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Chapter Twenty Five:
Party Animal
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Hestia looked up from her book as I entered, the late-afternoon sun shining through the storefront windows backlit her expression as her eyebrows rose. “Whoa, you cleaned up nice.”
“Burnt through three Monster Stones to do it.” I grumbled, still annoyed at how inefficient the hair trimmer I cobbled together ended up being–I’d need to take it apart and make a better one when I had the time. Also, I’d need to forge the oscillating blades from adamantite. The steel ones wore down to nothing after just a few passes.
I’m as close-shaven as I dared to be in this cold weather. The jagged peaks of my fur had been sanded down to a uniform length, carefully manicured to look as natural as possible. My nails were trimmed, my mohawk puffed back up to full fluffiness, and my tail was slicked down with a bit of hair gel. I wore the formal garb of the Dustpaw pack. A unique blend of traditional tribal wear and a Greek toga–dyed a sandy brown and highlighted with an aquamarine trim that held a repeating fractal pattern of revolving triangles. A necklace made of alternating amber and jade beads hung loose on my neck, ending in a bundle of fiery-red Jack Bird feathers.
I forwent any of the other usual accessories that Dustpaw gnolls would wear to denote their status. I doubt anyone at Magni’s party would recognize the social importance of a shaman’s headdress, or the bronze plates of a warrior. They might understand the string of skulls earned in victories over difficult foes, but that might send the wrong message.
Originally, I had shopped around the various seamstresses in Orario, just looking to buy a normal suit and tie. But none of them could suitably fit one to my size, and the few I tried chafed my fur something fierce. In the end, I decided to just make my own clothes for Dormul’s party. And while I was no tailor, I think I still did a pretty good job.
“You sure you don’t want to come?” I ask as I straighten out my toga. “There’s gonna’ be free food, and no one throws a party like dwarves.”
She thought about it for a moment before shaking her head. “No thanks, I heard those things can get rowdy. I’d rather not be the only bachelorette in a sea of drunk adventurers.”
“Fair ‘nuff.” I shrugged, grabbing Dormul’s present from where I left it on the counter. “Want me to bring you back something? I bet I can sneak out some leftovers.”
She laughed, waving me off. “Don’t worry about it, Max. I promised to meet an old friend of mine and his familia for dinner tonight anyway, so I’ll be fine.”
“Anyone I would know?”
She considered it. “No… no, I don’t think you’ve met him yet. But I’m sure it's only a matter of time. Takemikazuchi runs an exploration familia, so his kids will probably be by any day now to try their luck in ‘Taming the Gnoll’.”
Scowling, I whip around, claw pointing accusatorily at her. “When I find out who came up with that dumbass name, I’m going to invent a woodchipper, and then feed them to it.”
‘Taming the Gnoll’, a phrase born in the aftermath of my outright refusal to take on jobs presented by annoying people, and the way I kicked their asses out my door with righteous fury. Basically, if someone entices me with an interesting enough project that I decide to accept them as a client, they have successfully ‘Tamed the Gnoll’.
She giggled in my face. “What? I think it's adorable.”
“It's demeaning.” I snap, “I work hard to maintain my rep’ as a cantankerous genius, busting my ass every day in the workshop, and these assholes think I’m some–some pet they can lure over to their side with treats! And head pats!”
“It’s not that deep, Max.” she scoffs with a grin, rolling her eyes. “Orario just loves to give cute little nicknames to things that interest them. Where do you think the entire idea of adventurer epithets came from?”
“I thought those were all just mean-spirited jokes at the adventurer’s expense.” I scowl even harder, her face instantly snapping into poorly marshaled neutrality.
“Whaaat? Noooo,” She lied, like a liar, while sweating bullets. “Where did you hear that crazy rumor?”
“Oh, come off it,” I snorted derisively, tucking Dormul’s gift away into my toga and padding my way towards the door. “You cannot tell me that names like ‘Thousand Elf’ or ‘Sword Princess’ were given with all sincerity.”
Hestia wisely remained silent as I let myself out; the second I cracked the door, a blast of icy wind hit me full in the face like a mean right-hook from Jack Frost himself.
Just before I shut the door behind me, I heard her mutter under her breath, pure horror lacing every syllable. “He knows.”
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Jorrvaskr.
Dormul lives in fucking Jorrvaskr.
Standing at the edge of the Magni property, the thought kept running over and over in my mind, and I couldn’t get the mental picture out of my head. I’d half expect to find a coven of secret werewolves training in the backyard if I bothered to go and check.
The Magni estate was a massive cobblestone-and-raw-timber structure that ran long and squat, capped with an upside-down Viking longship, her keel pointed towards the sky. The ship’s hull was well-weathered by the wind, and dotted with a light carpet of dried moss.
The ‘lawn’, as it were, was bare packed dirt, filled with training dummies and archery targets. A low retaining wall of loose stone cut the estate off from the street, while the welcoming, smoky scent of a burning hearth filled the air.
It was the quintessential Viking long house, and I loved it.
A warm golden glow spilled from the windows, and the enticing smell of roasting meat beckoned me closer. As I padded my way up the gravel path towards the front doors, I could hear the chords of some string instrument drifting above the rolling thunder of conversation.
Looks like the party is in full swing.
Without fanfare, I shoved open the door and let myself inside–where I was immediately greeted by a sight that could have only belonged in Valhalla. Rows upon rows of rough-hewn wooden tables were stacked high with a feast fit for Thor himself. Bone-in meats dominated the spread, their oily, fatty goodness glistening in the crystal light.
Seated before the food, stuffing their faces with turkey legs and horns of mead, were dwarves. An endless horde of hammer-slinging, pauldron-wearing ankle-biters. A few glanced my way and offered a nod here or there, but they quickly went back to dirtying their beards with honey-glaze and ale foam. The roar of conversation was deafening, making it impossible to make out individual words.
I comically towered over the room, a full body length taller than anyone else. Correction: I towered over nearly everyone. Near the end of the room, I spotted a table slightly separated from the rest, occupied by a wide assortment of races. Friends of the familia, assumedly, as Magni famously only accepts dwarves as his children.
Just above the guests’ table sat the high table, elevated far above the rest yet still below my eye level. At the center of which lounged a well-armored dwarf with a blazing-red beard, laughing uproariously at something the dwarf to his left had said. The ears of his wolf-headed headdress flopped wildly with his mirth. His adamantine breastplate was trimmed with gold and inlaid with precious gems. His beard, nearly as long as he was tall, was braided in an intricate weave and capped off with bands of gold. Magni himself.
To the god’s right sat Dormul, shouting something down towards his guests. Whatever the response was was swallowed by the din, but he laughed anyway. Another dwarf at his side nudged him with his elbow and pointed my way. Dormul’s eyes found mine, and he flashed a beaming smile.
Enthusiastically waving me forward, I picked my way across the room–feeling like a professional basketball player amongst a horde of drunk preschoolers, until I stood at the foot of the high table.
He leaned across the table, hollering at the top of his lungs to be heard. “Max! I was starting to think you wouldn’t make it!”
“Nah,” I grin, pulling his present out and tossing it up into his hands. “I’m just fashionably late.” Nodding towards his gift, I continue. “Consider that the first part of your armor, the rest should be done in a month or so.”
His smile grew even wider as he eagerly ripped away the paper package to reveal–his jaw dropped in shock, and the nearby conversations petered out. A custom Bag of Holding in the style of a messenger bag with a detachable strap. Dyed a royal purple with gold highlights, the crest of the Magni familia was burnt into its face–A wolf’s head, crossed by two bearded axes upon a round shield.
It kinda' reminded me of the legendary difficulty symbol from Halo.
I broke the silence. “It's loaded with your standard adventurer fare–potions, some equipment, I even threw in your combat webbing early, so you don’t have to wait for the rest of your armor to be finished to use it.”
The shock was understandable. Something I didn’t foresee when I priced my BoH at twenty mil’, was how affordable it was to even mid-level familias. For First Rate adventurers, that was practically pocket change, while Second and Third rates could afford it if they saved for a few months. The problem then was entirely on the supply side of the supply-demand formula. BoHs had garnered an after-market value well into the hundreds of millions.
They cost me practically nothing to make, save for some time, so I didn’t feel the need to bump up my prices. Which means that I can freely give away gifts worth the GDP of a small nation.
“Max… I- I don’t know what to say.” Dormul said, blinking away a sudden sheen of tears.
“Don’t worry about it, man.” I waved him off. “Wait until you see the rest of it before you get all misty-eyed on me.”He gave a wet laugh. “Alright, Max, alright.” He gave me a slight bow, as low as his armor would allow. “I’ll wait to thank you rightly when you’ve finished the rest of it.” He then pointed me towards the guest’s table. “Please, have a seat, my friend! We saved you plenty of food!”
“Don’t mind if I do!” I turn and make a beeline towards the open spot between an elf and some sort of Canin-Shifter, ignoring the gaze of Magni boring into the side of my head–I do not like the calculating aspect of it one bit.
I plop myself down and immediately start filling my plate without so much as saying hello to my new neighbors. The… wolf, I think? The Wolf-Shifter is staring wide-eyed at me, a chicken leg held suspended halfway towards his mouth. The elf, on the other paw, was carefully wiping his face with a napkin–his movements methodical and aristocratic.
He looked like your standard knife-eared tree hugger: Blond-haired, long in the ear and short on body mass. He wore a fine forest-green overcoat that was reinforced on his left side with thick leather pads. I didn’t need to guess his elven heritage to know that he was an archer by trade. His willowy frame and the pronounced muscles of his right arm told me all I needed to know.
And while most elves looked more or less the same to me, this one seemed weirdly familiar. I put it out of my mind for the moment, though, because of food!
As expected by a dwarven party, things got rowdy, fast. Fistfights ended as quickly as they began, flaring up at random and without warning. Drunken roars and shattering plates punctuated the air every few moments; Not that anyone paid any mind. Threading the chaos, servants weaved through the bedlam with supernatural ease. Whisking away empty plates and refilling horns without even breaking stride. Every few minutes, the doors leading to the kitchens would slam open, and another fresh wave of steaming food would sally out–only to break upon the gluttonous lines of partygoers. For some weird reason, there was a single bard sitting by the hearth, playing his heart out with a lute and his lungs, singing tales of past glories and tragedies. Not that anyone could hear what he was singing over the chaos.
Every now and then, everyone at the guests’ table would be forced to duck under a flying chair or a frisbeeing plate. Not that that was enough to cause anyone to break stride in devouring the delicious meal before us. I even earned a thankful nod from the Wolf-Shifter when I patted away a ballistic mug from doming him in the back of the head.
Eventually, though, that nagging sense of Déjà vu wore me down enough to confront the elf beside me. Between bites of the turkey leg I was scarfing down, bones and all, I asked him. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
“Well, I’d certainly hope so,” He replied, leaning away from the splash zone with a bit-back sigh. “I’ve been buying arrowheads from you for the past fortnight.” He thought it over for a moment before lightly shaking his head. “Though, I suppose I have mostly dealt with your clerk.”
He offers a thin but calloused hand. “Luvis Lilix, Modi familia. At your service, Mister Maddic.”
I clasp the offered appendage and shake it roughly. “Call me Max, ‘Mister Maddic’ makes me feel old.”
“Max, then.” He nodded. “It's nice to meet the man who has made my life so much easier.” When I gave him a questioning look, he elaborated. “Those arrowheads, the Pop-outs?” A ghost of a grin quirked his lips, his eyes looking far away. “They must be one of the most marvelous weapons ever devised. The way they sing as they slice through the air–just wonderful.” He sighed wistfully. “I’ve been dropping Ligerfangs with one shot. One. They’re dead before they even hit the ground. The only issue I’ve had with them is that they usually break after one or two uses.” He shot me a conspiratorial glance. “Now, if they were made of a slightly stronger material…”
“I’ve been looking into it.” I sighed. “Problem is they’re a pain in the tail to make, and using something like adamantite would just make it worse.”
In a blink-and-you’d-miss-it motion, Luvis’s eyes darted across to the other guests, confirming that, yes, they were all keeping an ear open to the conversation. He leaned in, beckoning me to follow.
“I have it on good authority,” He stage-whispered, putting the back of his hand to his mouth. “That Nine Hells herself sent some of your arrowheads back home, and the Royal Family is very interested in acquiring more.”
“I’m not interested in arming foreign powers.” I cut him off with a grunt, annoyed at the turn the conversation took. So much for having a pleasant dinner partner for the evening.
I turned back towards my food, but Luvis quickly shook his head. “It’s not like that.” He murmured, losing some of the carefully manufactured cool that he had been operating under so far. “Rakia has been building up again, getting ready for another campaign. My people are searching for a deterrent, and your arrows might be it.”
“Ares is always rattling his sabers.” A scoffing voice jumped in from beside me, the Wolf-Shifter seemingly having gotten over his shock. “He’s never actually going to do anything. Not without his pet Crozzos to win his wars for him, at least.”
“Not this time,” Luvis said gravely, looking past me at my other neighbor. “This is much more than his usual posturing. He’s been importing vast amounts of Solingen weapons, and hiring Amazonian mercenaries by the score. Make no mistake, he is going to attack somewhere, and soon.”“And Larfal thinks they’re going to take another go at his Forest?” Another person, his voice rich and deep, intoned from behind us at the high table. We all spun around in our seats to find that Magni had been listening this entire time.
“His Majesty, High King Largal Ljos Alf,” Luvis corrected, not quite with a furious hiss at the disrespect. “Knows that Ares has held a grudge against our people ever since the Spirits struck him down generations ago. What his Majesty believes is known only to him.” Seemingly remembering his manners, the elf ducked his head low in a quick bow. “Lord Magni.”
The god hummed, leaning back upon his throne while taking a pull of his horn of mead. “This is news to me. Orario has been operating under the presumption that Ares has been licking his wounds since the last time we sent them home with their tails between their legs. I’ll have to share this at the next Denatus. If I may ask, how did you come across this information, child of Modi?”
“I keep in touch with family back home.” The elf demurs, suddenly shy.
“Uh huh.” Magni drawls, a smirk growing on his lips. “And does Modi know where your true allegiances lie?”
That galvanized Luvis; the elf shot straight to his feet with a snarl. “You doubt my!-”
Dormul, who had been quiet up till that point, cut in–shooting a disapproving look at his god. “Sit down, dumbass. He’s just messing with you.”
Luvis looked like he had swallowed a Carrion Crawler as he sat down, crossing his arms defiantly while glaring daggers at Magni.
“Well, you can tell your ‘family’ not to worry.” Magni forged on, ignoring the look his shiny new Level Four adventurer was giving him. “‘Cause I have a hunch on what Ares’s real target will be.”
For a split-second, the god’s eyes flicked to me.
“I wonder…” He thought aloud, running a hand through his beard. “What Ares would do with an army of those ‘metal monsters’ at his beck and call.”
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“So, are you a friend of Dormul?” I asked Luvis in the stilted silence following the confrontation, the guest table having fallen into awkwardly eating our meals.“By the Earth and Trees, no.” He laughed, an undercurrent of bitterness rolling beneath the surface. “I–” A distant shout from across the room interrupts him. Another fistfight had broken out at a nearby table. When it was clear that it wasn’t about to spread our way, he turned back. “I cannot stand that savage little brute. However… he’s my rival on the only battlefield that matters. Love.” He finished when he looked up to find me blinking in confusion at him. “The bastard invited me just so he could rub his achievement in my face. I’m simply glad that the recipient of our mutual affections chose not to accept his invitation.”
“Then why the hell did you show up?” I ask in disbelief, flummoxed as to why anyone would bother dragging themselves out to see their enemy be celebrated.
“So he would be obligated to reciprocate when it came time for me to ascend to Level Four. How else would I prove my own superiority, as well as the glory of my familia?” The elf said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Speaking of, I hear that you were instrumental in making that possible.” The slight frown he had worn since being called out by Magni faded, slipping into a slightly hopeful smile. “If you are willing to discuss terms now, I would be very much interested in commissioning a weapon of my own.”
No, not really. As servants came in and out delivering fresh food to each table, I was too busy trying to smother Yeenoghu’s curse under an entire flock of chickens to want to discuss business now. But… on the other paw, giving Dormul’s self-proclaimed rival a leg up might galvanize my friend to really push himself, just to stay competitive. I suppose there was no real harm in just hearing the man out.
Through a mouthful of precious food, I nodded for him to continue.
“I’ve heard that you’ve made bows for others that use an ingenious series of pulleys to keep tension, another thing that I’ve heard the Royal Family was interested in learning more about, but I digress–I was hoping to commission something… unique. A weapon more in line with Dormul’s hammers, rather than just a new way to string a bow.”
Naturally, firearms came to mind. I could only imagine what kind of havoc a belt-fed fully automatic shotgun could raise against the hordes of monsters infesting the Dungeon. Maybe I could thread it with a real party load–Maybe buckshot, to slugs, to Dragon’s Breath rounds to really cover all the bases. But the elves’ skill, and Skills, would most certainly revolve around being an archer specifically, with little to no overlap with ranged warfare in general.
So instead, my thoughts shifted to a railgun-assisted launch system. Maybe with retractable arms so you could store the entire bow in a hip holster. Or… I could make it fucking massive, like, Monster Hunter sized. Oh yeah, it was all coming together. Should I make it a vertical crossbow, or just leave the firing mechanism as is? How effective would physically pulling the string back be if the arrows would be mostly driven by the magnets? Speaking of, the arrows would have to be ferrous. Maybe a thin adamantite shell over an iron core? Or maybe I should ditch the railgun system entirely and just sell him a compound bow, but give him specialty arrows? I can’t imagine it would be too hard to enchant an arrow tip with some choice spells.
Ooh! Flat-tips with a Snare enchantment would probably sell like hotcakes, or maybe a bodkin with Continual Flame on the tip would do even better!
“Alright…” I finally decide, turning to face Luvis fully. “I’m in. I have a few ideas, but I need to know, broadly speaking, what your preferences are, as well as your current fighting style. Letting me get a feel for your current bow would also be a great help.”
The longer I spoke, the wider his smile became, until he was utterly beaming at me. “Of course, shall we ‘talk shop’ now? Or would you prefer I visit your workshop in the morning to discuss terms?”
I nearly, nearly chose the latter, and turned back towards my food… but damn, did planning out a railgun great bow sound way cooler at the moment. Reaching into my BoH, I pulled out my notepad and cleared a space on the table.