Our unusual pairing walked in silence, passing table after table, each one crammed with fantasy-themed prisoners possessing avatars that looked much more threatening than my own. Some, like the half-orc who’d attacked me earlier, looked angry. Others were visibly fed up, pushing their slop around the tray with all the enthusiasm that the murky concoction deserved. A few prisoners, such as the young apprentice who I’d spoken to earlier, were even laughing, their comradery shielding them from the grim substitute for reality that now stored their forgotten, digitized souls. I quickly noted that most players preferred to stick to their own, forming tribes of warlocks, barbarians, half-orcs and even the occasional group of dwarves. I quickly calculated one such group, and childish as it was, I was delighted to learn that there were seven of them.

Tribalism was not the only trait the prisoners shared, however. As we made our way deeper into the eating area, I realized that a tendency to glare at the newcomers was also something many players had in common. An army of eyes was now burning into me, no doubt sizing up my stats with their fancy ‘perception’ skills. I was beginning to feel paranoid.

“I think I’m getting dirty looks,” I whispered, as the dwarf strode ahead of me, searching for the best possible spot from which to form an alliance.”

“Probably yer crap charisma,” he replied, not even looking back. The blunt answer gave me the perfect opportunity to ask the question that had been on the edge of my lips for a while, now.

“I’ve been wondering about that,” I began, pensively. “What’s all this about charisma as a statistic? My personality is my personality. What difference can a number possibly make to that?”

The dwarf halted for a moment, his brow wrinkling as he considered his choice of words carefully.

“Hmmm, how can I put this delicately, lad?” After a few seconds, he added: “Okay, here goes. Have ye ever met someone, and ye didn’t know why, exactly, but somethin’ about them jus’ made ye want to slap them?”

“Uh, yeah…” I admitted, because I’d met quite a few people like that in my lifetime.

“That’s you, that is,” he announced, bluntly. “The most slappable noob in the dungeon.”

“What?” I gasped.

“It’s nothing personal. It’s just that ye give off an aura, of sorts, and it’s all thanks to that big fat zero yer packing in the charisma column. Hey, don’t pull that face, it’s a hundred times worse for me. Yer aura stinks, an’ that means hangin’ out with yeh is like walkin’ around with a child who’s shat his own britches.”

“Charming. So, what you’re telling me is, my avatar is programmed to compel others to dislike me?”

“Yup, pretty much. Ask any of the buggers. They won’t be able to tell you why, exactly... jus’ like they don’t know why they’re so keen to please the players with high charisma. The game works its way into the subconscious an’ overrides our instincts, tweakin’ our responses to each other on a subconscious level.”

“But that’s altering our free will. We’re supposed to be free to make our own choices down here, good or bad. That’s how we ultimately prove whether or not we’re fit for redemption. How can they justify fucking with our brains like that?”

“Beats me, lad, I didn’t bloody program it. Maybe it’s a way of testin’ the other prisoner’s self-control.

“With me as the crash-test dummy? That’s hardly fair.”

“They probably reckon overcomin’ adversity builds character, how the hell should I know? Personally, I’m more concerned with what else they might be tweakin’ inside our heads. We’re all code now, code that they own, so technically the buggers can rewrite us as they please. But look, the bottom line is, yer social score’s zero. Anywhere else, folks would probably jus’ ignore yeh, but I’d say at least half of these anti-social bastards probably want to kick yer head in.”

Or kick me down the stairs? was what I wanted to ask him next, but I needed advice, not a defensive dwarf. So instead I inquired:

“So how do I fix that, then?”

“How do ye think? Yer gonna have to find a way to make people like ye more. It’s an important stat to level up, we all need allies, after all… yeh’ll just have to try harder than most. Yer probably better off starting with the other social pariahs. Failing that, ye could always ‘squire’ yer ass out to fellas like that knight. That might make ye some new friends.”

I ignored the blatant attempt to pimp me out and asked the obvious question.

“Samusk… you like me, right?”

“Lad, I need ye. Doesn’t mean it’s any more comfortable for me to be around ye than it is for anyone else.”

Ouch.

“Seriously? Am I that intolerable?”

“For now, yeah. But don’t worry, I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’m playin’ the long game, an’ I know you’ll eventually shift that stink. Besides, what I need is muscle, not a BFF.”

Perhaps I looked hurt by the dwarf’s bluntness. Or maybe he already realized just how poorly his attempt to put things delicately had gone. Either way, he felt the need to add: “Relax, kid. Yeh seem to have a decent personality. I’m sure yeh’ll go from the noob everyone wants to slap to the noob everyone prefers to ignore in no time.”

Well, that will be something to look forward to. Oh well… if I really am the dungeons most punchable inmate, I’m probably better off knowing that small fact in advance.

Still, the conversation highlighted yet another benefit that could come from an alliance with the dwarf. Evidently, Samusk did not suffer from the same charisma deficiency. Yes, I wanted to punch him, but that was for completely justifiable reasons, not some intangible stat. It would be good to have him around to deal with others on my behalf, when necessary. Plus, he was smart. Smart enough to know that the charisma stat was manipulating his feelings toward me, and (the occasional flight of stairs aside) he was probably less likely to turn on me because of that awareness. And of course, if what he was saying about my charisma skill was true, his offer to balance out my shortcomings might be the only such proposition I was going to get. Certainly, the only one that came with a wage.

As we continued our search, one table in particular caught my eye. It was larger than most, haphazardly constructed from a number of smaller tables that had been pushed together with little thought or care. Importantly (for a dwarf-human combo such as us, at least) there seemed to be no discernible pattern to its membership. I eagerly pointed the grouping out to Samusk.

“That’s a rabble,” replied the dwarf, his face contorting as if the very words had been flavored with bile. “They’ll take anyone into their ranks to increase their strength, regardless of their stats. And the gang’s rep is all the worse for it. We’ll be stayin’ well clear of that lot.”

“Groups have their own rep figures?” I asked.

Samusk sighed. I could tell that my status as an information-hungry noob was starting to piss him off again.

“Here’s the deal. If your gang has a bad rep, every single member is hit by an additional rep penalty, its severity dictated by how badly perceived that particular gang is. Rabbles usually don’t care about that sort of thing. Hell, they don’t even have a leader, it’s just a damn free for all. Their members just want the backin’ of anyone who will have them, at least until a worthwhile gang shows an interest. They’ll take anyone. Case in point, look who’s sittin’ amongst them…”

I followed Samusk’s gaze. It led me to a very familiar pairing of rogue and beastling.

“Bastards,” I hissed, grinding my teeth.

As I studied the duo from afar, the damn rogue spotted me. He flashed me a sly grin, before turning to the scrawny half-orc who was sat on his opposite side. The rogue whispered something into the ugly creature’s ear, and it looked up from its tray of gruel, its beady yellow eyes locking onto my own. Uncomfortable with the extra attention I quickly turned away.

“Now that gang on the other hand…” continued Samusk, gesturing to the table opposite, “…they have a clear recruitment policy, and a leader.”

The table in question was overflowing with wizards (or apprentices, I didn’t have the perception to know the difference, admittedly). At its head sat an exquisitely dressed woman in a surprisingly ornate headpiece. Her skin was as white as milk and her robes were well cut, leaving very little to my imagination.

“I wanna join that party,” I gasped, my eyes now fixed on the sexy sorcerous.

“Last I checked, yeh lacked the necessary qualifications…”

“I can grow a beard,” I protested. Hell, if it’s for her, I’ll even wander around in a dressing gown mumbling gibberish.”

“Yeh may not be a wizard, lad, but yeh sure do a lot of yer thinkin’ with yer wand. Think fer a minute, what use could you possibly be to her? There’s probably more mana in one of my farts.”

“Oi, I’ll have you know I have the mana generation skill, now.”

“Do you now?” replied the dwarf, squinting at my avatar. ‘Well, I’ll be. When’d ye hit level 2, then? Ye certainly kept that quiet.”

“Only because I was slightly unconscious at the time,” I admitted.

“Yer still no good to that lot. Arcane types use their mana to power spells. Swordsmen just use it to put a bit more oomph behind their sword-strikes.”

“That has to be useful in itself though, right? The parties in these sorts of games thrive on diversity. One wizard, one dwarf, etcetera…”

“Ye need to remember where ye are, lad. These aren’t parties, they’re prison gangs. An’ it’s human nature to band together based on shared characteristics.”

“So, how does that help us, then?”

“Don’t worry, I have a plan to get around that. But to put it in play, we still need to find a gang that’s prepared to take in a lowly swords-noob like yerself.”

“She might consider adding a swordsman to her ranks,” I continued, refusing to let the proposition go. Admittedly, I was thinking with my wand. “Shouldn’t we go ask her, at least?”

“Gangs are fussy about who they recruit, lad. If they need a skill they don’t possess, they jus’ hire in a contractor as and when they need one. An’ I can’t imagine you’d be much use to that lot, unless they need essence of noob as an ingredient fer a spell. Ah, this table will do.”

I pouted, but obliged, taking my seat. As we finally prepared to eat, Samusk pointed his ‘spoon’ toward another table. It was occupied by a huge, flamboyantly dressed barbarian, surrounded by a virtual army of buff, skull-embellished minions. “That’s what we need, right there.”

“Him?” I balked. “He looks like a walking jewellery display-cabinet. He’s wearing so much gold, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he sleeps underneath a fucking dragon.”

“He’s just showin’ off his loot,” replied the dwarf, the grey slop running down his beard as he shoveled it into his flapping lips. “The bugger wants to put out an image of success. An’ judgin’ by his rep an’ the number of trinkets danglin’ from his avatar, there’s been plenty of it.”

The dwarf stopped to shovel more of the unappetizing swill into his mouth, swallowed, and then continued.

“As a barbarian, he’ll have spawned with an additional -5 rep penalty on top of his sentence. But he must’ve made a lot of good moves after that. He’s currently rep -3. An’ just as a gang’s credibility can hurt its members, a good leader can help the reputation of everyone around him.”

“Impressive,” I admitted. But if he’s rep -3, he’s only a few points away from ascending to the surface, surely?”

“True, as are a good few of his men. But that only helps us. Whoever takes over that gang will need to fill those vacated positions fast, lest the other gangs take advantage. We need to get you positioned to catch their attention before that happens.”

“Um, I might have to work out a bit more before I can pass for a barbarian,” I admitted, flexing my biceps for effect. A wolf whistle echoed across the room. I really hoped that it had come from one of the ladies.

“Yer sword class, though. Hopefully, that’ll be enough fer them to consider ye. This ain’t a science, so I can’t be sure. If we were dealin’ with NPCs, they’d be a lot more predictable.”

“If he is the King of the Conan’s, why’s he in here eating slop with the lowly peasants, then?”

“Look at his men. They’re all jus’ collectin’ their food, then givin’ it away to the other prisoners. Smart. The beefy bastards probably hunt fer their own meat, but they still turn up for the free stuff so’s they can gift it to other prisoners, increasing their reputation. That’s a man who knows how to work the system.”

For the first time, I saw something unfamiliar in the dwarf’s eyes: respect.

I turned and gave one of the barbarians sitting behind me a nudge. He twisted to meet my gaze, grey slop running from his chin.

“Whaddaya want, noob.”

“That barbarian over there?” I asked. “Have you any idea how he came to be so well respected?”

The barbarian looked at me for a moment, before spitting his grey slop into my face. Then, without a further word, he returned to the remains of his meal.

Charming.

“All right, admittedly it might have been a bit racist to expect all the barbarians to know each other. But still, that’s just rude.”

“What did ye expect? Yer charisma score is zero, and he doesn’t know ye from Prince Adam. Hell, yer lucky he didn’t punch ye in the face. I know I would have. Now stop dickin’ around. People are watchin’ us again, and the last thing I need is a bodyguard with the prison-bitch skill-”

“Um, I don’t think that’s actually a real skill…”

“Shhhhh. Intel gathering. Leave me be.”

Samusk continued to study the comings and goings at the barbarians table, shushing me every time I began to ask another question. With little else to occupy me, I conceded that it was time to bite the bullet and try the local cuisine. Firstly, I leaned in and inhaled, hoping that it smelt better than it looked. To my horror, it smelt worse. But alas, if the food was as low in nutrition as it claimed to be, I’d probably need every scrap that I could get. The last thing I needed was a malnutrition debuff dragging down my already painfully noobish stats.

Somewhat reluctantly, I scooped the grey sludge onto my flimsy spoon and forced it into my avatar via the conventional method. It tasted horrible. But to my surprise, after a few forced spoonful’s I received a status message.

-[ You have received a healing buff. Natural HP regeneration +20% for 1 hour. ]-

So, food served to enhance healing, then. Good to know. It was a welcome effect, albeit a slow one. Still, if low nutrition food could have that effect, it stood to reason that higher quality food might heal a player faster.

Another reason for me to hurry up and find a way to acquire mob meat I told myself, and continued to shovel the putrid slop down my avatars throat.

By the time my ‘meal’ was finished, my HP was back to 45/90, half my current maximum. I cursed the half-orc for hampering my recovery and cast a glance to her table. She’d already finished her meal and was ‘negotiating’ a second portion from one of her fellow prisoners. The nervous-looking barbarian knew better than to argue and promptly handed it over.

More than prepared to pick on someone her own size, then, I noted, making a mental vow to stay the hell out of her way.

“Time for us to leave,” announced Samusk, eventually, dragging me from a sordid little daydream involving Mai, the Sorceress, myself, and a flask of healing balm that had to be applied by hand.

“Hang on,” I protested, “aren’t we going to go approach the barbarian about joining his gang?”

“With our rep? dream on, lad.”

“But I’m rep -19, that’s got to be better than most of the noobs around here.”

“Gods, you’re so naïve. Even puttin’ aside the small matter of yer crap charisma, it’s much more complicated than that. Sure, statistically ye might help bring up their average. But a noob is a noob. Wanderin’ over from the noob table and asking fer a job won’t get their attention. They’ll laugh in our damned faces, or worse. Fer now, it’s enough that I’ve seen who he eats with. Now that I know who has his ear, I can make my own moves to get theirs. Now let’s go.”

I knew he was right, and it was yet another reminder as to why I needed the dwarf by my side. My instincts were always to act on impulse, even if it inevitably led to an ass-kicking: strategy has never been my strong point. Samusk’s non-combatant status meant he was all about the strategy. it was almost as if fate had placed us together to compensate for each other’s weaknesses.

The dwarf grabbed his tray, pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. As he turned to leave, I made to follow, giving the sultry sorceress one final longing glance. My daydream was promptly shattered as I heard a cry from the direction of the exit. Samusk was being accosted by the rabble we’d passed on our way in. I was just in time to witness a muscular leg being thrust out, kicking the dwarf’s feet out from under him and sending him crashing face-first to the unforgiving stone floor.

Great, I thought to myself, rushing to his aid. Here we go again. Does this fucking dwarf have a sign above his head that says ‘mug me’?

The rogue was now on his feet, his dagger drawn, like a vulture circling its prey. More and more prisoners sprang from their chairs, baring my attempts to reach my employer. Predictably, the canteen’s sole guard casually strode away, turning a blind eye to the growing unrest.

“Hey, noob, you can’t leave yet,” announced the gravelly voice of a prisoner as he made his way through the crowd. It was the scrawny half-orc I’d seen sitting with the rogue. “You haven’t paid your respectssss.”

“My, respects?”

“Ssssure. Don’t you know the face of your god when you ssssee it?”

He gestured to another figure as it made its way through the crowd. This one was an even less welcome sight. It was the beastling who’d mugged me, earlier. But this time, he was wearing a crown forged from junk, and his elongated, ape-like arms were stretched wide open as if inviting my worship.

Great. Deluded. I had wondered how long it takes to go crazy down here. Less than a day, evidently.

“The Brotherhood do appreciate your generous contribution to our weaponssss cache, by the way,” continued the half-orc, withdrawing a very familiar sword from his inventory. My sword.

So, he knows that I’m unarmed as well. Wonderful.

My eyes darted back to the beastling. His arms were now folded, and he was grinning from ear to ear, nodding in agreement like one of those toy dogs in the back of people’s cars. I always hated those things, and now even more so.

“Of coursssse, I can’t count it as your offering, not when it was our two newesssst recruits who besssstowed it upon the clan.” He held up the broken weapon, repeatedly turning it over in his spindly grey hand, examining every angle of the shattered blade. “It’ll be worth about 120 gold when it’ssss fixed,” he finally continued. “But repairssss, like everything else, cost money. Ssssseeing as how it was you who ssssaddled us with this expensssse, it only seems fair that you foot the repair bill for us, eh? Are we undersssstanding each other, sssswordsnoob.”

My suggestion that the creepy half-orc go shove the sword up his personal sheath drew exactly the response that I’d anticipated from the growing mob. But the half-orc kept his calm, petitioning the rabble for quiet.

“Feissssty one, eh?” he replied. “So confident.”

He pointed to the rogue, who was now pinning Samusk to the floor with his foot. The bastard knew how reliant I was on the dwarf to cover my shortcomings, and he wasn’t letting Samusk clamp eyes on my opponent.

“My friend here ssssays you’re a pushover,” drawled the creepy Nosferatu wannabe, placing my shattered blade back in his inventory as he spoke. “But he’ssss provided me with a quick rundown of your sssstats, and I see real potential. Level 2 already? Impressssive. The Brotherhood could ussse a man like you.”

Fucking rogue with his fucking perception, I grumbled internally.

“Ditch the dwarf and bend the knee to ussss,” the creature continued, gesturing toward the unimpressive prize that was the baying rabble. “Then perhapsss we’ll even consider canceling your debt.”

“And if I don’t,” I bellowed, trying to sound as confident as possible, despite the odds against me.

“Reject ussss, and we’ll sssstomp that furry faced pinata of yourssss until more candy fallssss out,” he threatened, his tone remaining flat, his sinister smile slowly curling at the edges.

So, he knows about the dwarf’s resources too, then. Shit! That isn’t good. Meanwhile, I know next to nothing about this creepy little bastard.

My challenger was scrawny, but I was well aware of just how little that mattered. For all I knew, the bastard had been imprisoned here right from the very start, grinding his combat skills to levels that I could only dream of. One thing was for certain, though: just because he was stuck here, didn’t mean I was prepared to circle the drain with him.

Rushing in with my non-existent unarmed combat stat was only going to get me beaten to a pulp, or worse, respawned (and rolled back to zero in the process). Like it or not, I needed a strategy.

I cast another gaze toward Samusk. Alas, my seeing-eye dwarf was too busy staring at the floor to contribute words of wisdom. It was hard to make out through the crowd, but an overweight beastling now appeared to be sitting on the dwarf’s back, pinning him down. And that suggested that the rogue was on the move again.

Dammit. That’s all I fucking needed.

I couldn’t believe this was happening again, and so soon. Especially in front of all the other inmates, where my reputation was already so fragile. But it was that concern that also gave me an idea: surely the half-orc had his reputation to think about, too. And perhaps that was something I could use.

“You’re pretty tough when you’re hiding among your pack of lapdogs,” I began. “But I’m curious, is there enough man left in your half-orc avatar to fight me unarmed, one-on-one?”

-[ You have initiated a challenge to the unknown half-orc aggressor. Awaiting response. ]-

…announced my status bot. This was promptly confirmed by the transparent screen that suddenly appeared before the mouthy creature’s avatar, requesting his acceptance. Admittedly, the system confused me: surely there was no requirement for prisoners to ask for permission to fight each other? I could only assume that this formality was a way to have the battle formally sanctioned by the game: perhaps to escape interference from the guards, or to absolve the winner of the reputation penalty that could potentially follow the murder of another inmate.

“What the hell are you saying?” growled Samusk from somewhere behind me, before being silenced by the paw of his furry jailer.

I could well understand Samusk’s confusion over my actions. Yes, the rabble was being physically aggressive, but for me to issue a challenge of my own? That was an escalation, and probably didn’t fit the dwarf’s calm, calculated style. But I only had my own instincts to go on, and they were all telling me that this was going to be a fight, either way. With that in mind, I figured that I may as well take control of the reins, and hopefully manipulate my odds of survival in the process.

The half-orc looked taken aback by my challenge. While the rabble had no official leader, it was clear to me that this guy was doing his damndest to act like one. With that in mind, how could he afford not to accept my challenge?

“Why sssshould I ssssteal all the glory?” snapped the creature, hitting ‘no’ on the panel, closing the window in the process. He looked visibly unsettled. “The debt issss to the Brotherhood, not jusssst to me. Defy ussss, and we are all entitled to retribution.”

The crowd began to close in, but I remained calm. I’d considered this possibility. The bastard understood that his rabble of followers didn’t give two shits about his cowardice: they were all of a similar ilk, relying on strength in numbers. But they weren’t the only gang present. We were in a neutral zone. And that meant this was all happening in full view of their competitors. If the half-orc really was using the rabble as a stepping stone to bigger and better things, the last thing he needed was for me to make him look weak in front of the other gangs. With that in mind, I quickly pressed the issue.

“I’d heard that the rabble can’t fight their own battles, but I wouldn’t have realized just how worthless you all are if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes…”

“How dare you,” spat the wannabe leader, clenching his fists.

A panel suddenly appeared in front of me. But for once, it wasn’t a quest. In its top left-hand corner, a pixelated image of my half-orc aggressor. Displayed next to it, was his name: Gary279.

“Fuck, someone got bored searching for a username that hadn’t already been taken, didn’t they?” I scoffed, further riling the creature up.

I clicked the image of an envelope, and the translucent screen widened.

-[ User: Gary279 has issued a challenge to user: Shade. Challenge type: unarmed combat. Warning: this is a duel to the death. Accept y/n? ]-

Okay, so I’ll admit it, this wasn’t turning out to be the lunchtime networking session Samusk and I had originally been hoping for. The half-orc had unexpectedly upped the ante, adding the stipulation that we fight to the death. Was he trying to scare me into backing down, I wondered? Once again, I cursed my lack of a perception skill. It was like playing poker against someone who’d already seen all my cards. Of course, that meant he could also be bluffing. But regardless, it was a serious step-up from taking on an entire rabble single-handed.

As I studied the request that hovered before me, a distant Samusk was still demanding to know what was happening. I blocked out his cries and checked my HP. 48/90. Not great, given the circumstances. But every moment’s hesitation was making me look weak. With that concern spurring me on, I clicked yes.

Tables were noisily pushed out of the way as the circle of bodies around us began to grow, now swelled by prisoners with no connection to the rabble. The bloodthirsty bastards were hungry for entertainment, not gruel, and began forming a human (-ish) colosseum, the players further back climbing atop the tables for a better view. One of the bodies behind me was much larger than the others, and I instantly recognized it: it was the guard. But any feeling of relief the demon’s presence brought quickly subsided, as I realized that the big yellow bastard was just positioning himself to get the best possible view of the action.

The room was now filled with a deafening roar of battle-cries and taunts, as bets were hastily placed on my odds of survival. I raised my fists into a defensive stance, preparing to fight the grey-skinned bastard and with any luck, take back the shattered remains of my sword. I’d now learned that it could be repaired and was eager to reclaim it. But to my surprise, ‘Gary279’ turned on his heel and began to casually walk away from me. Seconds later, Samusk was tossed to my feet by the baying crowd.

“What the hell’s going on?” I demanded.

Once the half-orc reached the edge of the makeshift arena, he turned and began to laugh.

“What, you thought we were fighting?” he asked, that smug grin of his wider than ever, revealing a jagged zig-zag of yellowing saw-like teeth. “Oh no, of coursssse not. I am merely a sssspokesman for our communion, for there is no hierarchy amongst the Brotherhood. Besides, there are others who requessssted this very honor the moment they laid eyes on you.”

He beckoned to the crowd, and an all-too-familiar rogue stepped into view. Admittedly, the sight brought a smile to my own lips.

“What you grinnin’ at?” spat Samusk. It was odd to see him looking so riled.

“A one-on-one fight with the bastard who almost choked me to death earlier today? I can live with that.”

“But can yeh live through it?” asked the dwarf, sarcastically.

“Oh ye of little faith,” I rebuked. “Surely you have to admit, this was a good strategy, yeah? Much better than the free-for-all we almost ended up in the middle of.”

The dwarf didn’t answer, so I turned to my new opponent.

“Come on, what are we waiting for? Let’s do this.”

“Uh-uh,” interjected the half-orc, waggling a slender finger from the safety of the sidelines. “You have the dwarf in your corner, and fairnessss musssst be maintained.”

He stretched out his scrawny limb and pointed that same finger toward the crowd. I turned to see the beastling standing on the sidelines, arms folded across his chest and a smug shit-eating grin on his extremely punchable face.

“Awww crap!” I announced. I wanted revenge, but I’d often found that revenge was a dish best served one course at a time. My concern only fueled the bastards look of smug satisfaction.

But oh well. there was no point crying over my soon-to-be-spilt innards. I was a level 2 swordsman now, dammit. Errrr… with no sword, admittedly. And yes, the stipulation was unarmed combat, something that should have evened the playing field a bit. But in a ‘no weapons’ duel, the beastling would have an obvious advantage over me, thanks to those damned claws of his.

“What’s yer strategy now,” Sun Tzu?” snarked the dwarf.

“I’m going to deal with this like I’ve dealt with every other problem in my life,” I declared. “By punching it. Really really hard.”

Samusk groaned. I was about to remind him that he hadn’t suggested anything better, when I was pulled from my thoughts by a commotion that was growing in the crowd. Bodies were parting, the beastling included. I gasped as a towering figure pushed his way to the front. If he was a barbarian, he was a barbarian by way of his daddy’s dalliances with an ogre, his hulking form easily towering two heads above my own. Having confidently strode into the center of the ‘arena’ he roared, beating his chest with a pair of fists that were each easily the size of my avatar’s head.

“This issss our latesssst recruit,” announced the smug half-orc. “Being new to the brotherhood, he’ssss understandably very keen to prove his worth, so my beasssstling friend has graciously agreed to ssssit this one out and let the new boy take his place. Ssssay hello to our little friend… TinyTheTankEngine.”

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

Alas, they weren’t. And as the bastard lovechild of Conan the Barbarian and Andre the giant loomed over me, I had to admit: I might have bitten off more than I can chew.