leaking out of it. Something bad.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “And if Petar’l is dragging Elowen in there…”

  “I know,” Greg said.

  “No,” Violet corrected, “you do not know. The Vault isn’t a dungeon. It’s a magical death blender built by ancient elves compensating for their extremely small elf dicks. And you,” she poked him harder, wincing as her finger bent against his now granite muscle, “are not equipped for magical death blenders.”

  Greg looked down at himself. “I’m… sturdier now.”

  “Oh, congratulations,” Violet snapped. “It will take that much longer to grind your bones into bread.”

  Greg sighed.

  Violet grabbed his wrist and tried to haul him closer but only succeeded in lifting herself off the ground. “Listen to me. If the Ratling curse came from the Vault, then whatever corrupted them is old. Deep. And getting worse. If Petar’l took Elowen—”

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  “I’m going after her,” Greg said.

  Violet stared at him for a long moment. Expression unreadable. Then she groaned loudly and threw her hands up.

  “FINE. You’re an idiot. But you’re not going anywhere like that.”

  Greg looked at himself again. He stood in the town square in what amounted to tattered pajamas, his enormous, sweaty muscles glistening in the early morning sun. His shirt had already given up, and his pants were holding on for dear life. His muscles were ready to spring out of them. “Why not? What’s wrong?”

  “Besides the emotional immaturity and the death wish?” she asked. “Everything.” She pointed toward the central road. “You are literally not equipped for this. You need gear. Real gear. Armor. Supplies. Weapons. Something that isn’t literally a broom.” She wrinkled her nose. “And new pants. Again.”

  Greg looked down. One wrong step and more than his muscles would be popping out of these pants. It occurred to Greg then that, yes, everything had grown in proportion. Thank Christ, that would have been unfortunate and awkward.

  “You know any pants shops that sell weapons?”

  “Smithy first,” Violet said. “Tell the blacksmith I sent you. Then the shop on the corner, for adventuring supplies. If you run into the mayor, do not tell him what you are doing. Then head straight to the Vault.”

  Greg nodded like he understood.

  “I’ll start working on your funeral.”

  Greg rolled his eyes.

  She hesitated, biting her lip. She looked unusually small in that moment.

  “And Greg?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Those Ratlings…” She swallowed. “You said they asked for help?”

  He nodded.

  Violet blinked hard and looked away, voice barely above a whisper.

  “Then this isn’t just a rescue mission. Something is very, very wrong in the Vault.”

  Greg placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She narrowed her eyes at the gesture but didn’t slap him.

  “Well?” she snapped, scrunching up her face and spitting in the dirt for emphasis. “Go get your damned gear! Every second counts!”

  Greg almost laughed, but the weight of the moon pendant clenched in his fist reminded him what was at stake.

  He took a breath, squared his new, intimidating shoulders, and marched toward the Smithy.

  Time to prepare for war.

  * * * ?_? * * *

  Greg pushed open the heavy wooden door of the smithy and immediately felt like he’d stepped into the sun’s basement. The heat washed over him in a wave that smelled like burning metal, singed leather, and manliness. Sparks snapped from the anvil in the center of the room, ringing like fireflies having a fistfight. A massive figure with broad shoulders leaned over the anvil, thick arms, apron darkened from years of work, hammer raised. Greg hesitated, unsure of protocol. Was there a polite way to interrupt a man mid-smelt? Did you raise your hand? Cough? Was there a customer service bell somewhere?

  The blacksmith didn’t give him the chance to figure it out. He slammed the hammer down one last time and the glowing metal shrieked in complaint. Then he lifted the visor of his helmet and wiped his hand across a very masculine face framed by a surprisingly delicate braid. His mustache alone could have hosted a family of sparrows. The sign above the counter read SHELLY’S SMITHING: WE HELP. YOU KILL.

  "That's not... Greg?" He didn’t look Greg up and down. He looked up at Greg’s chest, then up at his collarbones, then up again until he reached Greg’s face and recognized his glasses. “Well, shit. What do you want?”

  "Violet sent me. I'm on a mission, Violet said you could hook me up with some equipment?" Greg hadn't realized it before, but he wasn't using the dialogue menu. He hadn't been since his resurrection. He was just speaking freely and people were responding freely. He could still see the trigger, but he didn't... need it. As long as no one glitched or freaked out, this was a lot easier. Violet hadn't. Bartholomew hadn't.

  “Right then,” the man said in a voice that vibrated the rafters. He nodded thoughtfully. “Let's get you ready.” He tossed the glowing metal into a trough, steam erupting like an angry genie. “So. You leveled up.”

  Didn't seem like Shelly was going to, either.

  “You’re a Barbarian,” Shelly continued. “Long time since I’ve seen someone choose that path. Couldn’t pass the written exam for Fighter?”

  Greg wasn’t sure if that was meant as a joke. “I need equipment.”

  “Oh, you need more than equipment.” Shelly strode across the shop, tugged on a rope, and an entire rack of weapons descended from the ceiling like a chandelier of violence. “You need a wardrobe. A kit. A whole starter load-out. And don’t worry your peabrain about the cost. This stuff’s on Violet's tab, which runneth over. Don't go crazy, but pick and choose what you like.”

  Greg folded his arms across his chest. He didn’t mean to pose, but he was still adjusting to the existence of his pectoral muscles and they now insisted on announcing themselves whenever he moved, breathed, or thought aggressively. “Violet said I need armor.”

  Shelly snorted. “Armor? Son, you chose Barbarian. Armor is something you pick out of your teeth shortly before punching someone through a tree. No, you need something that shows the world you are ready for violence.” He rummaged through a chest and pulled out what looked like a folded tent made of leather. “This,” he proclaimed, unfurling it with a dramatic whip of his wrist. “Your barbarian loincloth.”

  A prompt popped up:

  New Item: Barbarian Loincloth

  +2 Fortitude

  +10 Armor Rating

  Very breathable in all the right places

  Greg stared at the garment. It was, indeed, a loincloth. A truly heroic loincloth. A loincloth of legend. It promised neither modesty nor safety, but it did look like something a man could do unreasonable amounts of damage in while wearing. He cleared his throat. “Isn’t this…revealing? I need more clothes, not less.”

  Shelly laughed. “You really are new at this. Trust me, kid. You don't want clunky armor getting in the way of... what you do.”

  Greg opened his Inventory and swapped out his tattered clothes for the furry mankini thing. It did make him feel... powerful. Free. It also made him feel a draft.

  "I need a weapon. Something big.”

  Shelly’s eyes lit up with barely contained joy. “Coming right up!” He crossed the room and pulled open a long wooden crate. Inside was a sword so large it had to be stored diagonally. The blade gleamed like moonlight on cold steel. The hilt was wrapped in leather darkened by oil and fire. It was, objectively speaking, absurd. No weapon needed to be this size unless the intended use was cutting buildings in half.

  The item hovered in Greg’s view:

  New Weapon: Greatblade +1 (Unnamed)

  Damage: 15 base

  Weight: 12 pounds

  Special: Upgradable

  Shelly hefted it with both hands, nearly toppling forward, and offered it to Greg, who picked it up like a sack of feathers. His Might upgrades were incredible. This enormous, ridiculous blade felt… right. Heavy, but right. Like the sword and his new muscles had been made to match.

  “You’ll need to name it,” Shelly said, wiping his hands on his apron. “It’s designed to level up with you, so it won’t work until you do. Something meaningful. Inspirational. Poetic, even.”

  Greg thought for a long moment. This was important. He was going to be entrusting his life to this weapon and in turn, Elowen’s life. It would be his constant companion on this journey and if he was lucky, he’d jam it through Petar’l’s skull before he could clench his butthole in fear and anticipation. It needed a name befitting the Quest they were on together.

  “Giant Fucking Sword?”

  Shelly hesitated. “Well, it's your sword now, not mine. And I’ve heard worse. If that’s the name…”

  A golden shimmer rippled down the blade.

  Weapon Named: GIANT FUCKING SWORD +1

  Bonus Stat Added: +2 Intimidation when drawn dramatically

  Shelly sighed. “Of course that worked.”

  Greg swung the sword slowly, experimentally. The air hummed. A crate in the corner fell apart in three clean pieces even though he hadn’t been aiming anywhere near it.

  “Fuckin a,” Greg whispered.

  Shelly rubbed his chin. “Not bad. A bit reckless. But so is barbarianhood. Now, a few more things.” He produced a belt, a leather strap, a sharpening stone, a flask for emergencies, and something in a tiny pouch. Greg raised an eyebrow.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s dangerous to go alone,” Shelly said solemnly. “Take this.”

  Another notification chimed:

  New Item: Pocket Sand

  Effect: Blinds foes for 1 round or annoys them for 3 rounds.

  Greg secured his new gear in his Inventory, adjusted the loincloth (carefully), and slung the Giant Fucking Sword +1 over his shoulder. The weapon settled against his spine, resting against his back, despite there being no strap or sheath. It just... fit. That was weird, but no weirder than having an "Inventory" of items he could store and then pull out of thin air. Guess there wasn't time to code everything, Greg thought. I wonder if they ever patch this thing....

  He turned back to the blacksmith. “Thanks, Shelly.”

  Shelly gave him a surprisingly tender smile beneath that thick mustache. “Everybody heard about what you did in the tavern. With the Sun Cleric. Way I figure, you're heading after her now. It's a sure way to meet your doom." He reached up and rested a hand the size of a small ham on Greg’s shoulder. “But something tells me you’ve got more fight in you than most.”

  Greg wasn’t sure how to respond. He settled for a nod that felt heavier than the sword.

  Shelly pointed toward the door. “Go on then. Get supplies from the shop. Try not to cleave the town in half on your way through.”

  * * * ?_? * * *

  Greg stepped out into the morning again, sword on his back, magic loincloth billowing heroically, pocket sand at the ready.

  He crossed the square with a heavy confidence inspired by his first official Barbarian Loincloth and tried not to think too hard about what was currently exposed to the elements. The Giant Fucking Sword bounced lightly against his back with each step, humming magically. He couldn’t get over how much smaller Blucliffe seemed to him now. Quaint, almost charming, like a diorama someone had built to entertain small children.

  The shop was wedged between the mayor’s office and a building that looked several-eras condemned but continued to exist out of spite. A wooden sign dangled above the door: SPELLS & SUNDRIES. Carved in smaller script, with a knife or maybe a rock, read: Do Not Taunt The Merchandise.

  Inside, the air smelled like the kind of incense you can’t distinguish from body odor. Shelves overflowed with potions, rope, bedrolls, and items Greg couldn’t categorize, like an Etsy shop from another dimension.

  “Good morning!” chirped a voice that sounded like it had been trained in customer service by a drill sergeant. A short, round man with a clipboard jolted upright behind the counter.

  “Adventurer, I assume?” he asked, squinting at the sword. Then at Greg’s torso. Then reflexively stepping back from the loincloth area. “Looking for anything in particular?”

  “Just enough to get me through a dungeon without immediately dying,” Greg said.

  “That’s most of our catalog,” the man said cheerfully. “Let’s see… Starter Kit?”

  A small notification appeared:

  New Offer: STANDARD ADVENTURER PACK – 25 GP

  Includes: bedroll, rations, waterskin, flint, rope, questionably effective healing poultice.

  Greg paid the cost, 25 Gold Pieces. Half his haul from the Starter Quest. Easy come, easy go. Although, it hadn't come that easy. At least the magic sword had been free.

  “Delightful! Anything else? Maybe a potion or two? Can I interest you in our line of meaty, glistening nipples...” the merchant trailed off. Was the dialogue glitching? No, he's staring at my nipples. It's cold in here compared to the smithy.

  “No thanks, I'm broke,” Greg said, which he wasn't. 25gp was still more than he'd make in a year of chasing chickens. But he was just getting started. No telling what else he might need to buy.

  The shopkeeper opened his mouth to upsell him, but the door banged open and a tall man strode in, brimming with pompous confidence.

  Mayor Albin Rusk, dressed in too-tight robes, and proudly displaying sash of his office, stopped dead when he saw Greg.

  “Oh,” he said, blinking. “Good gods. You’re… you’re large.”

  Greg nodded. “Barbarian.”

  “Yes, I… see.” The mayor cleared his throat and smoothed his robes with nervous hands. “I’ve been informed that you are… preparing for travel? Or… adventure?” He said the word like it tasted weird.

  “Just picking up gear,” Greg said, trying not to sound suspicious. Violet had warned him not to mention the Vault.

  The mayor’s eyes narrowed with the slow suspicion of a man three steps behind every conversation he was in. “Well… if you happen to be going near the abandoned ruin outside of town…”

  “Nope,” Greg lied immediately.

  “Because it would be highly irresponsible,” the mayor continued, nodding vigorously. “Dangerous. Forbidden. And very much not the sort of place for… uh… people like you.”

  Greg raised a brow. “People like me?”

  “Heroic types,” the mayor corrected hurriedly. “Do-gooders. Types who do things and then those things become my problem.”

  Greg bowed slightly. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

  The mayor gave him a final look that said I don’t know what you’re doing, but I know you’re doing something and I also know that I don’t like it one bit, then swept out dramatically, snagging his sash on the doorframe before yanking it free and pretending that absolutely hadn’t happened.

  The shopkeeper leaned in. “Please don’t do anything that gets us all killed,” he whispered.

  “Just a little rescue mission,” Greg said.

  He adjusted his sword, tightened the strap of the adventurer pack, and stepped back into the morning light. The real adventure was waiting.