“Did you want something, stranger?” Her voice was intoxicating, like perfume.
HOLY SHIT, new dialogue options. That had been the trigger he was looking for?
- You looked like you could use a friend. Or another drink.
- Is that a mirror in your pocket? Cause I can see myself in your pants!
- Tell me more about the Elf God Totth.
Option 2 was more like the last line, which had, somehow, gotten her to open up to him, if only a little. But he didn't want to blow this chance. This is what he’d been waiting for. He’d been alone for...
System Error: Integer Overflow
...a long time. Greg selected Option 1 so hard he nearly slammed his fist in the air. He'd built a life here, somehow, with zero responsibility and maximum booze. All he needed now was someone to share it with. Someone hot, who liked booze. Someone like Elowen.
Before she could succumb to his charms and respond breathlessly, however, a new menu appeared in the bottom right. First one notification, then several. Greg studied it.
Ability Challenge!
Social Challenge – test highest attribute
Highest Score: 1 (Appearance chosen)
Target: ??? (Difficult)
...testing…
Challenge Failed!
The character is disgusted by your appearance.
Elowen eyes widened with what seemed like terror but narrowed into revulsion, looking at him like a bug that had crawled into her soup. Fuck. It didn't matter what he picked, if seducing her was locked behind some kind of statistical check. His stats slurped hobo butt. Forget falling in love. He'd be lucky if she ever talked to him again.
Before she could vomit or scream, the doors of the Gilded Gorge tavern burst open dramatically, only to reveal a tiny 3 and ? foot tall figure wading through, boots bigger than her head, which was intensely scanning every inch of the bar for her target.
“You!” her voice was a stern, melodic shriek that reminded Greg of a child scolding a parent for making them brush their teeth.
The sassy halfling wizard sassed her way over to Greg, one finger extended in accusation that ended up poking him in the belly button. “You!” She looked from Greg to Elowen, who still seemed like she might vomit just from his presence. “Is this man bothering you?”
So far, it was playing out like a cutscene. This had happened a few times before. He could talk, but they wouldn’t hear him. He could holler, wave his arms, or sing and dance, and they wouldn't hear him. No reaction at all. But he was locked in; he couldn’t make it out the door until the scene was finished, and he couldn’t talk until it was his turn.
He could skip their dialogue but that had proven dangerous in the past. He’d earned that knowledge, and his second pair of pants, the hard way. There was nothing for him to do but wait, mortified, for Elowen to complain and have Violet haul him off to her weird dungeon at last.
“Actually, the gentleman traveler was just buying me a drink. Isn’t that right?” came Elowen’s icy, velvet reply. Her eyes were cool now, serene, and regarded him differently. Her nose seemed to, as well.
Greg’s shock was so complete he didn’t even realize he was staring at new dialogue options until the idle banter kicked in and Elowen’s voice filled his ears again.
- That’s right, Milady. Now if you’ll excuse us, this is a private conversation.
- No harm, no foul. I get mistaken for a disgusting creep a lot.
- Time to die, imp.
Option 3 was tempting, but he had actually read the tutorial on the Reputation System (or skimmed most of it at least ) It was actually weirdly complicated, but he knew that killing a town official was not something he could work off in the stables. So that left the default, suave hero option or the weird, self-deprecating humor that was his stock and trade. Looking into Elowen’s eyes then, that hero fantasy felt real for a moment. Then he looked down at the fuming little pixie beast between them.
Greg couldn’t hide his smug smirk as he selected trusty Option 1 and saw a small message pop up in the corner of his vision:
Elowen liked that +1
Violet shoved her hands into the pockets of her chaotic tunic with a frustrated and dramatic flair. “Fine”, she said through gritted teeth, staring up at him defiantly. Her eyes locked with his, no mean feat given their difference in height. Under her gaze Greg always felt like the smaller prey. “Accept my apologies. Eat this now.”
From her swirling mass of pockets, she pulled out a mostly intact cupcake and pressed it deliberately but delicately into Greg’s palm like she was handing him a grenade. Then she hoisted herself on a barstool next to Elowen with a surprisingly acrobatic grace and locked eyes with him again.
“Now,” she repeated.
Greg felt like it would be rude, and possibly dangerous, to refuse, so he ate it while maintaining the uncomfortable staring contest she had started. It tasted like banana nut asscake. As he swallowed, she pulled down the welding goggles that always rested sloppily across her forehead and leaned in closer like she was waiting for a chemical reaction. Greg looked to Elowen as he swallowed, then back to Violet. “It’s good”,” he said with his mouth full, a few dry, spongy crumbs leaping from his lips. “Tangy...”
“No implosion? No intestinal evisceration. Not even blood coming from the ears! Motherfuck me up the butt,” she cursed. From another pocket emerged a small note pad that she scribbled on furiously with some kind of magic writing nub, or possibly just a piece of charcoal.
Greg really wanted to get that drink with Elowen, especially with a throat full of moldy cupcake, but Violet obviously wasn’t going anywhere. She made herself right at home on the stool next to Elowen and continued to stare at him like he was crapping on the floor. The silence stretched the next six seconds into an awkward eternity. Then Greg remembered the garlic.
“I should… go. I have to get to the Grocer.”
The two women continued regarding him in judgmental silence. They were quite a pair of opposites, Greg realized, looking at them sitting together. Elowen with her elongated grace and effortless poise, next to Violet: a tornado in a tin can, her oversized tunic making her look like a ball of yarn with four skinny limbs and a head of dyed purple hair sticking out. Something about the juxtaposition made Greg realize for the first time how beautiful Violet Chika was. Not beautiful beautiful like Elowen, but something about the fire in her voice, and in her eyes, and then those legs… Greg wasn’t sure how someone who was 3 and ? feet tall could have legs that just didn’t quit, but she managed it somehow.
“Before my pants start to stink”, he added without explaining and then left before they could ask.
It was no use trying to chat up Elowen while Violet was on guard duty. He’d do his job, get some booze money, and buy her that drink later. Hopefully the new dialogue menu would still be there.
The Grocer was at the edge of town, near Three Fork Gate, where all the roads from the surrounding farms lead into Blucliffe.
He hadn’t made it ten steps down the packed dirt lane before a hand shot out from behind a rain barrel and grabbed his sleeve. Greg yelped, spun, and found himself staring at Old Man Tavers, part-time beet farmer and full-time crazy old bastard.
Stolen story; please report.
“Greg! Greg, lad, you listen here,” Tavers hissed, eyes bulging like he’d seen the Gods drop trou. “I heard ’em in the woods last night. Giant rats. BIG as calves. Squeakin’ like demons. Claws like sickles. My cousin says HE saw ’em, and you know he only lies to the taxman and his wife.”
A little quest notification flickered in Greg’s vision.
Rumor Acquired: “Giant Rats in the Woods”
(This rumor is almost certainly bullshit)
Greg waved it away.
“Tavers, every time a bush rustles you think it’s goblins, dragons, or your ex-wife coming to reclaim the house.”
Tavers leaned closer, breath smelling like onions and piss. “I ain’t jokin’, boy. They had… intellect. One of ’em looked RIGHT at me. I felt it in my soul.”
Greg sighed. “Pretty sure that was just the red wine blues, Tavers...”
Another popup:
- Tell Tavers to seek professional help
- Pretend to care
- Run away
- Agree to hunt the rats
Greg selected Option 2 purely out of sympathy for the smelly bastard. This is probably what your future looks like, Greg thought. Alone, drunk, the kind of weirdo people cross the street to avoid. The least he could do was humor the old kook.
“Wow, yep, sounds terrifying. Gotta get this garlic to the Grocer now, though. Real urgent. You take care.”
Tavers clutched his arm again. “Mark me, Greg Good! Something foul’s a-brewin’! Rats ain’t meant to walk on two legs!”
Greg pried himself free. “Uh-huh. Totally. Bye.”
He continued toward the Grocer, comforted by the absolute certainty that whatever was happening, it absolutely was not his problem.
He quickened his pace, eager to be rid of the smell of garlic and destiny, but he hadn’t gone much farther when he spotted Marla the shepherdess standing outside the Grocer’s, arms wrapped tight around herself. She wasn’t usually one for conversation, mostly grunts and suspicious glares, but today her eyes were red, her jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
She looked up as Greg approached. “You heard?” she asked, voice low.
Greg blinked. “Uh… heard what? About Tavers and his demon rat circus?”
She didn’t smile. “Two of my lambs went missing last night. Found what was left of ’em at first light.” Her hands trembled slightly as she mimed a shape: small, delicate, broken. “Wasn’t wolves. Wasn’t foxes. Something shredded ’em. Like they were… pulled apart.”
A chill crawled up Greg’s spine. No notification popped up this time. No sarcastic tooltip. Just silence.
Marla swallowed. “And the Miller boy says he heard something near the grain silos. Heavy footsteps. Not human. Not animal.” She took a shaky breath. “Whatever’s out there… it’s hungry.”
Greg forced a laugh, but it sounded thin, brittle. “Could be a bear?”
Marla met his eyes. “Bears don’t chitter.”
The word landed strangely. Greg remembered Tavers’ squeaking demons. He remembered the tavernkeeper complaining about the cellar. He imagined giant rats standing upright, claws glinting in the moonlight, eyes watching.
For the first time, the idea didn’t seem funny. It sounded dangerous, like a real problem. Didn’t make it his problem, though. Somebody would take the damn Quest, eventually.
Greg kepts his eyes on the ground and picked up the pace, barreling into the Grocer’s.
The bell over the door to the Grocer’s shop gave its usual pathetic jingle as Greg pushed it open, clutching the sack of garlic bulbs like it was a holy relic. The shop smelled like dried herbs, raw fish, and the acrid, expired undercurrent of Blucliffe's specialty crop: the spicy potato. The Grocer, a man named Barnaby Griggs, looked up from his ledger with all the enthusiasm of a lump of gravy hitting the kitchen floor.
Greg placed the sack on the counter with a triumphant flourish that went entirely unappreciated.
“Delivery,” he said, in his best customer service voice.
Barnaby stared at the sack, then at Greg, then back at the sack, as though trying to decide which smelled better. Or maybe worse.
“You’re late,” Barnaby grunted.
Greg blinked. The task had said by sundown, he still had time.
- Sorry, Master Grocer. I shall endeavor to be more hasty next time!
- Quit busting my balls, Barnie, and give me what I came for.
- [OPTION LOCKED]
Option Locked? He’d never seen that before. He hit Option 2 and waited for his money impatiently.
Barnaby sniffed. “Fine, but next time I expect it right quick-like.”
A notification pinged:
Task Complete: Garlic Run
Reward: 5cp
Barnaby reached into a drawer, rummaged for what felt like an unnecessarily long amount of time, then dropped five copper coins onto the counter like he was parting with family heirlooms.
Greg scraped them up. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he said, mostly because the dialogue menu didn’t offer a more accurate option like:
- Eat shit and live, Barnaby.
- I hope your potatoes are cursed.
- I know where you sleep, bitch.
- Smile politely because you need drinking money
He pocketed the coins, endured Barnaby’s disdainful sniff, and backed out of the shop before he could be assigned another bullshit Task like reorganizing the parsnips.
Outside, the road back to the tavern seemed longer than usual. There were villagers everywhere: chatty, curious, eager. Greg had learned the hard way that eye contact was legally binding. He kept his gaze low, his shoulders hunched, and his pace brisk. The trick was to look just unfriendly enough to discourage conversation, but not so aggressive that you accidentally triggered a guard encounter.
Tasks were one thing. Find 5 of these, deliver 3 of these, repair 8 whatevers. Low stakes. They came with money, but no XP. He'd damn near picked up a Quest talking to Tavers, though. Then he’d never get any rest. He felt a paranoia in the air, and behind every wayward glance. Any one of these villagers could be a Quest Trigger, he suddenly realized. Something was changing, mischief was afoot. He needed to get back to Elowen.
A woman carrying turnips opened her mouth to speak; Greg coughed loudly and crossed the street.
A farmer waved from his wagon; Greg pretended to study a leaf.
A child pointed at him excitedly; Greg ducked behind a barrel and waited until the danger passed.
Notifications pinged obnoxiously at the edges of his vision:
NEW QUEST AVAILABLE: Catch the Runaway Goose!
(Warning: this quest sucks)
SIDE QUEST AVAILABLE: Help the Miller Clear the Silo of Ghosts!
Reward: 5sp + “Ghost Buster” title (permanent)
RUMOR UPDATE: Something is in the Cellar…
Greg dismissed them all like spam emails.
He was on a mission. A drink with destiny.
The Gilded Gorge tavern came into view like a beacon of ragged hope. Greg pushed open the door, was hit by the familiar warm smell of ale and roasted meat and made a beeline for Elowen before anything could get in his way.
“Two drinks,” he told the barkeep, sliding 2cp across the counter. “The good stuff.”
The barkeep squinted. “This is enough for the bad stuff.”
Greg sighed and added one more copper. “Fine. The slightly above mediocre stuff. Make it two, Utah.”
Mugs were filled. Foam was frothed. Greg tried to stand casually, leaning against the counter in a pose he imagined looked roguishly confident but more closely resembled a malnourished houseplant.
He turned, drinking her in from head to toe.
A shaft of late afternoon light fell across her like the universe had toggled a spotlight. Her silver-white hair shimmered. Her expression was far away, contemplative, tragic in a way that made Greg want to write poetry even though he’d rather give himself a wedgie than write poetry.
Dialogue triggered. The menu had new options.
- Spill the drink and apologize profusely
- Say something creepy accidentally
- Panic and leave the tavern forever
- Be smooth
Greg inhaled.
Not just air: courage. Followed by a massive shot of liquid courage.
He approached and selected Option 4.
Elowen’s eyes lifted. They met his. For once, she did not look disgusted, alarmed, nauseated, or spiritually offended by his existence.
Greg set the drink before her with a gentle clink, lifted his own in salute, and heard himself say… smoothly, impossibly, like someone had swapped his dialogue options while he wasn’t looking:
“Forgive me for staring earlier. It’s just… you looked like someone who deserved a kinder evening than the one you were having.”
In that moment, Greg’s world froze. No notification appeared. No prompt, no failure message. Just a long, breathtaking look into another person’s soul, her soul looking back at his.
Six p.m., exactly
Day cycled into night instantly and there was a sudden crash of thunder and lightning; apparently tonight's programming was for bad weather. The tavern doors swung open dramatically to reveal a pale, dark-haired elf in black and crimson leather. Behind him in the rain stood five menacing shadows.
“Elowen Vale,” came the leader’s singsong, melodically threatening voice. “You should have known we’d find you.”
He snapped his fingers and his five equally dangerous companions fanned out around him.
“Time to pay up, bitch”.