More XP, Please!

“You don’t have enough points, Sir,” said the trusty Halfling squire. It was hardly necessary to refer to the Enchanted Abacus of Aa, but so long as he held it, the squire was granted +3 in all Logic rolls. And since it was clear that Sir Reginald Blunderbust would not be slaying the Dreaded Beast of Dreer’An G’ull no matter what the D20 said, it was quite possible that a Logic roll might be required to get them out of this sticky situation.

“Are you very sure?” asked Sir Reginald.

“Positive, Sir. Your stat distributions don’t quite favour anything involving a confrontation, Sir.”

“That’s not true. Just two days ago I defused a nasty confrontation at that tavern.”

“I recall, Sir. Over the bill. But at the time you had recently used the Elvish Hair Oil of Perfection, which allowed you to successfully seduce the barkeep. Even then you only convinced him to let us off if I danced for it.”

Sir Reginald couldn’t help but chuckle as he remembered the Halfling jigging about atop of the table. “That was one for the books, wasn’t it Pattsy?”

“Matthew, Sir,” the squire corrected for the three-thousandth time.

Sir Reginald’s face began to redden suddenly, as if a chicken bone had lodged itself into his throat lengthwise. He was thinking. “Pattsy!”

“Matthew, Sir.”

“I have realized your mistake!”

“My mistake, Sir?”

“Yes, you loveable fool, you! You’ve overlooked one very important detail!” Sir Reginald unsheathed his sword in awe-inspiring flourish. “From the moment I received this remarkable blade, I knew that she would give me the strength to vanquish any foe! I knew that the gods themselves would tremble in awe at the mere utterance of her name!”

“The Head-Chopper-Off, Sir?”

“Gives you chills, doesn’t it, Pattsy?”

“As you say, Sir.”

“With this mighty steel, I should be ready to take on the Beast regardless of what the die may say!”

“Sir, I took all of our possessions into account. The Enchanted Abacus of Aa never lies. Your sword may as well be a butter knife, Sir.”

“How dare you! You know that my father gave me this sword!”

“I know, Sir. It’s from the starter kit, Sir. Everyone’s father gives them that sword. Even my father gave me that sword. As time-honored a tradition as mothers knitting the first dice pouch or baby booties, Sir.”

Sir Reginald slumped on the ground, sword tossed into the grass beside him.

“Not to worry, Sir. I shall think of something. Even if I have to roll for it.”

“Sweet, brave, Pattsy.”

“Matthew, Sir.”

“If only I could vanquish the Beast as easily as I did the barkeep,” Sir Reginald said with a sigh.

“You mean seduce the Beast, Sir?”

“Seduce the Beast…” Sir Reginald stroked his moustache. “Is it a very attractive beast?”

“I wouldn’t know, Sir. I wouldn’t assume so. Besides, you haven’t your Hair Oil this time, Sir. It was a one-time use item. And you used it all at the tavern. Partly to seduce the barkeep, and the rest of it to make the table slick, Sir.”

Sir Reginald chuckled again, recalling the great tumble off of the table. The whole tavern watched with baited breath as the Halfling rolled to assess the damage. He was lucky that it was but a scratch. A Half-Orc had once died from falling off a table in a similar incident. A plaque was mounted on the tavern wall now, describing the Half-Orc’s dumbfounded expression as the die stopped dead on a natural 1. A lesson to all adventure-seekers to choose all battles wisely.

Sir Reginald had not read that plaque.

“Shall we turn around, Sir, and seek a quest more suited to your current level?”

“Nonsense, Pattsy! My family has been slaying monsters twice as fierce as that silly Beast for centuries! I’m a Blunderbust! It’s in my blood!”

“I understand, Sir. But you do realize that genetics has nothing to do with it? My mother was an Elf, Sir, and my father a Half-Orc. Every other day he tried to eat me – the Orc days.”

“Tried?”

“Fell off a table, Sir.”

“How dreadful.”

“Yes, Sir. But that’s our lot, isn’t it? The priest rolls for your stats at birth, blesses your D20, and off you go. Every man, woman, and sexually ambiguous anthropomorphic being for itself.”

“You do put a damper on things, don’t you, Pattsy?”

“Matthew, Sir. Sorry, Sir.”

“Nevermind all that. While we sit here pandering over our ill fate, the princess is no closer to being rescued, nor I any closer to marrying a princess!”

“Pandering, Sir? Are you sure you don’t mean pondering, Sir?”

“Don’t be silly, Pattsy.” With flourish, Sir Reginald swooped his sword and rested it alongside his sheath. He stood proudly akimbo as the blade hit the ground again. “We’re warriors, not fishermen!”

“Of course, Sir.”

Suddenly, Sir Reginald’s face began to purple; it was as though he had forgotten the mechanics of breathing. He was thinking.

“Pattsy!” he shouted triumphantly.

“Matthew, Sir.”

“I have it!”

“Have what, Sir?”

“The priests decide our stats at birth!”

“Not exactly decide, Sir. They merely turn the crank on the Lotto-Ball of Fate. Then it’s up to the gods to decide which numbers come out, and which shoot of the Giant Plinko Board of Humanity they drop down to.”

“So what we need is a priest!”

“And a fully equipped temple, Sir.”

“Exactly! Lead the way, Pattsy!”

“But, Sir! You already have your stats determined! There’s no way to change them now. It’s never been done!”

“It’s never been done only because a Blunderbust has yet to try!”

“But there is no trying, Sir! These things are determined at birth! You can’t be re-born! At least, Sir Reginald Blunderbust cannot do so, no more than Matthew Pitchfield can.”

“Who?”

“Me, Sir.”

“Well of course not you, Pattsy,” Sir Reginald said, picking up his sword from the grass beneath him. “You’re not a Blunderbust!”

As he stood erect once more, the Halfling’s face paled.

“Dear gods, Pattsy! It’s quite all right. You haven’t failed me. Though in future it would do you credit to fetch my sword. A knight such as myself can’t always be bending down, bottom up like a right oaf.”

“It’s not that, Sir,” the squire said trembling. He pointed his finger towards his master. “Look, Sir!”

Behind Sir Reginald stood a dark menacing figure, clutching a wooden staff nearly twice the height of him.

Sir Reginald beamed. “Ah, dear fellow!” he called, “May I gather by your pointed beard and yellow fingernails that you are a Sorcerer?”

“You may.” The Sorcerer’s voice echoed like thunder.

The squire looked about him as storm clouds slowly rolled in above them.

“Perfect!” Sir Reginald said. “And may I presume that you are such a Sorcerer that is so generous in nature as to help a questing knight in a time of his most desperate need without trickery or abstract foreshadowings of consequential peril?”

“You may presume all you like, Sir Knight,” said the menacing figure, echoing a thunder clap.

“Perfect!”

“Um, Sir,” the Squire whispered, “you do realize that he didn’t actually answer –“

“Quiet, Pattsy! Can’t you see that I’m in the middle of negotiations!”

“Sorry, Sir.”

Sir Reginald stood akimbo once more. “Please forgive my squire. He’s a loveable yet simple nincompoop.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“I said quiet!”

“Sorry, Sir.”

The Sorcerer smiled malevolently. “I know what it is that you’re after, Sir Blunderbust! A level 1 knight does not venture out roaming the Dark Forest of Certain Death unless he hopes to cheat fate.”

“That is it precisely!” Sir Reginald beamed. “See, Pattsy? I knew we could trust him!”

“But beware,” the Sorcerer continued, “all spells that are cast come with a price.”

“I thought as much,” Sir Reginald said aloof. “Fetch me a table and my Squire here can dance a merry little jig for you.”

“Must I, Sir?”

“Don’t be silly, Pattsy. Sorcerers are notoriously generous tippers!”

“I don’t believe that’s an actual thing, Sir.”

“Please forgive my Squire. He often trembles in the presence of greatness.”

“Worry not about your Halfling, Sir Knight,” the Sorcerer said. “It is your quest we seek to fulfill, is it not?”

“Precisely! Down to business then! What I need from you, Oh Powerful Conjurer, is a new set of stats.”

“You really should specify higher stats, Sir.”

“Pattsy! Shut up!”

Thunder rolled, as did the Sorcerer’s voice, “I can change your fate, Sir Knight.”

“Wonderful. Have you a Lotto-Ball of Fate?”

“Aye,” said the Sorcerer, reaching into his sleeve. “And a Plinko Board of Humanity – Travel-Size. It’s great on road trips.”

“Marvelous!”

“But first!” The Sorcerer commanded a great thunderous boom and lightning struck the ground before him. A table appeared from out of the smoke. “It is you, Blunderbust, who must jig!”

“Oh.” Sir Reginald looked back at his Squire. “Are you sure you don’t want him to do it. He’s very good at it.”

“Of course he is,” the Sorcerer said, taking out his own Enchanted Abacus from his cloak sleeve. “He has a dexterity of 18, even if we don’t take into account his Woodling Boots of Impeccable Balance.”

“Oh.” Sir Reginald looked back at his Squire. “When did you get those, Pattsy?”

“It was a gift for squishing the Hideous Toad of Phlegm, Sir. Back when I was a level 4, Sir.”

“A level 4?” Sir Reginald exclaimed. “What are you now?”

“7, Sir. I tried to tell you.”

“Enough!” the Sorcerer bellowed. The dark clouds blotted out the sunlight. “It is time to dance, Sir Knight.”

“Wait!” the Squire cried. “Please, Sir, take my boots!”

“He cannot!” said the Sorcerer. “If he is to change his fate, he must do so on his own.”

Sir Reginald gulped before taking the Sorcerer’s outstretched hand and mounting the table.

He started slowly at first, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Then he began to sway, tapping his toes to each side. Once he found his groove, Sir Reginald was practically into a highland fling.

The Squire’s dread had passed, and now he clapped his hands joyously, crying out, “Dance, Sir! Dance!”

And then it happened. The inevitable. One slip. Sir Reginald’s foot slid, knocking into his other foot, and it sent the knight onto his side, bouncing off of his hip, and tumbling onto the ground.

Both knight and squire were stunned in horror.

“What does this mean?” Sir Reginald begged of the Sorcerer.

“We shall see,” the Sorcerer said. “Fetch your die!”

Reluctantly, Sir Reginald slipped two fingers into the baby blue knit dice pouch his mother had made for him, and retrieved his D20.

“Now roll,” the Sorcerer’s voice bellowed.

Sir Reginald’s hand trembled.

The Squire covered his eyes. “I can’t watch!”

As the die flew from the Knight’s hand, it didn’t even spin. It was a dead drop, straight down onto the natural 1.

The Sorcerer cackled ever louder. The skies blackened. Smoke billowed up from out of the ground and shrouded Sir Reginald’s lifeless body.

The Squire screamed and cursed the heavens, no longer able to see the Sorcerer.

Then the skies shifted from black to grey. The smoke cleared. The Sorcerer was gone.

“Sir! Sir! Please don’t be dead!” The Halfling rushed to his master’s side.

It was a miracle. Sir Reginald was breathing. He was rousing.

“Oh, Sir!” the Squire cheered with tears in his eyes. “You are alive!”

“Pattsy?” Sir Reginald said groggily. As he rose to his feet, he noticed how his Squire’s mouth fell open and simply hung there. “Pattsy, what is it? Am I changed?”

“Quite so, Sir.”

Sir Reginald patted himself down. Things were different. “What has happened, Pattsy?”

“I’m not sure how else to tell you, Sir. You’re a woman now, Sir.”

Sir Reginald couldn’t deny it. He held the proof of it in his hands. “Am I at least an attractive woman, Pattsy?”

“Oh I’d say so, Sir.”

“And my stats?”

The Squire held up the Enchanted Abacus of Aa. “I don’t believe it, Sir! Your stats, they’ve completely reversed! Your 4’s are 40’s! Your 3’s are 30’s! You’re nearly invincible now, Sir!”

“Good gods, Pattsy! I’ve done it! I may now slay that Dreaded Beast of Dreer’An G’ull!”

“I’d say quite easily, Sir.”

Sir Reginald bright beaming face faded to a flush of the cheek. “But, Pattsy, what about the princess?”

“What about her, Sir?”

“Do you think that I stand a chance with her now?”

“Oh I do hope so, Sir. I do hope so!”

*****

Author's Note: Originally published in "In Places Between 2017"