—Bas—

Bas had begun his training, if you could call carrying Kort's bag 'training'. He had complained, but Kort had told him, in no uncertain terms, that the only way to develop Lifeforce, was to develop muscle. And developing muscle meant one thing: training.

So Bas trained, his muscles screaming in agony at the end of each day. He was in naturally better shape than he was in reality, but that was a small solace when he had a massive bag strapped to back. Especially, when Grimheld decided to... help... with his training. Make that two massive bags.

The two dwarves argued jovially at the front, although their hands were never far from their weapons. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. Bas didn't blame them. Their backs were enviably unburdened.

Meanwhile, Bas was practically hunched over as he struggled to keep pace with Blue, trying not to fall behind the three other dwarves taking up the rear, Gern, Dirri and Ola. They were a taciturn bunch, often speaking only in half-intelligible grunts, it had taken him half a day to extract their names from them.

Given the uncommunicative nature of the dwarves behind him, and Kort's penchant for speeding up whenever he came too close, Bas was limited to conversing with Blue. Not that it was unpleasant, mind you.

Blue was a wellspring of knowledge on all things adventurous, as was to be expected of a Adventurer's Guild clerk, and their discussions proved to be particularly informative.

Bas had found himself on a world called Era, awakening in the wilderness outside the backwater kingdom of Adamer. It was a quiet and secluded place, a vast range of mountains lying between it and the rest of civilization.

It kept the area safe from invading armies, but it also explained why the area was such a shit-hole.

You would have to pay someone to invade a place like this, and no one had that kind of money.

The track was overgrown and, on rare occasions, branched off towards the dilapidated farmhouses of peasants too poor to afford the taxes levied by the nearby kingdom. In Adamer's defense, it was more a matter of simple greed, the cost of protecting the borderlands from monster incursions was exorbitantly high. And, if some sources were to be believed, the High Pardoner of Valis had run off with the king's daughter, taking half the royal treasury with her.

And that brought up the subject of the Pardoners. The battlepriests of a religious order dedicated to their autocrat Goddess, Tyl, the only deity in Era. They maintained power by subjugating the populace with the continual threat of Heresy if they did not comply. And while the aristocrats were generally safe by dint of accumulated wealth and strength, the peasants and artisans suffered far more miserable existences, walking a knife edge between the zealotry of the church and the vicissitudes of the nobility.

It was remarkably similar to Earth. The powerful did what they could and the weak either moved out of the way or were trampled underfoot. Here it was simply more obvious.

There were, of course, differences. On Earth there would have been a thousand different religions springing up all over the place. But when a single Goddess had a monopoly on miracles... Bas supposed that unilateral monotheism was only reasonable, especially when it was spread by sword and spell. It was also healthier.

As Bas had come to suspect, magic was a fact of life in Era. It was categorized according to manipulation of three distinct forms of mana: gaseous, liquid and crystalline, presumably according to the main states of matter. There were further specialties associated with each form of mana, but Blue had glossed over them, seeing his vacant expression.

From what he did understand, gaseous mana was primarily dedicated to supporting members of adventuring teams.

Liquid mana was specialized around physical augmentation and therefore tended to be used most often for close combat roles, either absorbing blows or dealing them out.

Finally, there was crystalline mana, a form focused on casting spells in combat, it was the most versatile, but also the most difficult to learn, often requiring years of training to become proficient in it.

Then again, he was the summoned hero, which meant he would be a natural prodigy at combat magic, rising in power with a speed equivalent to that of a caffeinated race-car. He decided to bring it up with Kort when they stopped for lunch. The wily dwarf was careful about not giving Bas a chance to return his bags to him or Grimheld.

"You want t' do what?" Kort collapsed into a howling heap of laughter. "Oi! Grim, come over here. This lad here thinks he has what it takes to learn the crystalline form of mana."

Grimheld's expression remained sober, he gave Bas a quick look up and down, nodding in obvious approval, "Calm yerself down, Kort. I think the youngling might just have what it takes to become a master mage."

Bas preened at the compliment. Of course, he was the hero of prophecy after all... It was just a matter of time before he ran across an oracle who would fully outline his epic destiny in one massive exposition.

Kort stared at Grimheld, disbelief written all over his lined face, "Seriously, Grim? You must be fucking kidding me." Kort's eyes flitted towards Bas, "I mean nae offense by it, lad."

Grimheld flashed Bas a crafty grin. "With a bit more training, of course," he amended, turning to face Kort directly. "Three bags?"

Kort chuckled, nodding slowly, "Three bags sounds about right."

Bas groaned, how was he going to survive this? He hoped this would all be a training montage when he woke up. He did not want to remember this shit.

"Don't worry lad, the settlement should nae be far from here."

It took the rest of the day to reach the settlement. They would be staying in a small inn, just inside of the settlement's walled perimeter. The rickety palisade was, at best, barely serviceable and had a small gate built into it which couldn't fully close.

Any random band of adventurers could strut right into town, as if they owned the place.

Which was exactly what a certain random band of adventurers did.

Bas let the three bags slip from his back with a pained gasp as they entered the dimly lit inn.

He looked around, there were no separate rooms, or even beds, just damp straw pallets laid along the floor, pressed tight against the wall on one side, and rows of tables and benches on the other. There was no one behind the empty bar to greet them. It was as if the inn’s owner had just upped and left.

Bas shrugged, it was opulent compared to the deprivations of life on the road. There would be no stones poking him through his bedroll tonight.

"So, Blue," he shuffled round to face the diminutive gnome, his back aching with each movement, "how long do I need to carry these bags to get more Lifeforce?"

"What?" Blue gave him a funny look, "Who told you that carrying bags would make you stronger? I thought you were just trying to pull your weight. Where would the Lifeforce come from? Putting on muscle?" Blue laughed.

Bas was not liking where this conversation was heading. It sounded suspiciously like he had been hoodwinked by two bored dwarves.

Blue continued, "You acquire it by killing other living beings, people or monsters. You can even obtain it by killing plants, but they give a minimal amount of Lifeforce. The only other way is to have it gifted to you by the Goddess. Which won’t happen, unless you become one of her Pardoners or paladins."

Bas was still irritated at Kort's little joke, but something wasn't adding up here.

"Where does the Goddess get her Lifeforce?"

"Devotions," Blue stated, as if that explained everything.

"What are they?"

"Small tithes of Lifeforce to the Goddess."

"And you're saying that she redirects some of that to her Pardoners, to help them grow stronger?"

"Yes," Blue drew out the word in an irritated expiration, as if she were explaining something obvious.

Bas thought he'd had it bad with Kort tricking him into carrying three bags. That had nothing on this. His chagrin was rapidly replaced by an abnormally good mood, he let out a mirthful laugh. This dream was getting better by the second.

Blue looked at him questioningly.

"Your Goddess is running a pyramid scheme, and you've all fallen for it so hard. I thought I was dumb... but this? This is something on another lev—"

A small blade was pressed against his throat.

"Blue," he began hesitantly, cautious of the length of shining metal resting on his windpipe, "what are you doing?"

"What they do. Pick up the bags," she snarled. "Now."

Bas reluctantly reached for the bags, eyes on the... wait... that's wasn't a dagger, it was a shiny metal letter opener. He straightened, "What did you do that for? You’re a fucking psycho, I thought you were going to kill me. Can't you take a joke?"

Bas continued ranting for another minute or so. Blue simply stood there calmly, one eyebrow elevated in a dismissive arch. It was the most perfect pissed-off-clerk face possible,

Bas stopped to take a breath.

"Finished?" Blue didn't give him time to answer, "Good. Firstly, what are you shouting for, asshole? It’s only a letter opener. Can't you take a joke." She looked him in the eye, "Secondly, never judge someone who’s just trying to survive until you know what it's like to have a knife at your throat. Do you understand?" She enunciated the final sentence clearly, protracting it to an almost absurd length.

Without waiting for a reply, she kicked him in the shins and stomped off.

Bas rubbed his lower legs, she had a kick like a weightlifting donkey. He might have deserved that...

He eyed the departing gnome warily, suppressing a shiver, as she let the door slam behind her. Damn! Guild clerks were scary.

He nearly jumped out of his skin as a firm hand clapped him companionably on the shoulder. His still-tender back protested at the heavy handed treatment.

"Nae need t' worry yourself, lad, gnomes can be a little high strung at times, not entirely your fault. We have just the thing t' soothe yer aching."

Oh god... Kort had seen that? He was never going to live that down.

He turned slowly, his anxiety turning to dread as the dwarves pulled out linen wrapped bottles of amber fluid from their bags, predatory smiles on their faces.

"I see ya understand the situation, lad. Now come on," Kort grinned, "share a round or six, you helped carry the stuff. It's only fair."

He let Kort guide him gently to a bench, too tired to refuse what was obviously a terrible idea.

"Right on, lad. Put her out of your mind, she's a big girl, tough as jerky, she'll be fine. You on the other hand... Let’s just say that we'll make a man out of ya by nightfall, and a dwarf out of ya by morning."

He did not like where this was going...

Sweet baby Jesus... This wasn't a dream was it? It hurt too bad. He felt like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs were running a mining operation in his skull, with pneumatic drills and dynamite.

He whimpered slightly. What sort of world didn't have ibuprofen for times like this? What kind of twisted and sadistic imagination would dream up a world with no painkillers and super-strength dwarven alcohol?

His throat was drier than an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting's liquor cabinet, even his eyes felt as if they'd been left out in the sun too long.

And... Oh god... That was so not good.

The dwarves were all beaming at him, even Dirri, Gern and Ola. This was worse than he thought. What had he done last night to thaw the perma-frowns of those three?

Kort helped him up off the floor. Why did his body feel like it was covered in bruises? He examined himself. He was covered in black and blue blotched from head to toe, there were some particularly nasty hand shaped ones located across his back. No doubt, courtesy of a certain black haired dwarf who was now smiling at him with an innocent expression.

"Rough night, lad? I see you're up bright and early, unlike the lass o'er there," he gestured towards Blue, who was snoring fitfully, passed out in the corner, "ready for another round?" Kort grinned brightly.

"Unngh... Another? Hell no. What did you put in the bottle? Dragon piss?"

"Close enough. That was mana fortified sacchar, you don't want to know the ingredients."

"Why would you even want to drink that? That stuff should only be used to clean toile… rust off armor."

"Only way to get drunk once you reach the higher Ranks of your mana form. Mana heals your body too fast, otherwise."

Bas wanted to ask about Ranks, but was suddenly aware that his tongue felt like sandpaper. So thirsty... "Help. Water..."

Kort chuckled, passing a small waterskin, "Sure thing, lad, we've all been there."

He choked as he started gulping down the soothing wetness far too quickly for his own good.

Kort thumped him on the back, taking the waterskin from his hands. "Take it easy, lad, you just survived drinking sacchar with dwarves... nae need to ruin it now, especially on water. Come on, walk it off."

Kort bustled Bas out of the door, squinting in the midday sun as they left the darkened interior of the inn.

A harsh voice split the air, "I told you! I knew I saw an Exile frolicking in the chicken coop last night. And here it is, plain as day, come to kill us all."

Huh? Chicken coop?

Frolicking?!

Kort cursed beside him, "Ah. Sorry lad, I forgot humans were such a big deal round here. You just seemed so normal."

A threatening murmur broke out as an angry crowd quickly surrounded the inn's entrance, some members of the mob even going as far as to extend crude weapons in their direction.

The one who had spoken stood a full three feet ahead of the rest of the crowd. Was that an elf? He looked like one. Pointed ears, a slender build and tapering chin. He was hideous.

The bone structure on his face was exaggerated to comic proportions. He didn't look like an elf from any of the movies he had watched.

His face was gaunt and atrophied, placing emphasis on his protruding cheekbones, jaw and receding hairline. In short, he looked like an elf with a drug addiction.

It would certainly give new meaning to the name High-Elf. Bas chuckled, despite himself, earning a few glares from the surrounding mob.

Kort leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Try not t' antagonize them too much. Jord-elva are a nasty lot. They're the lowest race of elven races but they still think they're better than everyone else, since they’re elves and all that crap. Snobby bastards to a fault, nae wonder the Sol-elva have a thing for racial purity. I don’t like them, but I don’t blame them either. Especially when they have them as their cousins."

The ringleader spoke again, his voice grating against Bas' ears, "Get out of our town mud-grubber and take your pet human and mud-grubber friends with you."

Kort's fists clenched, "This isn't an elf-only settlement, we're allowed t' stay here."

The elf's voice was clipped and cutting, "Not when I have to smell you and your filth. Now get the human out of here, before we all end up dead, or do the mighty," he sneered the word, "dwarves have no knowledge of the past."

Kort relaxed all of a sudden, speaking in a conversational tone, "You can smell me? Really? It must be the goblin blood in ya. Was it your mother or your father?"

The elf glared at him.

"Ah, I see, my mistake. It was both, wasn't it?"

The elf shrieked, leaping at Kort and drawing a vicious looking dagger from his belt. Kort dodged to the left, moving out of the path of the knife.

The knife, however, was a distraction. The elf's hand became sheathed in a layer of glittering turquoise energy, arcing round to deliver a punishing blow to Kort's unarmored stomach. A wash of fire burst up the dwarf's chest, burning through his cotton shirt and exposing hard muscle beneath, luminescent aquamarine veins springing into life and light at the point of impact.

The dwarf staggered backwards, reeling from the blow.

The elf pressed his advantage, closing in for another strike. It never landed.

The dwarf whirled in a blur of motion, catching the elf's forearm in a vice-like grip. The dwarf’s skin took on a distinctive aquamarine tint, veins writhing and glowing with mana suddenly made visible. The turquoise gleam covering the elf's arm shifted in response, moving to encompass the area enclosed in the dwarf's fist. Another burst of fire billowed up from it, eating away at even more of the already ruined shirt and leaving behind a smearlike haze. There was no response, except for the tint on the dwarf's skin intensifying.

"That," Kort spat, "was my least favorite shirt."

The elf looked at him in confusion, before his expression gave way to panic as he saw the murderous look in the dark haired dwarf's eye, the knife he held was forgotten in his terror.

"And it was still too good for ya." Kort squeezed his fist, veins popping with mana all the way up to his neck.

The elf's arm shattered, literally shattered, bursting apart into shards of bloody flesh that steamed with blue vapor in the sunlight.

Haughty demeanor gone, the disarmed elf tripped over his own feet in an effort to escape the dwarf-shaped thundercloud that loomed over him.

Kort stepped forwards menacingly, the whimpering elf scrambled backwards in fright using his arm to propel himself.

Kort reached down deliberately, snatching away the knife that was still dangling loosely out of the elf's only remaining hand.

He hefted it, testing the weight and balance, looking at it speculatively.

Then, he turned, speaking softly, "Bas, why don't you come over here?"

Bas hesitated.

"Now!" The voice carried an irresistible aura of command, honed by decades of leadership and adventuring.

The dwarf pressed the knife into his palm, Bas could feel the warm wet stickiness of the elf's blood, still clinging to the handle.

"Kill it."

Bas didn't move, the elf might not be real, but he still had morals.

"Stab the bastard," Kort roared.

Bas jolted in terror at the dwarf's screamed command, his hands moving without his consent.

He bent down and gripped the squirming elf behind the neck. This wasn't real, this wasn't real, it was just a dream.

Still, the tip of the knife hovered at the elf's neck, moving no further.

"Stab the fucking elf, or do you need me t' do it for ya." Kort bellowed, his head pressed right next to Bas' ear.

The hand holding the knife jerked, as if of its own volition, redness bubbling up out of the wound it had created. It wasn't real. The elf wasn't real.

He pulled the knife out of the wound, tossing it away in disgust. He wasn't going to do it. Kort could scream at him all day.

Kort remained silent.

The elf began to sputter and spasm. The knife had previously stemmed the flow of blood from the wound; now, in its absence, squirts of crimson fountained eight inches up into the air before pattering against the parched earth with each failing heartbeat.

Bas looked around, the mob had vanished once the violence had begun in earnest, losing their taste for blood when it was theirs being spilled.

Only a young Jord-Elva maiden remained, her features, which might have been described as pretty, were marred by a large burn across the side of her face.

"What do we do now?" she asked. "Jolel was the strongest guard here."

Bas wanted to beg her forgiveness, but he didn't know what to say, guilt blazed through his body. He could barely even breathe. This wasn't real.

Kort came to his rescue. "Don't rely on a thug t' defend you."

Which was not quite what Bas had in mind when he thought of the word ‘apology’. The young elf, however, simply nodded and walked away.

Kort placed a hand, the marginally less bloody one, on his shoulder. "I know what you're feeling, lad. I truly do."

Bas said nothing.

"You come from a different place. But out here..." Kort trailed off, searching for the right words as he gestured expansively with his hands, "There is no rule of law out here. This settlement belongs to no kingdom or Goddess. I doubt a Pardoner has ever set foot here. The law is one of strength alone; the elf broke it by attacking us. He came looking for violence and violence found him."

"So why didn't you kill him? Why make me do it?"

"You'll know any second now." Kort replied cryptically. "The elf doesn't have much time left."

The elf's spasming had calmed to a gentle, almost peaceful, twitching. A blue veil misting over his body before it dissipated.

An epicenter of electric tingling began in his chest, escalating to an indescribable buzz a thousand times more intense than the throb of mana beneath his skin. Lifeforce.

Then it was gone, but the ever-present pulsing had shifted somehow, it felt more.

Kort spoke again, "You need t' grow stronger, I made you a promise. If you don't, you'll die. You saw it for yourself, a mob like that doesn't assemble just to run someone out of town. The Jord-elva don't work like that, they're a degenerate half breed race between the Mani-elva and Sol-elva, and as rotten as both race’s vices combined. They believe honor should be given to them, but pay no thought to its reciprocation. They would have killed you the second you turned your back, as is their way. We can talk later, but first, let's get you cleaned up."

Kort pressed a bloodstained hand against his back to steady him, then led him back into the dark inn.

Blue was awake, looking worried, but no worse for wear. "What happened? We heard fighting, but Grimhled said that you could handle a few villagers."

Kort answered her cheerily, pride in his voice, "Bas here killed his first rat. Some Shiner Variant of the crystalline form, middling Rank II, attacked us. Likely thought knowing the pattern for fire made him a big deal, fucking amateurs like that are always trying to scoop easy gains in power... and paying for it."

Blue scowled at him. "Do you know how irresponsible it was for you to drag him into that mess of yours. I know you started it, don't think I don't see what's left of your shirt. Why didn't yo—"

She cut herself off, eyes darting between Kort and Bas, before fixing the dwarf with a glare that made him wilt under its vehemence. "Kort, how could you..." Blue seemed to realize she had already hinted at too much, "We are going to have a long talk, in private."

Blue was right, she had said too much, the gears in Bas' head were already turning.

Kort's liquid mana vastly augmented his strength, but Bas knew from experience that it also improved his senses. Kort had heard him waking up just before he had first talked with him...

So why hadn't Kort heard the crowd outside, or Jolel's search for a human? Unless he had, and pushed him through the door, anyway. Out into the hands of the mob.

Was it Kort's fault that there was now a dead body on the ground outside? Had Kort lied to him? It was no secret that Kort didn't like the Jord-elva... but... to call them rats? There was something sinister in that choice of words.

Could he trust Kort at all? His first impressions might have led him astray. The dwarf was obviously not as straightforward as he had assumed.

Yet, Kort's claims of altruistic selfishness seemed to hold true. He was certainly interested in helping Bas gain power, even if only to reap the rewards later on. He had stated as much, several times in fact.

He had even demonstrated it. Bas suppressed a shudder.

But that didn't mean that Kort's methods for doing so were either moral or principled.

Kort had dedicated himself to growing Bas' power. He had orchestrated a situation that left Bas stronger and a person dead. Perhaps even the choice of settlement had been carefully selected in the hopes of provoking exactly this scenario. After all, Kort hardly seemed the type to indulge in the luxury of a roof over his head. After all, he had a tent and a helmet, and had stated as much. What more could a dwarf need?

It seemed a pretty damning conclusion, especially considering how Kort had gotten him drunk on sacchar. Had that been deliberate too?

Bas wasn’t sure, all he knew was that he had been played like a fiddle... no... a triangle—the most pathetic musical instrument of all...

A person was dead, all because Kort had made a promise. To make him stronger.

Kort would do anything to keep his word and his word had cost a man his life.

Urgghh, why did this have to be so complicated. He believed Kort.

He just didn't trust him.

Not anymore.