Fred awoke the next morning alone in the warm, comfortable bed. He stretched and gazed up at the thatch and beams, squinting in the pre-dawn light. He checked for his trousers. To his relief he spotted them crumpled at the end of the bed.

"Joan?" he muttered, turning, and then saw the note lying on her pillow.

Bedroom was too stuffy, it read. Didn't want to wake you. Gone to sleep outside. Meet you downstairs for breakfast, love Joan.

Her handwriting looked like she had scrawled it with a tree-trunk, which wasn't really surprising. Fred settled himself back into the snug hollow of the blankets, thinking to catch a bit more sleep before he went down. He closed his eyes. Across the room, someone coughed. Fred bolted uptight, clutching the blanket around his middle as it threatened to slip off the bed.

The bedroom door was open, the darkness of the inn hallway beyond looming like a gaping maw. Standing framed dramatic silhouette was a familiar shape. A squat shape. A shape that was at once eldritch, monstrous and not a little hairy.

"Betty?" Fred demanded, his eyes narrowing. "Aren't you supposed to be at your grandmother's? "

"I come bearing a message," said the goblin in a gruff, gravelly voice. Gone was the blonde wig and pink frock. Gone was the annoying falsetto. The goblin was decked out in some sort of medieval page's getup and wearing a hat that looked like a half-deflated black whoopee cushion. Round, gold-framed glasses perched on the bridge of her bulbous nose. The expression on her face was familiar though – barely contained aggression tinged with a hunger Fred could only assume would be satiated on the meat of man. Or in this case, Fred.

"Betty?"

"Not Betty!" growled the goblin in annoyance. She raised a long golden trumpet and blew on it with more enthusiasm than was decent at this hour of the morning. Fred covered his ears, trying to drown out the dreadful sound. "I come bearing tidings!" The goblin announced. She paused dramatically and then turned and laid her trumpet down. She pulled out a long, ornate scroll and unrolled it carefully, glancing up at Fred now and then to check he was watching.

"Get on with it," he said.

"Am I addressing The Fredinator, Monk, Level 1?" she looked enquiringly over the top of the scroll, squinting through her glasses as if she had trouble seeing him. As if she had never seen him before in her life.

"You know I am," said Fred. He wrestled with the blanket momentarily. "I'd like to go back to sleep."

The goblin's expression hardened, and then she seemed to remember herself, adopting the aloof expression of the messenger once more.

"The Fredinator, Monk, Level 1," she intoned, "you have been challenged to a duel."

"A duel?"

"A duel," said the goblin. "Pistols at Dawn, in the field behind Simon's Bakery."

"With you?"

"No!"

"Then with who? And - it's gone dawn." Fred gestured to the window where the first early morning light was just peaking in through the thick glass. Not Betty grit her fangs.

"At your earliest convenience," she growled.

"Against who?"

"Against whom," said the goblin absently. Her night-dark eyes flickered over the scroll, and she unrolled a little more. "Sorry," she muttered, then resumed her ridiculous, over the top voice. "The Archbishop of Banterbury challenges you to a duel at dawn! Or, as soon as possible!"

[New Quest! Defeat The Archbishop of Banterbury in a Duel!]

Fred stared at her for a while. She glared back. Fred burrowed down into his blanket.

"You can tell the Archbishop of Banterbury to sod off," he said, closing his eyes. He cracked one open. "Please go away now."

"Failure to participate will cost you ten XP," said the goblin. She grinned a wide, vindictive grin with far too many teeth, then turned and stomped down the dark hallway.

"Damn," said Fred.

He got dressed in the morning light, muttering curses under his breath as he pulled on his trousers, one bleary leg at a time. It took him ten minutes to find his bucket, which had rolled under the bed and hidden itself in a dark corner. He shoved it on his head and cringed as the cold metal touched his cheeks.

"Why do you have to be so cold," he muttered.

Taking one last regretful look at the cosy room, he shut the door and made his way down to the great room below.

A newly lit fire licked tentatively at some kindling. The room was mostly empty apart from the red-haired bar-keep who stood dreamily wiping a glass and staring off into the distance. Fred wondered if it was the same glass as last night. Joan walked in before he had decided whether to sit and wait or go looking for her.

"Morning," he said, giving her a hug. Her hair smelt like freshly cut grass. "Bad news. I have to fight a duel." Joan's eyebrows went up.

"Right now?" she said.

"Apparently."

"Oof," she said. She disentangled herself and handed him an apple. "We better get going then. Who are you duelling?"

"The Archbishop of Banterbury," said Fred. "I know. Sounds lame. Any idea who it could be?"

Joan wrinkled her brow as she thought. "No, I don't think so. Have you upset anyone?"

"Not that I know of."

"A player, I assume."

They made their way out of the inn and down the quiet, shuttered streets of Merry Plebbingtons in the misty light. There was no one about, reminding Fred of their first day there. Was it only yesterday?

"I suppose you have fought many duels?" he asked, in-between bites of his apple. "Last time, I mean?" He tripped over an innocent bit of cobble. Barely awake, he didn't fancy his chances fighting anyone. The fact that he had not had the chance for a morning cup of tea made him feel particularly vexed.

"Yeah," she said. "Good way to get XP."

"If you win."

"If you win." They continued in silence. "How much HP do you have right now?"

"Um...13 I think."

"You should be fine."

"How do I win?"

"You have to deliver a knockout blow," said Joan.

"How barbaric," said Fred. Joan rolled her eyes.

It didn't take long to walk to the field behind Simon's bakery. Waiting in the ankle-high grass were three figures, two young men standing side by side, and a woman lying on the ground, staring up at the sky.

"Epic?" said Joan to the horizontal figure. "What are you doing here?"

"Minding my own business."

"Right-ho," said Fred.

"She was here when we arrived," said one of the young men. "Hiya, friends. I'm GoldenBoyBarker, you can call me Barker! Nice to meet you, nice to meet you! She doesn't like talking!"

"Hello," said Fred warily. He recognised Barker from the tavern the night before as the smiling young man in the simple brown robe. The one Joan had said was a dog in his last life. He seemed excited to see them, his eyes bright with excitement and his smile wide.

"That's okay," said Fred, "we know Epic, sort of. Nice to meet you, Barker." They all looked at the other young man who could only be the Archbishop of Banterbury. He was dressed in a sneer and tatty wizard's robes of blue and purple. He had a shock of messy, black hair topped with a faded wizard's hat. He held a stick in his right hand, which he gripped with impassioned intensity.

"Well met, good sir," declared the Archbishop of Banterbury. He bowed to Joan. "Madam." He looked like a pompous twit, Fred decided. He was also very young, the youngest player Fred had seen so far. Lean as a bean pole, he was lightly spotted with eyes that were as hungry as they were wild – in short, the sort of uncivilized nit who would challenge an innocent stranger to duel before his morning tea.

"I do know him," whispered Joan, "I talked to him yesterday before you got back from Betty's Nan."

"Great," Fred muttered and stifled a yawn. "Is this really necessary?" he said to the skinny youth.

"Yes!" cried the Archbishop. "My Quest demands it! Go on then, draw your pistols."

"I don't have any pistols," said Fred.

"Aha!"

"Do you?"

"No."

"Then what is the point," said Fred. He kept his voice level but he could think of many, many things he would rather be doing at this instance. The tea rage was beginning to creep into his bones. "What is the point of all this?"

"I must defeat you in battle. If you don't have pistols," said the Archbishop, peering down his nose at Fred. This did not have quite the desired effect because Fred was quite a bit taller. "Then we will have to do limericks."

"Limericks?"

"Dirty limericks." The Archbishop of Banterbury drew himself up in his rather tatty wizard's robe. "I am an intellectual. We will duel with our wits, rather than crude weaponry!"

"Um... if you insist," said Fred. "I still don't know why you picked me."

"Quest is to win a duel," said the Archbishop.

"Why me?" repeated Fred.

"Against a monk. You are the only monk I could find."

"Oh right. Seems a bit much. So... what next?" The Archbishop looked disconcerted.

"Help!" he cried, "I need Help!"

With an orchestral twang, a large glowing book appeared next to him. Fred was interested to see it was a different version to the one that appeared for him. Fred's Guide was embossed brown leather. This cover was a dark, wine-red, and the head that appeared was female, with the features of an elderly woman. Her eyes were milky with age and she squinted about her, obviously having trouble seeing. A hand emerged out of the mystical depths of the book and pulled up a pair of spectacles which were deposited on the Guide's nose.

"That's better! What do you want now you little rascal?" she declared, glowering down at the Archbishop. He flushed and turned his back to Fred and Joan.

"I told you not to call me that," the Archbishop hissed.

"And I told you you deserve a slap round the belly with a wet kipper," said the Guide in stringent tones. "Now what's up? Out with it lad, I've got a spot of knitting on the cards and I was just about to cast off."

"How do we duel?" he asked. The head looked over at Fred and raised one snowy brow.

"Ah, you found a monk. Good show. Roll to decide who goes first," she said. "Lowest number goes first. I will be the judge."

"Is that fair," whispered Fred into Joan's ear. "She won't favour him?"

"Probably not," came the soft, and not entirely comforting reply.

"Fine," said the Archbishop, his face intense. "Let's roll."

The head disappeared and was replaced by a glowing, many-sided die, about the size of a walnut. They all stared at it as it rotated in an octarine breeze.

"Go on," said the muffled voice of the Archbishop's Guide, from somewhere in the pages of the book. "Challenger first!"

The Archbishop of Banterbury reached out and plucked the die. He tossed it and they all watched as the glittering die sailed through the air, shedding sparks as it flew. It landed on the open pages with a slight plink. A nineteen.

"Hah," said the Archbishop, with a grin.

He tossed the die to Fred, who rolled a one.

"Losers first," the Archbishop said to Fred, bowing dramatically. Fred stepped forward and coughed. Performance didn't phase him one bit, and his charismatic pants were still on. But poetry...He cleared his throat.

"This is so stupid,

I really can't condone this,

What's the fucking point?"

Everyone looked at the Archbishop's Guide.

"That," she said, "is a haiku. Zero points. Archbishop of Banterbury, take your spot!"

"Gah," said Fred. The Archbishop of Banterbury smiled and rolled up this tattered wizard's sleeves.

"There once was a man called Fred,

Whose brain was a loaf of bread,

As dumb as a brick,

With a very small dick,

He'd really be better off dead."

"Jokes on you," said Fred, "I'm already dead."

"And his dick is massive," yelled Joan.

"Thank you, dear," said Fred. The tips of his ears turned pink.

"Not bad," said the Guide, begrudgingly. A ghostly hand appeared holding up a slightly transparent card. The number eight was written on it in gold ink.

"Well?" said the Archbishop, his face smug. "What have you got?"

Fred thought for a moment.

"There was a young wizard with pimples,

Whose thought process was amazingly simple

He's not very smart,

He's all made of farts,

And he could really do with a wimple."

"Really?" said the Archbishop. "Made of farts? What are you, twelve?"

"The last time I had to make up a limerick I probably was twelve, yes," said Fred thoughtfully. "My expertise lies in other areas."

"Clearly."

They both looked over at the Archbishops' Guide. A hand appeared waving a four.

"No!" yelled Joan. "Why?"

"Not that dirty," said the Guide, reappearing with a pop. "And wimple is a bit of a stretch. Most people probably don't know what it means."

"I don't!" called Barker, with a big grin.

"Your turn, Archbishop."

"And there goes his companion Joan,

Who spent her last life all alone,

She would if she could,

Be made of wood,

Especially the kind that moans."

"Steady on," said Fred. "That seems a little personal."

"Rude," said Joan. "He wishes he could have been made of wood."

"Sometimes I am," said the Archbishop.

"If you speak to Joan like that one more time," said Fred pleasantly. "I will make sure your next respawn is an unpleasant one, rules be damned." Joan looked confused. "I'll explain later," said Fred.

"Fine," said the Archbishop. "But the score?"

The Archbishop's Guide held up a four.

"Points off for would and wood," she said. "And uncalled for arse-holery towards people who aren't in the duel."

"Fine," snarled the Archbishop.

"The Fredinator," said the Guide. "You're up." Fred thought for a moment.

"This clown with a lot to say,

His tongue is a lump of clay,

The Archbishop of Banter,

Whose brainwaves were scanter,

And his arse is attached the wrong way"

"Lame," cried the Archbishop. "Absolute rubbish."

"Bravo!" yelled Joan.

"Excellent!" shouted Barker, jumping up and down.

The Guide held up an eight. "It was not that good," cried the Archbishop. He glared at Barker. "I told you not to cheer for him!"

"I liked the bit about your arse," said the Guide.

"Thank you," said Fred, graciously. She inclined her head. The Archbishop clenched his fists and stomped his foot on the ground.

"We are drawn," said the Guide. "Twelve-all. One more round to decide the winner?"

"No!" yelled the Archbishop. "No! This is rubbish! You have driven me to violence! Defend yourself, cur!" He brandished his staff at Fred, one corner of his battered wizard's hat falling across his face.

"Oh honestly," said the Guide, retreating into her book. "Fine, fine, fine. First one to kill the other wins. Go."

Fred glanced at Joan in alarm, she gestured encouragingly at him.

"Get out your ladle!" she hissed, flapping her hands at him. Fred stared at her, then rummaged frantically in his bag, his handing closing around the comforting weight of The Spoon Of Destiny. He wasn't sure how he felt about using it on a fellow human, even one as obnoxious as the Archbishop of Banterbury. Bopping spiders was one thing. On the other hand, the Archbishop looked like he could do with a good bopping.

"Skeletal Horde!" yelled the Archbishop, ramming his staff into the ground. A shockwave of energy rippled out from the staff. It didn't go very far but was rather disconcerting. Fred stepped back, brandishing his ladle, his eyes on the ground.

"Don't wait," shouted Joan, "get him!"

"Get him," echoed Barker, although it was unclear who he was rooting for. Probably both of them.

"Bloodthirsty girl," Fred muttered, but it was too late anyway. The soil boiled and shifted, as if a mini earthquake was taking place under the Archbishop's feet. A collection of yellowing bones rose out of the ground and assembled themselves into a skeleton. The skull attached itself and swivelled towards Fred, gaping holes of the eye sockets gleaming with malevolence.

"Whoops," said Barker, dancing on his toes. Out of the corner of his eye, Fred noticed Epic sitting up to watch.

The skeleton started to walk towards Fred, its tread slow and deliberate.

"I see a little outline of a man!" cried the Archbishop gleefully, hopping up and down, his bare knees poking through the gap in his robe. "Dance, monkey, dance! Can you do the fandango?"

He shot Fred with a lightning bolt.

[The Fredinator -1 HP]

"Ow," said Fred, "that hurt!"

And it did hurt but not that much. The lightning bolts looked more impressive than then felt. It was more of an uncomfortable zap than an electrifying event. Still, Fred didn't want to lose any more HP than he needed to.

"Come on Fred!" cried Joan. The skeleton was getting nearer. Fred bounced on his toes and feinted left as the skeleton lunged and missed.

The Archbishop fell to his knees and laughed, like an evil villain. Lightning crackling around his fingers.

"Oh honestly," said Fred. "If this gets any more melodramatic I might puke."

He leapt forward and tried to whack the Archbishop but the skeleton blocked him.

"Skeletal Horde Come Forth!"

The earth boiled again and more bones flew. Two more skeletons joined the first. Fred was now surrounded. The first skeleton reached out and tried to grab him with bony fingers. Fred got in a solid blow with his ladle. Its arm fell off. All three skeletons looked down at it, then up at Fred. They shuffled forward again.

"Oh steady on," muttered Fred. The air sizzled, and the Archbishop's staff glowed bright white.

"Thunderbolts and lightning!" he screamed. Fred dodged the bolt, twisting sideways, and backhanding the skeleton across the skull with the ladle. It disintegrated into a pile of bones.

"It would probably be better if you didn't tell him when you were gonna make lightning," said Barker, reasonably, from next to Joan. The Archbishop screamed and threw another bolt which went wide.

One of the skeletons grabbed Fred by the elbow, the other punched him in the stomach.

[The Fredinator -2 HP]

"That's it," said Fred. "Enough fucking around." He drew a breath. A thousand minor irritations coalesced into an icy rage. Time slowed down, his senses sharpened. Every detail around him was revealed in perfect clarity. Somewhere, an orchestra started to play something by Saint-Saëns. Fred wrenched his arm out of the skeleton's grasp, bringing down his ladle with a vicious thump. He kicked the second skeleton out of the way in a twisting spin. Both creatures staggered away, and a lightning bolt singed the earth where Fred had stood moments before. Something fastened around his ankle. A bony hand, from the first skeleton which was rapidly reassembling. He stomped it, brow furrowed. What could he do with what he had? Enlightenment arrived in the form of milky goodness.

"Condensed Milk!" he cried, pointing his finger. A sticky pool appeared under an advancing skeleton. It slipped, tumbling down in a cascade of ivory. Fred grabbed Joan's teaspoon from his bag, brandishing it in his offhand. It was worth one hit point, wasn't it?

[The Fredinator DUAL WIELD unlocked]

Fred went to town, spinning and bashing. Bones flew left, right and centre. A femur clipped the Archbishop on the cheek. He swore, stumbling back as bits of skeleton rained from the air. Barker lost his mind, scampering up and down and growling with excitement. The ground was soon covered in debris and the skeletons were no more.

The Archbishop snarled and fired off another lightning bolt. Fred leapt into the air, and to his surprise, floated for a second as the lightning passed beneath his feet. So that's what Elevation does, he thought. Nice. He landed with cat-like grace, his gaze locked on the pale face of his opponent. The Archbishop took a step back.

"Oh no," said Barker cheerfully, "he must be out of mana." Joan whooped.

"Shut up!" screamed the Archbishop, his staff flaring manically. But he did indeed seem to be out of mana, like a sparkler in the throes of soggy death. Fred bent down and picked up a long, heavy thigh bone. He lobbed it at the Archbishop, striking him square in the chest. The Archbishop staggered back, cursing.

[The Archbishop of Banterbury -1HP]

Fred threw another. And another. A pelvis knocked the skinny wizard on the chin, a shin bone winded him in the stomach.

[The Archbishop of Banterbury -1 -1 -1 -1-1HP]

The Archbishop howled, and a skeleton tried to reassemble itself. Fred smashed The Spoon of Destiny onto its joints, and it fell apart once more. He scooped up the skull and flung it like a bowling ball across the grassy field, hitting the Archbishop in the face.

[The Archbishop of Banterbury -1HP]

"Ooof," yelled Barker. "Right in the kisser!"

Fred closed the distance between them, leaning backwards to avoid a blow from the Archbishop's staff. He jumped, hanging in the air for an unnaturally long moment before bringing down the full force of his ladle on the Archbishop's head. He followed it with a poke from Joan's teaspoon.

[The Archbishop of Banterbury -5HP KO!]

[The Fredinator +5XP]

"Noooooooooooooooooooooo!" The Archbishop's body disappeared into the grass, his parting wail lingering on the breeze.

"Match to The Fredinator," murmured the Archbishop's Guide. "Easy come, easy go." She disappeared in a flurry of golden motes.

The Fredinator Level 1

Class: Monk ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

XP: 24

HP:10/13 [2 Bucket + 1 pair Flimsy Sandals + 1 Boring Boxers + 2 Charismatic Trousers +1 Threadbare Shirt + 2 teaspoons + 4 Spoon of Destiny]

Bonus: Condensed Milk

Dual Wield

+1 Charisma (-1 Charisma +2 Charismatic Trousers)

+1 Elevation