—or try to.
Cloth and limbs snare me. I thrash, heel into a thigh, elbow into a breast.
“Get off me,” tweets Frankie.
“Quit kicking me!” Tess snaps.
Fifty feet away, a low laugh rakes the dark—gravel on iron. Equal parts mirth and malice, it slithers into my ears. The smell follows: peat smoke and spilled whiskey—thick, sour—as if Jenny’s tormentor carried a tavern’s rot into the dungeon.
“Luck’s run out for this one,” the voice rasps. A pause. The scrape of a hammer on a palm. “Whose turn is next?”
I wrench free. Tess, Frankie, and Lenora peel left and right along the dome-shaped wall. I take my stance, bow up, eyes on my diminutive adversary.
A leprechaun.
When I was little, Dad told tales of a friendly red-headed man in a bright green suit and top hat who hid beneath four-leaf clovers and handed out gold to little girls who brushed their teeth—the little man who lived in Daddy’s beard.
This is not that fae.
He stands no taller than a child, but his presence carries the weight of ancient spite. Sallow skin, parchment-wrinkled over wiry limbs. Tarnished-copper hair spikes from beneath a battered cap. His eyes glow a greedy yellow-green, sharp as fresh-struck coins.
Mismatched scraps hang from his body—fine cloth rotted and patched with leather and sinew, every seam stitched with obsessive care. A belt of bent nails, shoe-buckles, and castoff metals jangles at his waist. He flips a cobbler’s hammer in one hand, the head pitted but heavy enough to shatter bone. In the other, he idly tosses a broad gold coin. Not just any coin—heavy, gleaming: the Irish Tree of Life. Branches on one face, roots on the other. Each lazy flip catches the jewel-light from my belly, scattering sparks across Jenny’s blood.
I motion Tess and Frankie wide, and send Lenora toward Jenny.
“Who’s next, eh? Branch for you, roots for the Prophetess… hee hee hee!”
He flips the coin as I loose. The coin darts left, sizzles as it swallows my bolt, and drops neat as you please back into his palm.
“Trying to choose your own fate, child? Ye ain’t got the wit.” He cackles, dances a crooked jig, knocks several nails from his pouch, and whacks each with his hammer.
“Oh, shite!” I jink left, spring off the wall, flip, and land low.
Two nails hiss past, clipping hair. A third punches my hip. Pain detonates—white, hot. Tears blur the world, wrecking my aim. I yank it free and instantly regret it.
“Oh, now what do we have here, eh? A wee healer-man in a lassie’s coat? Can’t be lettin’ ye spoil the game!” The last word erupts in a roar.
He flips the coin—blink—and he’s gone. A blur to my right—then Lenora’s scream rips the air.
“Where did he—”
“Holy mother—”
I bite back a gasp.
Lenora is crucified on the obsidian wall beside Jenny. Nails sprout from his hands, wrists, and feet, driven deep. Blood sheets down stone, pooling at his boots. Every muscle locks taut; his mouth stretches in a silent scream as fresh agony wracks him.
The flickering gold plops into the leprechaun’s crusty palm.
My stomach lurches. I spit, bow rising, sizzling arcbolt nocked. “Bastard!”
“Don’t ye be talkin’ ’bout me wee mother like that, lassie.”
Energy surges down my arm as I supercharge the shot. “You don’t know your mother,” I snarl, “and she never saw your father again after their night of drunken debauchery.”
“Heh.” Yellow-green eyes glitter. “Maybe ye have met me mum.”
The coin plops into his hand—one of Tess’s daggers now melted into its face, the blade’s outline warping into the roots. He cackles. “Roots. Good luck for me… bad for the Prophetess.”
Luck. I choke back the bolt and shove everything into my belly.
The Citrine Loop Stud of the Illuminated Gambler flares—heat bites my skin—then light erupts. Sun-bright brilliance sears the chamber, blinding the leprechaun—and dazzling his nailed prey.
< Fortune favors the foolish >
< Luck +10% × skill level | Duration: 1 minute >
Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!
A glowing 60-second timer burns into the upper right of my vision.
I release.
The coin snaps up and swallows the bolt whole. He smirks, coin already flipping back. Two more arrows—and another of Tess’s knives—vanish into the darting disk.
“Using light and luck against the fae of luck,” he mocks, shaking his head. “Stuffin’ yer skull with books didn’t make ye clever, girl.”
That damn coin eats magic. Daggers. Bolts. Anything enchanted.
My mouth hardens to a line. Fists still break bones—but I’m rubbish at hand-to-hand. The corners of my lips twitch upward. Frankie and Tess are masters.
Do I have to be the lucky one? No. Can I give my luck away? Only one way to find out.
I shove the luck outward. “Tess! Frankie! Take it. Use it. Hit him where it hurts.”
“Sixty!” I shout. “Clean his clock!”
Frankie is already there. Her fist caves his jaw sideways, snapping his head back and launching him flat to the air. She follows with a brutal hook to the waist, folding him like an empty billfold.
Tess slides into rhythm—kicks like dance steps: sharp taps to groin, thigh, shin. She doesn’t fight beside Frankie; she combat dances with her, their timing written in the same script.
The leprechaun howls, rag-dolling between Frankie’s fists and Tess’s heels.
I notch another bolt—not to kill, but to drag the coin.
Loose—
The coin jerks, sprints into the spell’s path. Sizzle—swallowed.
Again. Again. Each shot pulls his luck away from Frankie’s knuckles, from Tess’s legs.
He’s caught between us—my bolts yanking his luck one way, my friends hammering him from the other. The fight becomes choreography.
For the first time in this fight, it feels like we’re not just surviving. We’re together.
Forty-five seconds.
He flails, hand plunging into his nail pouch. His voice cracks in a guttural
“Ingne an soith Highland go dtí an balla!”
Nails explode upward, spinning like razors, then shriek toward me—a hundred notes of hate, every one carrying my name.
“Shite!”
My gut says dive, but my jewel’s light still spills over Frankie and Tess. Keep it on them. Don’t let it dim.
“Pivot left!” Jenny screams, voice ragged. “Cross-step!”
I spin, wild, heel clearing a spray that sparks off stone. Arms windmill.
“Slide!” Lenora bellows. “Drop low—NOW!”
I throw myself into it, knees skimming stone, nails whispering past my hair. It looks like a dance—clumsy, bloody, frantic. Each time I whip back to face them, the jewel flares, spotlighting my friends.
Thirty seconds.
Another volley screams. Jenny’s laughter tears through pain. “Dance, Lizzy! Dance like your life depends on it—because it bloody well does!”
“Pirouette,” Lenora calls.
A nail slashes my arm. “What?”
“Spin like a ballerina!” Jenny shrieks, half laugh, half whimper.
I spin. Too slow. A nail kisses blood from my skin and buries in the wall.
“These are Vampire nails?!”
“Keep them distracted!” Tess yells, slamming a heel into the Leprechaun’s flank.
“Distract a bag of bloodthirsty nails?”
“Yes!”
“Frack!”
So I dance. Jenny and Lenora bark steps; Frankie and Tess pound the fae into the floor; and me—it’s first-semester choreography and reluctant blood donor. Every near miss opens another scratch; every miss thunks a nail into stone.
Iron and sweat on my tongue. Chest heaving. Footwork slipping.
“Ten seconds! Quit playing with the ugly guy!” I shout.
Power bleeds from my bellybutton. Limbs go weak. The jewel gutters. The room dims.
I cut the flow before backlash fries me and crash to my knees. Nails hammer into my boots, bite flesh, drag me face-first to stone. More follow, pinning me like a pincushion.
“Any time now, ladies!”
He chortles, malice dripping. “Spent all yer luck on one toss, eh, lassie? Well, yer down, and I’m—”
“Quit letting him monologue!” I croak.
“It’s tradition,” Frankie deadpans.
“Share your toys—let Tess finish him.”
“All yours,” Frankie says—like I’ve stolen his cookies and shoved him in time-out. He slams the leprechaun face-first into the wall and pins him there. Tess leaps—roundhouse—her heel scythes through cheek and temple. Bone pops. Spray. Silence.
Snap-crack.
“Done,” Tess sighs, breath ragged. “Happy?”
“I’m nailed to the floor—what do you think?”
The room exhales. Jenny whimpers. Lenora groans.
“Dear Goddess,” Tess whispers. “Frankie, help me get them down.”
I start yanking nails. Each rip tears fresh fire through my hands, arms, thighs. I bite back screams as the iron gives way; my corset and panties snag and nearly stage a mutiny in the process.
A notification flickers—something about earning Luck Tokens—but I don’t have time to balance my checkbook right now.
I’m a bloody mess, but I’ll live.
I’m not sure Jenny or Lenora will. Jenny’s pale—a bloodless white—and Lenora’s olive skin isn’t far behind. We need a doctor, but what do you do when the doctor needs an ER?
Think, Lizzy. VR world. Dungeon. The DM doesn’t want us dead; there has to be a solution.
I lurch to Lenora’s bag, riffling through supplies—and spot the loot pile: a battered case of what looks like cheap ale among scattered glints of jewelry. Shite. Later. Priorities now.
If nothing else, the ale might sterilize. I crack one, sniff, and gag. If this is ale, it set a new record for cheap piss.
Still… what if it isn’t?
Better me than them. I tip it back. The first swallow burns like acid.
< You have consumed part of a fae healing elixir. It restores 5 HP. >
I pinch my nose and chug.
< You have consumed a fae healing elixir. Your 20 HP has been restored. >
< You are intoxicated. >
“Am not…” The world tilts anyway. I grab a second can, pop the top, and stagger forward. Someone hold the cave still.
I aim for Lenora—at least, I think that blur nailed to the obsidian wall is Lenora. The floor tips; the yellow ale arcs and splashes across her.
< You have used a fae healing potion externally. Effect reduced: 90% effective on skin, 10% on internal damage, 50% intoxication damage. >
Everywhere the piss-colored, piss-scented brew touches, flesh knits. Bruises fade, skin scrubs clean.
“Len… Lenora,” I snicker, “drink this—it’s disgusting!”
I collapse against her, tipping half the can into her gaping mouth. The rest pours down my own chest, sloshing across scratches and nail holes, knitting as it goes.
I swipe away a flood of notifications, pop another can, and press it to Lenora’s lips. “Bet-ter… more drink… it tastes!” I giggle, licking dregs from her collarbone. “Yummmm…”
The world tips and sways. I join it, spinning, dancing, spiraling—wow.
< Consuming multiple fae potions in quick succession has inflicted you with alcohol poisoning. >
“Only had three… and I shared… not a lightweight,” I protest.
“Steady now, Lizzy,” urges someone. The voice warbles like birdsong. Frankie?
“How many did she drink?”
I hold up two fingers. Or six. Why won’t they stop dancing?
“Half the case,” Lenora groans.
“I share!” I beam.
“Yes, you did,” Lenora sighs with a smile. “Now give the rest to Frankie. He wants to share with Jenny.”
“So she can… sparkle with him?”
“That’s right,” Frankie snickers.
“She li—likes him,” I whisper to Lenora. “A lot… like that!” I wink. With both eyes.
“Can I kiss your boo-boo away?”
“Me… I all fixed!”
“One left.”
“You just… just want to… to kiss me.”
“Caught me,” he sighs.
“I caught… finally… you!”
“Do you want your prize?”
“Yes!” I pucker up.
My heart hammers as she leans in and presses warm lips to mine.
And—
< Your intoxication has been cured. >
Warmth spreads through me as Lenora deepens the kiss. Finally. I could get used to this.