Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 42
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 42 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
“Wherever the answers are,” said Tom, “I doubt we’re going to find them in your garage.”
“Why don’t you share some of your brilliant ideas, then,” Merry snapped.
Tom held up his hands. “No need to be testy. I just meant we’re probably not going to solve this puzzle tonight. I’m fully confident you brains will come up with something. But in the meantime, seeing as we’re here and all, it seems like there are better things we could be doing than looking for answers to ancient riddles in family heirlooms.”
“Such as?”
Tom smiled. “Why not have a little fun? Life doesn’t have to be serious all the time. As I recall, last we were here, you lot were in dire straits, and Garish had just appeared to save your sorry arses from sure annihilation.” He elbowed Iain in the arm. “Wha’d’you say, dungeon leader? Up for a little friendly competition?”
“It’s dungeon master,” Iain muttered.
“And it’s cooperative,” said Stuart.
“I think it’s a great idea,” I said, earning surprised looks. I wished it hadn’t been Tom that suggested it, but the chance to get our game back was too good to pass up. Whatever happened with Lightfoot and his stones, I missed my friends. We’d been divided for too long. “C’mon. It’ll be fun.”
Iain squinted skeptically. “Arguable.”
“Well, Argon,” said Merry. “You won’t know until you try.”
Iain snorted, and his guard fell. “All right, Dona. We’ll play.” Pushing back his chair, he edged over to the crooked old cupboard where we kept everything we needed for the game.
“You know,” I leaned back in my chair to watch Iain set up, “I’ve been thinking… d’you think it’s too late to change my class?”
Iain closed his eyes. “Change? Now? How would that even work?”
“Change to what, P.T.?” asked Stuart. “I thought you liked being a thief. Sneaking around, picking locks…”
“Well…”
“Well?” Iain pushed.
“I was thinking—a err …” I coughed, “…bard.”
The garage erupted.
“Hold on!” Merry shouted. “Why do you get to be a bard?”
“Bit o’ wish fulfillment, eh?” Tom sneered.
“It would be kinda cool.” Stuart mused. “Like practice. Can we both change?”
“Not a chance!” Iain yelled. “What the hell’re you lot going to do without a healer? Remember the undead? And who ever heard of a Dwarven bard anyway?”
Stuart sniffed. “Actually, dwarves are largely based on Nordic culture, and the Poetic Edda. Ever heard of Snorri Sturluson? That’s a dwarf name if I ever heard one. He’s—”
“No,” said Iain flatly. “And you,” he turned to me. “People don’t just change careers mid-adventure. It doesn’t make any sense. We’re crafting a story, here. Remember? You can’t just decide that Eremin is going to be something else, after all these years being a thief!”
“I don’t know. What if he stumbled across a magical tuba or something? Or got an enchantment from a… a Spirit of Creativity. That made him a great singer, or—”
“A magical tuba!” Tom snorted. “Let him do it, Lloyd. For the comedy.”
“It’s just an idea…”
“Well if anyone is stumbling across a magical anything, it’ll be me who decides, won’t it?” Iain’s chair creaked ominously as he dropped into it. “I won’t have you derailing this adventure because you all suddenly want to be bards. You want to re-roll, do it next campaign. Then you can start your own bloody marching band for all I care.”
“Maybe I will,” I crossed my arms. “Plenty of time for Eremin to learn music between adventures.”
“Now wait,” said Merry. “You can’t just call dibs. What if I want to roll a bard?”
“What about me?” said Stuart. “I said it too!”
“I suppose you’ll be wanting to play a bard as well?” said Iain to Tom.
Tom shrugged. “Obviously I’m the best suited to it.”
I scoffed. “How d’you figure?”
Tom started ticking off fingers. “Charm. Charisma. Singing voice. Light on my feet. Face. Hair…”
Iain snorted. “Right. How long have you been in choir, again? A week?”
“Four weeks.”
“We performed at the school Eisteddfod!” said Stuart.
“So?”
“So if anyone ought to be the bard, it’s one of us.” I said. “Me, or Merry, or Stuart, or—”
“Or me,” said Iain. “But none of that matters now, does it? Because right now the fighter Dona, Hurlin the cleric, and Eremin the thief—”
“And the warrior Garish.”
“Fighter…”
“—Are trapped on the island Mynydd Pwll. And they aren’t going anywhere anytime soon!”
So none of us got to be bards, just as Iain wanted. Better no one than not me. We played well into the night, and argued every minute of it. The undead grew more numerous the nearer we got to the island’s center, and better preserved as well. But all were undeniably insane. We dispatched them however we could and called it mercy, because oblivion must be preferable to eternal torment, and because their mad ramblings, when comprehensible, held truths we were happier not hearing.
The visions continued, though there was no more mention of Dona and Argon’s fantasy romance, for which the entire party was thankful. Dona and Hurlin nearly died scaling a sheer cliff. I was blessed with high agility, and Garish, incredibly strong—likely at the expense of his intelligence—managed to muscle his way to the top, dragging the other two behind him.
While we recovered, a patchwork behemoth of miscellaneous body parts clambered up after us, nearly managing to hurl Garish over the edge. But Garish called upon the Mighty Orc God Gorgon Garish is a human to smite it down with Red Lightning hotter than a thousan No, he didn’t until Garish threw one of his human axes at the side of the mountain with such surprising strength he caused a rockslide that crushed the monster into pulp! And nearly did for the rest of us as well.
It took us half a day to dislodge enough of the treacherous stone to continue on our journey. Not long after, we passed by the mouth of a cave that exuded such a presentiment of evil that Hurlin fell into quiet prayer, and even Dona quailed in fear. We gave it a wide berth. But not wide enough. Garish, last to pass, looked down at a tug at his ankle to discover a tendril of inky darkness wrapped around his leg. It snapped taut, and he was dragged inexorably toward the gaping maw, likely never to be seen again. Little did they know, he had concealed about his person a Holy Amulet! Taken from the corpse of a Xalurgian High Priest, it gave off a beautiful, rainbow-hued light that banished shadows back from hence they came! No, that doesn’t exist Hurlin attempted a divine strike, but the head of his radiant staff bounced harmlessly off the murky tentacle! Eremin watched in almost certainly genuine dismay as Dona hacked at the congealed dark, and Garish scrabbled helplessly at the ground.
The tentacle thrashed, flinging the hapless fighter into the air, where he managed to wrap his senselessly brawny arms around the upper lip of the cave mouth. Tug. Tug. The tentacle yanked. His fingers slipped, and Garish screamed—a nightmarish howl of rage and fear—and all that remained visible was his veiny head and shoulders, his mouth, stretched in a rictus, and his straining, bloody hands.
“No!” cried Dona, as a final jerk drew him fully out of sight.
“Well, that’s a shame,” Eremin turned to walk away.
But wait! Unbeknownst to the others, Garish had gotten his arms around a hanging stalagmite Stalactite, actually and in a feat of indomitable will, somehow pulled the entire ceiling down. They couldn’t believe their eyes as he rolled to safety out of a cloud of dust, battered and bruised, but alive. He walked away from the cave without looking back, and said, cool as can be: “Hasta la vista, baby—”He damned well doesn’t speak Spanish he said, “Yippee Ki Yay M—”STOP.
The session came to an end near midnight, when Garish was swept into a vision that he secretly preferred the company of men, and Dona kicked Argon under the table.
I like the ending :)