On waking to a crisp dungeon morning, Fred yawned and stretched. The floor of the ruined farmhouse was striped with bright morning light and interlaced with deep patchworks of shadow. Outside he could hear birds singing. He frowned, trying to place the low murmur and then smiled as he realised it could only be Joan talking to the pine tree on the other side of the wall. All in all, it hadn't been a bad night's sleep, even though he had been lying on the ground with only a thin blanket between him and the dusty floorboards. He had a bit of a crick in his neck but otherwise felt pretty good.

He sat up, rolling his shoulders and put his hand out to grab his trousers. His fingers closed on empty air. He turned around in a panic, scraping one knee on the floor in his haste. Maybe he had kicked them away in his sleep. He scrabbled frantically, looking under the bookshelf and in his bag but they were nowhere to be found. When he had gone to sleep he had folded them neatly and used them as a pillow, he was sure of it. But they were just... gone.

Joan walked in whistling and held out an apple. Fred took it and casually put his bag in his lap, trying not to blush. It was ridiculous; he was wearing boxers. They were nowhere near as revealing as the outfits he had worn on stage every night for years and years. And yet somehow he was still embarrassed. Joan didn't care, that much was obvious. He supposed being naked in a forest for three hundred years had that effect on one. If she would just stop being so damn attractive it would make him feel better about it all.

"Morning," she said, blissfully unaware of Fred's inner monologue, "did you sleep alright?"

"Fine. Fine. Have you seen my trousers?" he asked with nary a blush. "I'm sure I left them here."

"No, sorry," she said, bending over to pick up the blanket which did nothing to lighten the mood. Folding it into a neat square she handed it to Fred who stuffed it absent-mindedly into his bag, in between the copy of The Surprising and Erotic Adventures of Sir Rigby Dickens and The Spoon of Destiny. He looked at her again, squinting in the dawn light. She grinned and turned her head so that her auburn locks swung, brushing lightly against her collar bone. Something was different. He did his best not to stare as he tried to figure out what it was. He was still sleep-addled and unable to think straight due to lack of tea and trousers. In the end, he gave up.

"You look different."

"I cut my hair," she said, and it was immediately obvious, considering it had previously come down to her waist.

"Ah," Fred said, intelligently.

"Do you like it? Having it so long isn't practical in a fight."

"Oh yes," he said. "Very nice. Always a good time to get a haircut. I guess." He frowned, shifting his bag on his lap. "Are you sure you haven't seen my trousers? I know I had them last night. I was using them as a pillow. I remember because I spent half an hour wondering what would be the best trouser material to sleep on."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"What was the best trouser material to sleep on?"

"Oh, I decided probably cotton. Maybe bamboo."

"Bamboo? How would bamboo be soft to sleep on?"

"Well it's not actual bamboo it's a cloth made from –oh look here, have you seen my trousers? I could really do with them back."

"I said I haven't seen them."

They searched the ruined farmhouse together but no miscellaneous items of clothing were uncovered, a state of affairs that Fred found vexing, to say the least. He fixed the bucket onto his head with poor grace and strode off into the day in just his boxers, shirt and sandals. The amount of exposed leg left him feeling more than a little self-conscious.

"They were only one hit point," said Joan, soothingly. "I'm sure we'll find something better very soon."

"I suppose," said Fred. "But it's just weird."

They were soon back at the stream and turned to follow the winding cascade as it splashed its way down the mountain toward the little village they could see far below. They stopped for a drink, cupping their hands to lift the cold water to their faces. Fred sipped the liquid with a grimace. Water was fine but today there needed to be tea or he might start getting out of sorts. He stared down at the buildings below where smoke was rising from several chimneys and brightened at the thought of all those kettles boiling.

The day was fresh and clear, the sky dotted with little puffs of white clouds. The mountain, meanwhile, was dotted with little puffs of white goats, some of whom stared balefully at Fred and Joan as they passed.

"We could hunt some of those," said Joan. "There might be some good eating on them."

"I don't think I could wallop a goat to death with a spoon," said Fred, thoughtfully. "I don't think I have that level of violence in me. Do you?"

"Maybe when we have a bow and arrow or something," said Joan.

"Maybe."

The trip to the village didn't take long, barring one short, angry consultation with The Guide which yielded no particularly meaningful information other than the fact that the Guide's mother would have been ashamed of the way he had turned out, and how he could have spent his life so much better if he had chosen to be a coffee table or a boot-rack at a down-market hotel instead of trying to help the insufferable noobs. Although the visible area of the map had expanded to include the way they had travelled. The little village in the valley was now marked as "Merry Plebbingtons" which Fred supposed was useful to know.

A short while later, they had reached the outskirts and were passing among fields of wheat and barley. Little stone cottages were dotted around, surrounded by kitchen gardens and orchards. While there was no one in sight, all of the cottages were clearly occupied. Smoke puffed from the chimneys, rows of washing hung in the gardens, bees buzzed in hives and cows lowed from small lean-to barns. The whole scene bathed in the fresh dawn light was pleasantly bucolic. Uncannily artificial.

"I wonder why the farmhouse was abandoned?" said Fred, as they trudged across a meadow.

"No doubt we'll find out at some point," said Joan.

"We will?"

"Could be lots of reasons." Joan paused. "Perhaps there was a witch buried under the floorboards who comes out at midnight to eat your face."

Fred stumbled over a loose rock, caught himself and laughed nervously.

"Or perhaps a nearby pack of werewolves murdered everyone while they were sleeping, and now people are too scared to go there?" she continued.

"I'm glad you kept those ideas to yourself last night, or I never would have been able to fall asleep."

Joan laughed and touched her newly shorn hair self-consciously.

"We’re still here, aren't we? Maybe I did a deal with the midnight witch to keep us safe."

They walked on in silence. Fred examined the packed earth of the way before them. It was dark and loamy, recently tilled and ready to be planted. The pathway that ran beside it was spotted with pebbles and stones.

"Did you?" he asked, at last, looking at her sideways. "Did you do a deal with a midnight witch?"

"No! No! The farmer probably just moved away or something. Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."

"I mean... it seems an oddly specific thing to say."

"It's just the sort of thing that happens here – in Macabre, in the Game. Or rather, it was the sort of thing that happened last time I played."

"Great," said Fred. "Just peachy. I will never sleep again."

"Yes you will," said Joan. "We just need to be careful about where..."

They walked on lost in thought and soon the farmland gave way to little dirt streets. The houses here were closer together, quaint and rough with thatch roofs. The walls were rough plaster and painted in black and white. There was no one about. Moments later they arrived in what Fred assumed was the centre of Merry Plebbingtons by dint of the fact that there was a market square surrounded by a large cluster of buildings. A short stretch of cobble lay before them, lined with shops and houses. Fred and Joan stood awkwardly, looking around at the deserted place. A single black cat wandered across the lane and hissed at them before vanishing into the shadows. Merry Plebbingtons wasn't much to look at. It had a charming, vaguely Renaissance Fair sort of charm to it, if you liked that sort of thing. A stable and an inn stood to one side. Various stalls were arranged around a market square, no wares on display, the boards empty. There was a bakery, an apothecary, and a garment shop, as well as several others. At the end of the street was a blacksmith's forge, the hearth cold and empty.

The shop windows had heavy blown glass panes and dark green paint, the signs worked through with gold and black lettering. Here and there were stones and a few wonky brick walls. None of the buildings stood more than two storeys tall, with the upper storeys leaning precariously over the cobbles below. There was not a single soul in sight.

"Where is everyone?" said Fred, looking around."I hope it's not a zombie village. Or a haunted place or something awful."

"Oh no," said Joan, "those look quite different and they usually smell a bit strange. We just need to wait for everyone to open up."

"Okay," said Fred. "So... we just wait?"

Joan nodded. She turned her face towards the sun and shut her eyes. Breathing in and out slowly, she was soon the very picture of scantily-clad serenity. Fred stood there awkwardly for a few seconds and then wandered over the stables before anything began to reveal themselves due to his lack of trousers. He found a nice piece of fencing the right height and started doing plies. This calmed his nerves and would most definitely not result in an erection and by the time he had got to battements fondus on the other side, he was feeling much better. He was also delighted to find that his legs weren't too stiff, despite missing a day of training and being dead. Deeply engrossed in the familiar rhythms of his exercise routine Fred nearly jumped out of his skin as a mighty crash echoed along the cobbles. A shutter had been thrown open. It reverberated against a wall, vibrating on its hinges. As if this was some kind of coded signal, somehow the whole village was alight with sound and movement. A fire roared in the blacksmith's forge. People and animals appeared as if by magic. Windows, doors and shutters burst open. Chattering villagers spilled out of their homes shouting and calling. Bunting and vendors popped up everywhere, the stalls suddenly stocked and ready. Everywhere was noise and colour and inviting smells.

Fred stared around at the busy street. He jumped as a horse nudged at his hand which still gripped the make-shift barre. He glared at the creature and let go. He could have sworn it hadn't been there a second before.

"Right," said Joan, opening her eyes. "Let's get on, now that things are open. Where to first? Hmm–"

"Excuse me," said Fred, trying to catch the attention of one of the passing villagers. They were dressed in colourful peasant outfits. Vaguely Bavarian and reminding Fred of the sort of romanticised apparel worn by the corps de ballet in so many of the classics. "Excuse me!" he called. The woman he addressed gave him a startled look and started running down the street.

"Rude," he said. Then he looked down at the rather large expanse of leg he was showing and remembered he was in his boxers and wearing a bucket on his head. He sighed. A beggar was seated cross-legged against the wall of the bakery caught his eye. Fred sauntered over, doing his best to appear nonchalant and unthreatening.

"Hi there," he said, removing his bucket and smiling down at the elderly vagabond. "Can you tell us where's a good place to get some tea? Or anyplace, actually?"

The beggar's eyes went wide. Grabbing his empty bowl he scuttled backwards on his backside.

"Leave me alone!" he cried in a wavering voice. "Just leave me alone!"

"What? I just asked–"

"Leave me alone!" The beggar's wail followed him as he fled down the street.

"What an odd fellow," said Fred.

"What on earth did you say to him?" asked Joan, coming up to stand next to him.

"I just asked him if he knew where to get some tea!"

"Hmm. That is odd. Don't forget, I need a bag as well, for my quest. Maybe we can buy them though," she said, looking around at the shops.

"Tea, bag, trousers," said Fred. "Gotcha."

"I'm more concerned about your charisma than your trousers," said Joan.

"You would be."

"Pardon?"

Fred snorted and went over to inspect the market stalls. The nearest seemed to be a fruit seller. Before he could open his mouth to ask after tea the merchant was greeting him with ruddy-faced enthusiasm. Fred could practically see the exclamation marks.

"Why hello! Can I interest you in my wares? I have the finest fruit from all over Macabre!"

"Hi," said Fred. "Um, where can I find a cup of tea?"

"Why hello!" said the man, again. "Can I interest you in my wares? I have the finest fruit from all over Macabre!"

"Um–"

"Would you like to buy some fruit? It's the best in the kingdom!"

"Really, I'm just looking for a cup–"

"Why hello!–"

"NPC," said Joan, pulling Fred away, "you won't get anywhere unless you want to buy some fruit."

"Non player character?" said Fred. "What. The. Fuck." He looked back over his shoulder at the fruit seller. The man beamed manically and waved an orange. Fred groaned.

"Why hello!" he boomed. "Can I interest you in my wares? I have the finest fruit from all over Macabre!"

They walked away hurriedly, the merchant calling after them.

"He looks human," said Fred. "Urrrrrrrgh. How do you tell who is real?" he asked.

"Oh the NPCs are real," said Joan, "they are just not human."

"Not helpful."

"You can usually tell by the dialogue," said Joan. "Usually. Not always. Some of the NPCs are smart. Some of the players are dense. Fred? Fred! Are you listening?" Fred was distracted, his jaw gone slack, his eyes glazed over. He was gazing upwards.

"Are you okay?"

He grunted and pointed, following the line of his finger Joan turned. She saw a neat little building painted green and pink. Hanging over the gleaming door, beautifully painted in a fair hand was a steaming cup of tea and a slice of cake.

"We're here," Fred whispered in hushed tones. "We've found it. Dave's Dungeon Tea-Shop."

"What?"

"Tea," Fred said urgently, flapping one hand, momentarily unable to express himself further. "Come on!"

"I don't think–"

"Come on!"

Realising that she was talking to Fred's heels, Joan heaved a sigh and followed him into the tea-shop. The door opened with a little tinkling bell. Inside there was a surprisingly nice room laid out with tables and white frilly tablecloths. The scent of sugar and steamed milk hung in the air like a tantalising invitation and the tea-shop seemed to be three-quarters full, despite the early hour. The clientele was a well-dressed mix of human and er... other. Two old ladies in full plate armour sat in a corner sipping from delicate bone china cups. One of them raised a hand and waved as Fred and Joan walked in. Joan waved back but Fred was too focused on his quest to notice.

Standing in front of a podium at the entrance, at the gateway to this kingdom of spongy and civilized delights was a massive man. Great, beefy muscles strained at his sleeves like a tightly packed bag of lemons; an eye-patch barely covered a ruined eye while a pristine white shirt barely covered his paunch. Tied about his middle was a teeny-tiny pinny worked over in embroidered roses and skeletons.

"Yes?" the splendid apparition declared in unfriendly tones. "Can I help you?"

"Tea," said Fred, his eyes still a little dilated, "can we get a cup of tea?"

"What the fuck did you say to me, punk?"

"I said can we get some tea?"

"You take that back!"

Joan pushed the confused Fred to one side.

"Let me do the talking!" said Joan. "Just... shush." She smiled up at the proprietor who we can only assume was Dave. Dave did not smile back.

"Sorry," Joan said. "My friend here recently read a book called World of Cheese, and now he's got negative Charisma. I believe the words coming out of his mouth are not necessarily the words you are hearing."

"Ahhhhhh," came a collective sigh from the patrons of the tea shop, who were all leaning over their cups and watching the scene before them with great interest. Fred noticed a skeleton standing in the back and tried not to goggle.

"Nasty little book," said Dave. "Well, well, well. World of Cheese, ay. Well then, what do you want?"

"Some tea?" asked Joan. Dave crossed his arms, his muscles fighting for space and looked Fred and Joan over. Slowly. His eyes travelled up from Joan's bare feet to the crown of her auburn head. The eyes narrowed.

"No trolls!" he said. "We don't serve trolls."

"Oi!" said a troll seated in the corner.

"Sorry Susan," said Dave, without turning. "You know what I mean. No newbies. Running around in your underwear! You should be ashamed! Coming in here demanding tea! What did the pair of you get up to in your last life, ay? Scamming old ladies out of their life savings?" Susan the Troll gasped and fanned herself with a menu. A skeleton waiter tried to distract her with a plate of sandwiches. It didn't work. "Saying mean things on the internet?" The troll clutched the seat of her chair which groaned in distress. "Did you beat people up for fun?" The chair creaked alarmingly. "Did you "forget" to rewind your videotapes?"

"Get with the times, Dave," shouted one of the little old ladies.

"Sorry," muttered Dave. "I've been dead for a while. What is it now? Oh yes. Leaving nasty comments on the internet!"

"You said that already!"

"No, no," said Joan. "We just died young, that's all."

The skeleton waiter looked relieved and Susan relaxed in her chair a little.

"Sure," said Dave.

"We just need a cup of tea," said Joan. "We don't want any trouble. Can you help us? This is a tea-shop isn't it?"

"Tea is one copper piece," said Dave, looking down his rather hairy nose at her. "Petits Fours are two coppers for three. Special rate for pensioners and People-I-Like. Crepes on Tuesdays."

"We don't have any money–"

"Aha!"

"–but is there anything we can do to earn it? Washing dishes or–"

"No," said Dave. He pointed to the door. "Goodbye. And don't knick anything on the way out."

The whole shop watched them as they backed towards the door.

"Take care, dears!" said the little old lady they had met in the Meadow. Fred gave her a glum wave as they stepped back out onto the bustling street.

Once there Fred heaved a great sigh.

"So close," he said. "What on earth do we do now?"

"Don't worry," said Joan. "We can earn the money. There should be a notice board somewhere. Or we can ask in the tavern. It shouldn't take long. Plus a tea shop isn't the only place in the dungeon we can get tea, I'm sure."

"We can earn money?"

"Yes, I was about to suggest it but you rushed off."

"Sorry," said Fred, contrite. "Hmm... I think I saw a notice board covered with papers next to the stable."

"That would be it."

They walked back along the street, admiring the brightly hung stalls and taking in the sights. Fred tried not to think about tea and instead looked at the passing throngs of people, making a game of trying to see which were players and which were NPCs. The players, or what he assumed were players tended to have mismatched and motley collections of clothing and weaponry. The NPCs were much neater, less chaotic and seemed to occupy fairly one-dimensional roles which their clothing reflected.

"So Dave was a player," he said, musingly. "I assume. Not an NPC. But why would a player be running a shop?"

Joan shrugged.

"Not everyone wants to be reincarnated," she said. "You can have a good life here, I guess if you like that sort of thing. Or maybe he's just taking a break from the game."

"You can do that?"

"In theory. I never have."

They arrived at the village notice board which stood next to the stable. It was pinned with various thick pages of vellum. Some were printed, some hand-written, some involving crude drawings. Many were advertisements for places, products and services. There were lots of flyers for missing children.

"There should be plenty," said Joan. "Look! Frida the Widow wants someone to chop wood for her. Three coppers for fifty logs. That seems easy enough. And here – someone wants ten white moon lilies gathered from a swamp over to the east... hmm that one sounds like we need more hit points, I bet there's a catch. The price is too high for picking flowers. There will be a spectre involved or something. Or how about this one? Simon the Baker needs help gathering the ingredients for a special birthday cake?"

"Maybe," said Fred, staring up at the pamphlets. His eyes roamed across the pages.

"Do you suffer from Incurable Acne? Visit Madame Morvolo's Snake Oil Emporium, Number 6, The Lane.*Madame Morvolo Cannot Be Held Responsible For Irresponsible Side-Effects or Vomiting. Bring Your Own Bucket."

"Are You A Woman? Have You Been Mistaken For A Log? Time for some new clothes! Shoppe at Joe's Blouses and Hose: Fashionable Frippery for the Avid Adventurer! Discounts for Level 1!"

"That seems oddly specific," said Fred.

"You say that a lot," said Joan.

"Because it's so often true." Fred's eyes widened. "Speaking of which – what is this?"

REWARD OFFERED!

HAUNTED FARMHOUSE! 3 Gold Pieces to Whoever Can Slay the Midnight Witch That Lives Under The Floorboards! Ruined Farmhouse is located halfway between Merry Plebbingtons and The Meadow of Beginnings on the banks of the Wy. See Gob the Weaver for More Information.

"I knew it," said Fred. "I absolutely fucking knew it! There really was a witch wasn't there? You are not subtle! Oh my god, what happened while I was sleeping?"

"She came out from under the floorboards and threatened to eat your face," said Joan. She had the grace to look a little embarrassed. "You were sound asleep. What was I supposed to do?"

"What did you do?" asked Fred, aghast.

"I gave her your trousers and my hair," said Joan.

"Why?" He spoke slowly. "Why did the witch want my trousers and your hair?"

"She wanted a sacrifice. Something that belonged to you. It was the best I could think of. What! Don't look at me like that! It's better than giving her a finger or your head. That was what she wanted, you know. She said your eyeballs looked delicious."

"I knew it," said Fred, pacing backwards and forwards in front of the notice board, waving his hands in the air. "I knew something had happened to my trousers. And I get it, I really do! Not having trousers is preferable to not having a face but you could have told me! You didn't have to lie about it. You are not a very good liar. Why didn't you just tell me?"

"I am a bit rusty," she conceded. She saw the look on his face. "Oh alright! I'm sorry I should have told you."

"Yes," said Fred huffily. "You should. That's twice now."

"Twice?" Joan looked confused.

"Twice that you've lied to me. That I know about. For all I know, you could have spent your last life as a politician or...or a daffodil or some kind of an MLM salesperson!"

"What?"

"Never mind." Fred snorted through his nose. He stood still and breathed in deeply, trying to calm down. "Let's go. If I don't get a cup of tea soon heads are going to roll." He strode off, huffing. Joan scurried after him.

"Where are we going?

"To chop wood."

"Frida The Widow lives next to the blacksmith."

Fred made a sharp turn and stamped back the way they had come.

"Heads will roll," he muttered darkly. Joan looked worried.

"Is it some kind of addiction? The tea thing?"

"Figuratively," he said. "Heads will roll figuratively. And no. It's just a nice thing to drink. Addiction my arse. I can stop anytime I want. You’re just mad I called you a liar."

"I'm not mad," said Joan.

"Oh right," said Fred. "That would be me."

Wisely, Joan didn't say anything and they managed to find the Widow Frida without too much trouble. A short, friendly NPC in a black veil pointed them to a large fallen tree and handed them a sharp axe. After listening to a fairly lengthy soliloquy which boiled down to how much she needed wood for a nice fire, they set to work splitting logs. Fred was about to take out his frustration on the wood when Joan declared she could not bear to watch.

"Fine," said Fred, between gritted teeth and brought down the head of the axe onto the trunk with a thump. Joan winced.

"I'll go and help Simon the Baker," she said. Thump. "I'll meet you back here in a couple of hours?" Thump.

She went.

Fred spent a satisfying few hours alone with his chopping and his thoughts. The scent of the split wood was pleasant and he soon had a decent pile. He was rewarded in his labours by Frida the Widow who offered him 3 copper coins, a glass of orange juice and a meat pie.

[The Fredinator +1 XP]

"Thank you," he said, gratefully. "I don't suppose I could have a cup of tea?"

"Sorry dear," said the Widow Frida. "I have never boiled the kettle since my husband Gerry died. He used to make me a cup every morning and now the thought of tea makes me weep!"

"Sorry, sorry," said Fred. "Forget I asked. This is lovely."

"Weep! Floods of tears! Every morning like clockwork! He would set out the china cups, and boil the water while he was shaving. Oh, what a sweet, kind man! Gone twenty years now! Oh, how I mourn!"

"I'm so sorry for your loss," said Fred, desperately.

"Ten beautiful children I had with that man!" said the Widow Frida with relish. "Now they are all grown up and fled the nest! And do they visit me? No! And what is to become of me now? All alone in my old age! Aiieeeeeee. At least I will have a warm fire tonight, bless your soul, Adventurer!"

"Um, have you tried dating?" asked Fred. "Since you miss him so much? I mean twenty years is a long time to go without a cuppa out of grief."

"Dating?" asked the Widow Frida, thoughtfully.

"Yes. Seeing other men. Or therapy? Sounds like you need to focus on yourself, twenty years is a long – oh Joan, thank goodness!"

"Did you get paid?" asked Joan.

"Yes," said Fred, holding out his shiny coppers. "You?"

"Yes," said Joan. She held out a folded pile of material. "I bought you some Charismatic Trousers. They are made of cotton. I couldn't find bamboo ones. Hopefully, they are the right size."

Fred took the offered trousers and examined them. They were certainly nicer than the pair he had started with. He slipped them on. They fit very nicely.

"Did you spend all your money on these?" he asked, touched. "From Simon the Baker or whatever the fuck his name is?"

"I thought I owed you an apology," said Joan.

"You could have bought a bag and finished your quest!"

"I could, but I felt bad. I shouldn't have lied. I'm sorry. If we are going to do this together I need to be more trusting."

"Yes," said Fred. "You do. Apology accepted. For the meantime. But we can talk about it over a cup of tea." His eyes brightened. "Thank you, Frida, you take care now. And if I were you I would seriously consider therapy and maybe expanding your social circle."

"I will," quavered Frida the Widow. "Goodbye, Adventurer!"

In no time at all Fred and Joan were back at Dave's Dungeon Tea-Shop being shown to their seats by a snooty and rather disapproving looking skeleton. Dave had glared at them and made Fred show his coins in advance before allowing them in. He also insisted that they sat on towels so as not to ruin his chairs but Fred did not care.

Their skeleton server was bone-naked except for a starched white apron tied around its hip-bones and a black t-shirt with the slogan "Life is Pain" written across the front. When they turned the back read 'pain au chocolat?'

"Hahaha," said Fred. "Very funny." The skeleton did not look amused.

"May I take your order?" they asked in smooth, dulcet tones.

"Just some tea, please," said Fred. He folded his hands in his lap and looked around expectantly. Susan the Troll was watching them warily from her table, from behind an enormous teapot. The armour-plated old ladies had gone, and there were only a few other patrons, most of them elderly and wearing various states of Adventurer chic. Dave glowered at them from behind his pedestal and brought out a bag of knitting. In a back corner, another skeleton struck up a gentle tune on a harp.

The skeleton waiter bustled into the kitchen, returning moments later with a teapot, milk, sugar and two cups. Fred poured the tea and passed one to Joan. He held the cup in two hands and inhaled the fragrance with deep satisfaction before taking a sip.

"I don't see what all the fuss is about," said Joan.

"Quiet, heathen," said Fred, and finished his tea in blissful silence. There was an orchestral flourish.

[Ding! The Fredinator Quest Completed. +5 XP]

The Fredinator Level 1

Class: Monk ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

XP: 14

HP: 13 [2 bucket + 1 pair Flimsy Sandals + 1 Boring Boxers +2 Charismatic Trousers +1 Threadbare Shirt + 2 teaspoons + 4 Spoon of Destiny]

Bonus: Condensed Milk

+1 Charisma (-1 +2 Charismatic Trousers)