Greg left the smithy feeling heavier and lighter at the same time. The adventurer’s pack settled against his back with a familiar, mundane weight; the Giant Fucking Sword rested over his shoulder with an entirely unfamiliar, mythic one. Between the belt, the loincloth, the straps, and the faint swish of his new gear, he sounded like a small caravan whenever he moved. A few early risers in Blucliffe stopped and stared as he crossed the square, but no one said much. They watched him the way people watched storms gathering on the horizon: quietly, with a mixture of dread and curiosity.
Three Fork Gate, the entrance to Blucliffe, was barely more than a wooden arch and a bored guard leaning on a spear but stepping under it still made Greg’s stomach tighten. The world beyond looked the same as it had every other day he’d hauled flour or garlic along this road, yet somehow today it felt like the border between two realities. The moment he passed through, a soft chiming tickled the edge of his vision.
New Area Discovered: Outer Blucliffe Farmlands
Threat Level: Low
Recommended Activities: Walking. Thinking. Occasional bandit slaying.
Current Objective: Rescue the Elven Cleric
ProTip: Don't be shy about doing murders. Not only will it help you achieve your goals, it's also great cardio!
“Good to know,” Greg muttered. The guard glanced at him, then at the sword, then made a point of becoming extremely interested in a patch of sky above the gate.
The dirt road unfurled ahead between low stone fences and small, stubborn fields. Farmers were already at work, hoods up against the thin morning chill, tools glinting in the odd morning light. Greg recognized several faces and was suddenly very aware of how little he had ever cared to know their names. He'd kept his head down, done his jobs, and avoided getting dragged into anything that looked like trouble (save for the occasional chicken terrorist). Now he walked past them looking like the Final Boss of Gold's Gym, headed straight toward the one place in every dumb adventure story you were supposed to avoid.
He focused on walking. That was trickier than it used to be. His stride had lengthened, his balance shifted by new muscle and the weight on his back. Twice he almost overstepped, toes catching the edge of a rut he would never have noticed before. Once, when he adjusted his grip on the sword, his elbow flicked out and very nearly clipped a fencepost. The Giant Fucking Sword hummed, pleased at the prospect of violence, even against stationary objects.
“Easy,” Greg told it, or himself, he wasn’t sure. “Plenty of ultraviolence in our near future.”
Fields gave way to thinner soil and rougher grass. The air cooled as the land began to rise in gentle, stony swells. Birds grew scarcer. The cheerful chorus he had vaguely tuned out on his delivery runs faded to the occasional solitary call, sharp and distant. Here and there, he saw gouges on rocks, long pale scars where something with too many claws had sliced through the stone. He didn't want to think what that kind of creature could do to a person. A broken wagon wheel lay half-buried beside the road, its wood warped and darkened, barely held together by rot.
The Shattered Vault had always been a rumor on the edge of Greg’s awareness, a place people mentioned in hushed tavern whispers after too much ale. He had never come this far out alone. Nobody went near the Vault unless they were well-paid, desperate, or stupid. Well, nobody's paying me, Greg thought. Guess that leaves the other two.
Another soft chiming. The system liked marking milestones, even when they did nothing to help.
Lore Entry Updated: The Shattered Vault
Note: Approaching corrupted zones may result in negative status effects such as Cursed, Poisoned, or Dyslexic.
The strange moon pendant was still clenched in his fist, he realized. He didn't know why he'd kept it. If it was something important, the system hadn't mentioned it. Not so much as an insulting tooltip or sarcastic Quest Update. The metal was oddly cool against his warm palm. Finally, he slid it into his Inventory, so he'd have both hands free. Why would a twisted rat creature have had it? Petar'l's little butt-buddy, the Moon Cleric Jistos, wore the same symbol. Whatever tied the Vault to the Ratlings and to Elowen was somewhere ahead.
The land rose more sharply now, the road dissolving into a beaten track that meandered lazily between outcroppings of gray stone. The sky seemed a little dimmer here, the light flattening into something colder.
He crested a low ridge and finally saw it: the mouth of the Shattered Vault, set into the side of a bluff like a wound in the earth. From here, it looked less like a doorway and more like a gaping maw. Cracks spidered out from the opening, veining the stone around it with pale scars. Faint patterns glimmered where the rock met the shadow inside, traces of old elven craftsmanship now broken and misaligned. Even in full daylight, darkness pooled beyond the threshold in a way that drew the eyes in seductively.
He was not alone. At the base of the bluff, on a flattish shelf of rock, someone had established a rough little camp. A ring of stones marked a firepit, smoke still curling lazily from damp coals. Six bedrolls were rolled up nearby. And there, at the edge of the shelf, not far from the Vault’s entrance, stood two figures.
One lounged against a fallen pillar with the kind of deliberate casualness that took obvious work, a slim shape with a long blade resting across his knees, hair stirred by the breeze. The other sat on a rock, stirred by nothing, broad and solid, hands busy with something that caught the light in slow, methodical strokes.
Names surfaced in Greg’s memory. He'd seen these two last night, in the Gilded Gorge. It already felt like a lifetime ago. He recognized the half-elf's sharp smile and the dwarven warrior's hard eyes, colder than stone.
Nars. Doran.
He took a breath, shifted the sword on his shoulder, and started down toward them.
Nars saw him first.
The half-elf straightened from his lounging sprawl against the broken pillar, the long blade on his knees sliding into his hand without any visible effort. He did not quite point it at Greg, but the line of metal shifted enough that there was no mistaking how fast that could change. Wind tugged at his dark, messy hair, tossing strands across a face that would have looked at home on the cover of a cheap romance novel: sharp jaw, day-old stubble, a nose that suggested he had been punched for good reasons in the past, and eyes the color of old gold, fearless and stubborn. One pointed ear bore several simple metal rings. A smear of dried dirt cut across his cheek like a decoration, or war paint.
The other man, Doran, did not look up immediately. He kept his attention fixed on the axe head in his lap, drawing a whetstone along the edge with slow, exacting strokes. His beard was a tangle of copper and gray, his shoulders as broad as the boulder he sat on. He was built like someone had carved him out of the same rock and only reluctantly let him move.
Greg picked his way down the slope, dust skidding under his boots. As he drew closer, a familiar ripple passed through his vision.
CHARACTER SHEET
Nars "Just Nars"
Race: Half-elf
Class: Thief
Level: 2
Vitality: 75 (75)
Essence: 30 (30)
Might: 20
Agility: 35
Fortitude: 20
Intellect: 25
Cunning: 40
Willpower: 30
Charisma: 30
Manipulation: 40
Appearance: 40
A half-elf heartthrob with a blade in his hand and a joke in his pants. Will steal your purse, your plan, and yo' girl… then somehow convince you it was your idea.
And then:
CHARACTER SHEET
Doran Ironhaft
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Race: Dwarf
Class: Fighter
Level: 2
Vitality: 125 (125)
Essence: 25 (25)
Might: 45
Agility: 20
Fortitude: 40
Intellect: 20
Cunning: 20
Willpower: 40
Charisma: 10
Manipulation: 10
Appearance: 15
A walking fortress carved from dwarf meat and mountain stone. Speaks rarely, hits once, and leaves problems in two neatly separated halves.
“Careful,” Nars called out. His voice was smooth and light, with that half-amused lilt Greg associated with people who were dicks. “The ground here is treacherous. Would be a shame if the bold adventurer broke his neck before the first step.”
Greg slowed, tried to make it look like he had meant to. “You’re Nars, right?” he said, when he was close enough that shouting felt unnecessary. “And Doran.”
Nars let his gaze travel from Greg’s boots, up his now-massive legs, over the loincloth, across his chest, lingering a fraction too long on the Giant Fucking Sword before finally meeting his eyes. The corners of his mouth tugged upward in a smile that managed to be both amused and appraising.
“You look familiar,” Nars said. It took him a second, but he put it together. “George, was it? Taller than I remember... less pathetic, too. You come all this way to show off your upgrades? Sorry, we're not hiring any strippers tonight.”
Greg tried to grimace heroically. “I'm Greg. The Barbarian. You know why I’m here.”
Doran finally looked up. His eyes were a dark, steady brown, and did not move quickly but noticed everything they settled on. He grunted once, a sound that might have meant 'hello' or might have been a judgment on Greg’s entire life.
Nars flipped the sword in his hand in a neat, unnecessary little flourish and slid it into the scabbard at his hip. “Right,” he said. “I don't, actually, because you can't possibly think you came here to rescue her.”
Greg adjusted the Giant Fucking Sword stuck to his back. So, there are scabbards in this game. Why does that prick get one and I don't? This close, the Shattered Vault loomed behind them like a dragon’s hungry mouth, the darkness beyond its arch seeming to lean forward, listening. “I’m here for Elowen,” he said. “Petar’l took her. I’m getting her back.”
The wind caught Nars’ hair again. He watched Greg for a moment, expression unreadable. Then he gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “How adorable.”
Doran resumed sharpening his axe.
“I’m serious,” Greg said, getting impatient.
“Oh, I believe you,” Nars replied. “You have that... look, about you, doesn't he, Doran? What is it called again?”
"Stupid," the dwarf replied without looking up.
Greg felt his jaw tighten. “You were with them,” he said. “Where are they? Where is she?”
“That’s a lot of questions, big boy,” Nars said mildly. He pushed away from the pillar to stand fully, and Greg realized he was a shade taller than he’d thought from a distance, lean but not slight. There was an easy readiness in his stance, like he was always already in the middle of moving, even when standing still. “Say I don't answer them. What then, George?”
Greg remembered the ProTip from earlier: Murder, the solution to any and every problem. Not yet, Greg thought. He remembered another tip, helpfully attached to his weapon: +2 Intimidation, when drawn dramatically.
Greg took a step closer, flexing his muscles taut and drawing his Giant Fucking Sword +1, dramatically.
“My name is Greg the Barbarian, and I have come here to chew bubblegum, and kick ass."
Greg used The Negotiations Will Be Short
+2 Intimidation (Giant Fucking Sword +1)
"And I’m all out of bubblegum.”
It was line from a movie, but it was the toughest tough-guy talk he could manage on short notice.
Nars’ smile widened without warming. “Better.”
He walked past Greg, never quite giving him his back, sliding around in a slow half-circle to size him up from a new angle. Despite Greg's obvious size advantage, he felt like a field mouse being scoped out by a hawk.
“You know her well, then?” Nars asked. “This Sun Cleric.”
Greg opened his mouth, realized the truthful answer was something between “no” and “I’m sort of stalking her”, and closed it again. “Well enough,” he said.
“Mm.” Nars’ eyes flicked toward the pointy end of the Giant Fucking Sword, then back to Greg. “Well enough to come here? Brave. Brave or...”
"Stupid," Doran finished for him.
“You’re wasting my time,” Greg said. “Help me or get out of my way. Final warning.” He didn't really have a plan for what came next if they didn't back down, but it sounded good.
Nars tilted his head. “We aren't who you should be worried about,” he said. “You died yesterday. In that tavern, over a dick-measuring contest. Now, you might have giant muscles to match your swollen ego, but that doesn't make you ready for a Vault. Ask yourself: why are we out here, instead of in there?”
Greg felt heat rise in his cheeks. “Standing guard,” he said, guessing. “Is that it? Can I go in now? Or do you really want a fight?”
Doran spoke then, his voice low and gravelly. “Quit toying with the lad,” he said, still running the stone along the axe. “Tell him.”
Nars shot Doran a brief look, then sighed. “Fine. Story time. Since you came all this way.”
He sauntered back to the fallen pillar and hopped up to sit on it, boots scuffing the stone. When he spoke again, the joking tone dulled at the edges, though it did not disappear.
“Petar’l has been pushing deeper into the Vaults for months,” Nars said. “Every delve, he goes a little further. Every time, fewer of us come back. He calls it progress. The rest of us call it bad odds. Elowen is his latest solution.”
Greg’s grip on the hilt of his sword tightened. “He’s using her.”
“Of course he’s using her,” Nars said. “Moonborn types like him always do. Sun magic opens doors his pretty moon tricks can’t touch. There’s a sealed gate in this one, supposedly past where even idiots turn back. Old, evil shit. Elowen can sense pathways he can’t. So, he had Jistos and the others ‘invite’ her to join us.” His mouth twisted faintly. “You saw how that went.”
“You came out here with them,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “Where are they now?”
Nars produced a coin from seemingly nowhere, tossed it, snatched it out of the air, and for a moment his smile fell away entirely. “Deeper,” he said, looking at the coin in his palm. He didn’t reveal if it was heads or tails. “Past the first break. Beyond the old ward line.”
“That doesn’t answer why you’re up here and she’s not,” Greg said.
Doran’s whetstone paused. He looked from Nars to Greg and back again, as if weighing whether to speak. Whatever conclusion he came to, he kept it to himself.
“Ol’ Petey and I… had some different ideas about leadership,” Nars said at last. “I’m no coward. Just because the walls whispered or the air tasted wrong, I don't give two cross-eyed fucks. But Petar’l... crossed a line. Lots of lines. Killing you? The least of his crimes. Dragging that poor girl here... she may be blessed, like he says, and she may be powerful. But Vaults eat Sun Clerics for breakfast. Doran and I didn't sign up to throw innocent people into a meat grinder. We said as much, and now... they're in there, we're out here. You figure it out.”
“Oh,” Greg said, putting his Giant Fucking Sword away. His fingers twitched, anxious without the blade. “So, you’re not with him anymore?”
Nars’ eyes hardened. “No,” he snapped. “We were just doing a job. When we refused to go along with his plans, Petar’l called it fear. Said we were scared of this Vault, scared of what waited below. Maybe he’s right. We’re scared of what happens if he actually succeeds.”
Greg stared at him. “You just left her down there?”
Anger flickered across Nars’ face, quick and sharp, then vanished under the return of that infuriating half-smile. “You weren’t there,” he said quietly. “You didn’t see what we saw. That… girl, in case you haven’t noticed, seems to enjoy martyrdom. She believes someone must stand between the darkness and… the rest of us. So, she stands. We tried to pull her back. Petar’l turned it into a choice: follow him or walk away. Dragging her out would’ve started a fight we might not survive. Or worse, one she might not.”
The system, unhelpful as ever, chimed in.
New Quest Insight: Complicated Moral Choices
(check your Journal for more information)
Greg took a breath, fighting down the instinct to shout. “So, you’re sitting up here,” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “While she’s down there with him.”
“We’re not sitting,” Doran said, his voice cutting through like the blade he'd finally finished sharpening. He set the axe aside and stood. Up close, he was shorter than Greg but somehow larger, compacted by gravity. “We’re waiting. Almost two days now. We keep watch. We kill what comes up. No one else goes down who does not choose it.”
“Also,” Nars added, “we are arguing. About blame. I recommend you skip joining that part; it is very crowded.”
“You left her,” Greg said. The words came out harsher than he intended. “You walked away.”
For a heartbeat, silence settled over the rocky shelf. The wind reaching down from the Vault’s mouth sounded like a sigh coming from a throat too deep to see. Nars’ fingers clenched around the coin, knuckles whitening.
Something moved near the entrance.
A flicker at the edge of the shadow, a suggestion of pale shapes clinging to the stone. Greg’s hand went automatically to his sword hilt. The system pulsed an alert.
New Hostiles Detected: Vault Skulkers
Status: Hungry. Curious. Willing to fuck around if you’re willing to find out.
Nars turned his head slowly toward the doorway. “Later,” he said to Greg. “We can debate my moral failings later.”
The first Skulker crawled into view, a twisted thing like a cross between a lizard and a centipede, all scrabbling legs and sickening double joints. Its skin was stretched thin over protruding bones, and where its eyes should have been there were only dark hollows seeping faint silver mist. Two more followed, clambering along the walls, heads jerking in small, too-quick motions.
Greg drew the Giant Fucking Sword. The weight felt good in his hands. Familiar, somehow. It wanted to be used. It was ready.
Nars hopped off the pillar with an easy grace, drawing his own blade in a single fluid motion. “Skulkers,” he said. “Scouts from the upper tunnels. They like soft things. Throats, bellies, feelings. Try not to let them eat any of yours.”
Doran picked up his axe and stepped forward, planting his feet on the stone as if rooting himself into it. “Three only,” he said. “Small wave.”
“Small wave,” Nars agreed. He glanced at Greg, eyes bright now with something like approval mixed into the wariness. “Consider this your audition, big man. Let's see if your balls are as big as your biceps!”
Combat Initiated: Shattered Vault – Threshold Skirmish
[Nars] and [Doran] joined the Party!
ProTip: Have fun! Don't die.
Greg’s shoulders spasmed and he surged, taking hold of the Rage inside him. Elowen was somewhere below. These things would not stand in his way. The Ratlings had begged for an end.
Soon, all of his enemies would beg.
