But tonight, fate was changing for everybody.
“Don’t look so grim, Ellie!” The elf's voice was syrupy and patronizing. “It’s good you’re here. We’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
“Petar’l,” Elowen said flatly, letting her voice betray nothing.
Every head not already lolling sideways turned toward the entryway, where a knife-thin shadow cut the yellow lamplight with easy and deadly grace. The man who stepped through was tall, elven, and beautiful in the way that made Greg’s own face want to peel itself off in a fit of self-loathing. His hair was black and perfectly slicked, his skin glowed with the immortal arrogance of someone who’d never gone to bed alone and his clothes—black leather, crimson highlights, cool but mostly extraneous straps and buckles—were so perfectly fitted that even the dust seemed afraid to settle on him.
A second, then third and fourth—then fifth, then sixth—figures poured in after him, each one incrementally less striking but each arranged around the center of gravity that was Petar’l, clearly the Most Dangerous Man in The Room.
The first one, Jistos, was another elf. He moved with the same smug efficiency as Petar’l, but where Petar’l’s cruelty looked like art, Jistos’ was a crude mural drawn in someone else’s blood. He wore the robes of a cleric, but instead of piety he oozed a nasty kind of irony, like the punchline to a joke only he understood. He made a point of fingering a necklace of holy symbols at his throat, rubbing them with almost feverish fixation.
Next up, a human with a head like a football helmet and arms the diameter of tree trunks: Herman, according to the game. Thud, Greg named him in his mind. Greg recognized the type; every school, every job, every team had their standard-issue Big Giant Asshole. Thud didn’t walk, so much as he collided with furniture until he reached his destination. “Two rounds for the champions!” he bellowed, instantly, before even finding a seat. His voice echoed off the walls, and he backslapped a nearby farmer so hard the poor bastard almost unseated himself.
Behind Thud, a wizard. Human again, but with the sunless pallor of a Magic: The Gathering player. His name was Todd. Just Todd. He wore glasses, which Greg found weirdly comforting, and a robe that had once been blue but now looked like it lost a fight with a pile of shit. Todd hung back, cradling a notebook and adjusting his spectacles like maybe he got a bonus for every time he smirked like a prick.
Petar’l and Jistos squared up with Elowen, while Thud and Todd made the rounds, casing the joint. Guarding the door were Nars and Doran, who both looked like they were just waiting for something bad to happen. Nars, a half-elf by the look of him, looked less like an adventurer and more like someone’s rebellious nephew, all jangling earrings and smart-ass posture, his gaze darting around like he was keeping track of every exit and every face at once. Doran was huge for a dwarf, but even in a room where everyone was seated, he managed to look hunched, apologetic, like he wanted to shrink further into his own armor. He scanned the floor, then the ceiling, looking anywhere but at the action.
You could have cut the tension in the air with a spoon. Greg and the rest of the terrified tavern-goers all watched as Petar'l led his pack to Elowen's lonely table. The group surrounded her like hunters closing in on a wounded animal. They crowded the table, forcing Greg to take several steps back to give them room. He didn't like it, but he did like his organs where they were at the moment, so he let it slide.
She didn't look up right away, even as Petar'l's black-red silhouette eclipsed her candle in shadow and threw her into grayscale. It wasn’t until Jistos made a show of yanking back a chair and sitting on it backwards like a high-school bully, that Elowen acknowledged them, turning to face them with the same perfect, practiced neutrality Greg had used when he had to be on-camera for a meeting.
Petar’l didn’t sit. He stood at the table’s edge, looming, his smile sharpened to a fine point. “Elowen Vale,” he repeated, as if she were an exhibit at a museum he was about to critique.
“Petar’l,” she repeated, barely audible. She didn't sound frightened, exactly, but she did sound like she was trying not to sound frightened.
“Never expected to see you again in a place like this. What brings you to Blucliffe?” He said Blucliffe the way a normal person might say “oozing sore.”
Elowen set her wine glass down so carefully that Greg almost didn’t notice her knuckles go white. “Passing through.”
Jistos leaned forward, elbows on the table, sneering. “That what you’re calling it? I heard you went to ground. Totth’s favorite princess, reduced to a tavern lush. Tragic.”
Petar’l circled the table in a slow, predatory orbit. “You ran from your calling. Turned tail in the middle of a dungeon crawl. Didn’t think twice about leaving us in that hellhole, did you?” He let the question hang in the air, like a fart he was taking the time to enjoy.
Elowen’s expression didn’t change, but Greg noticed the slight tremor in the stem of her glass. “That’s not what happened.”
Thud lumbered up behind Petar’l, mug already in hand, and laughed loud enough to rattle the bottles on the shelf. “Pretty sure it is, lady! I heard the screaming from two levels up. Never heard an elf wail like that before. Thought you were supposed to be immortal!”
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Jistos tsked, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Not losing faith, are you, Ellie? You know, there's still room on the winning team...”
Petar’l made a low, purring sound. “Lack of faith was never her problem. Just where she puts it.”
Todd, who had been busy transcribing the scene into his notebook, piped up: “She doesn't have to be alive to help us, if my theory is correct. Just putting that out there.”
Nars and Doran hovered behind the group. They looked ready to step in, if necessary, but Greg noticed them shooting a look to each other when they thought the others weren’t watching. They were ready for action all right, but maybe not the same action their friends were expecting.
Petar’l leaned in closer, hands flat on the table, his grin so wide it threatened to split his face. “So, Elowen. Ellie. Darling. What'll it be? Surely you can play nicely, after we came all this way just for you. Or are you going to make us drag your corpse to glory?”
She took a slow, deep breath. “I'd like to see you try.”
For a fraction of a second, the edge came off Petar’l’s smile. Then he laughed, a short, cutting bark. “Come now. We both know you’re wasting your potential here.” He gestured at the village outside, the room in general and then very specifically at Greg in particular, who tried to think of a witty, biting retort but couldn't even manage a disapproving “Hey!”
Greg’s ears burned. He’d always suspected he was the butt of some cosmic joke, but Petar’l had just said it out loud. For the first time since arriving in this world, Greg felt a keen desire to punch someone in the face. Petar’l would have been at the top of the list if his Might Score weren't the equivalent of a baby in a coma.
Jistos continued the verbal onslaught. "What's it like, by the way? Serving a dying God? It doesn't hurt, does it?" He reached across the table to stroke her moonlight-colored hair with the back of his hand. She recoiled and he only smiled wider, revealing a set of awful, jagged teeth. "Velyun can fix that. He can make you love the pain."
Elowen didn’t answer. Instead, she ran a finger around the rim of her glass, eyes locked on the cheap wood grain of the table. Greg wondered how many times she’d sat exactly like this, holding it together in the face of superior firepower and refusing to let them see her break. She put on a brave face, but her hand was trembling.
Petar’l straightened, as if bored by her stoic, passive resistance. “You know we're not leaving without you, Daughter of the Sun. Stop being childish. It's time to serve your purpose. Now, come." He held out a hand, fingers unfurling like a demonic contract, and beckoned her. "I won't ask again."
Greg felt a fresh kinship for Elowen Vale. It seemed to him they were both trying to start over after leaving everything behind. A ridiculous hope swelled up inside him: that maybe if he just tried a little harder, he could be something other than the worst person in the room.
That shouldn’t be too hard in this particular room.
He didn’t know what made him do it. Maybe it was the sting of seeing Elowen’s hand tremble, or maybe it was the way Petar’l’s laugh sounded like a bone breaking in slow motion. Maybe it was just what people did in stories, and Greg figured if he was stuck in one, he might as well go through the motions.
He decided to do something.
Greg felt the world shrink. In his peripheral vision, something flickered, a warning from the game itself:
Encounter Difficulty:
Certain Death
Proceed? [Y/N]
Not all encounters had to be violent. He hit [Y] and triggered the dialogue menu on Petar'l.
He tried to pick something to say but none of his options were great.
- I think you owe the lady an apology.
- Draw your weapon and face me, knave. You’ll not live the night!
- I love your boots. Can I join your gang?
His courage began to deflate into stammering frustration. He didn’t want to kill anybody. They were awesome boots. He picked Option 1.
"I think you owe the lady an apology," he stammered.
Petar’l turned to face him, stunned with disbelief. “This fucking guy,” he spat and looked Greg up and down, sizing him up again. This time, there was a moment’s hesitation. "Beat it, hobo. Nobody asked you." He offered Elowen his hand again. "Don't make me do something you'll regret, Elowen. You remember last time."
“Time to come home, Elowen,” Jistos said. “Not too late to prove you’re worth something. Or maybe you just want to show everyone how easily you give up?”
Elowen said nothing, lips white, eyes locked on the floor. Jistos stood, rejoining Petar'l. Doran and Nars were still hovering at the edge of the situation, both wincing but neither moving. Greg saw it: how Nars flexed his hands and looked away, how Doran’s fists knotted as he stared holes in the floor. But neither one intervened. Maybe they weren't as bad as the rest of Petar'l's gang, but it reminded Greg of a quote:
"Evil triumphs when good turtles do nothing."
-Master Splinter, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
Petar’l reached out and took hold of Elowen's chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His fingers were so pale they looked dead. “You will beg for Velyun's mercy,” he said. “It's too late for you. Unless you want everyone here to beg as well, quit vexing me and show me you can be useful.”
Something in Greg’s head snapped. Cowabunga time, motherfucker.
He felt his legs moving before his mind caught up. The room stretched out, unreal, as if it had suddenly become a hallway ten miles long, but his feet carried him anyway, knocking into tables, catching a hip on a bench, arms wide for balance and for violence.
Petar’l was still holding Elowen’s face, smiling, when Greg crashed into him.
There was no style to it, no technique. Just raw, flailing force. Greg’s fist swung wild and caught Petar’l in the cheek more by luck than anything. It didn’t break bone, but it was a hard, honest punch, and Petar’l’s head snapped to the side, his mouth bleeding instantly.
Surprise Attack!
Test of Might
Score: 1
Target: ??? (Difficult)
...testing…
critical success, your attack hits!
Damage 0 (rounded down).
The opponent takes only superficial damage.
The room froze. Everyone stopped moving. Thud stared, mug held high; Todd’s jaw dropped, notes forgotten. Jistos shrieked, his sneer flipping to a cartoon of surprise. Even Elowen herself just gawked.
Greg stumbled, nearly fell, and before anyone could say a word, he screamed.
A raw, guttural snarl that said, in one long, animal note: Fuck you, dude.
Petar’l’s hand went to his face, his perfect skin smeared with dark, ugly red. For a heartbeat, he just stared, disbelief crawling over his features like spiders swarming prey.
Then he drew his sword, blacker than the night and redder than dragon’s blood.
And he lunged.