Why don’t you pick up a book?

In the end, the Theater of Pain and its four great challenges were defeated. It claimed the lives of fourty-three raiders. The Gladiator took five, the Dire Troll took eight, the Pitboar Rider only two, and the Warlock as many as thirty-six, because it killed the entire raid group once, and then still only a few survived the second fight, managing to wear the cursed humanoid down before it wore them. It was really painful to watch. Perhaps the easy Pitboar Rider fight had made them complacent, and they underestimated what came after it. Or perhaps it was their first contact with a magic user as powerful as this. Still, lessons were learned. The raid log book was updated, an idea and invention of Koori. He would later propose that all raids share experiences this way.

The Warlock proved to not only be a challenge in combat, but a challenge in leadership and collaboration between the raiders. After the first team was completely wiped out, the surviving expedition was divided into the camp that wanted to retreat to base and the camp that wanted to go all-in.

In the end, a vote decided to go in. It paid off, this time.

Nine lived to see the ghost of the orc chieftain retrieve the final bounty chest and hurl it into the arena for the Players to divide, and to see the eerie spectators fade away like steam on the wind. Nevertheless, those who fell would not end up without profit. Koori would see to that, performing the role of quartermaster and loot master. There were robes, gauntlets, boots, weapons, shields, jewels, fabrics, and coins. Some of it was granted to the raiders as it came, and the rest was loaded onto one of the carts and watched at all times.

There were many lessons and conclusions drawn and still left to draw, but they needed all leaders present for an equal discussion, and preferably, as many other Players as possible too - so that they could learn. Maybe we can rent the amphitheater in Sorostade for this, Koori pondered. He would later suggest this idea to the Administration.

But one piece of the bounty was a mystery, and they discussed it gathered around the campfire outside the crumbling Theater. They had felled three nearby trees and rolled their logs over to use as benches.

‘What do we do with this… grimoire?’ asked Sizipha, one of the Priests, flicking the pages of a heavy, leatherbound book that nobody could read. All nine living Players and all ten helpers were asked to look at it, hold it, and tell if they felt any resonance from it - like they would from an item meant for their class - or if they had any idea what was written in it. It was not a piece of Player equipment, this much they could tell. ‘It makes me uncomfortable. It is warm to the touch, like a recently used toilet-seat. ’

‘Sell it?’ suggested Bittervet. ‘It’s probably meant to be profitable, like those jewels and fabrics. Cover our bills.’

‘You know what I think?’ again asked Sizipha. ‘We should keep it a secret for now. We got it from killing the Warlock, and there was a lot of weird, occult bullshit in that fight. If the book is related to him, then the Church jerks in Sorostade may get an aneurysm if they see it. Because you know, religion.’

‘Takes one to know one. A Priest, I mean,’ joked one of the haulers.

‘Aarac, please, the adults are talking. Wait until you’re my age, then you can speak.’

‘You’re a day older than me, dude!’

‘Really? I completely forgot,’ Sizipha retorted, not having forgotten at all.

‘On the other hand,’ Bittervet spoke again to offer a different perspective. ‘The Church clerics have a monopoly on most of the science and learning in this world. Or at least, this kingdom,’ he corrected himself. ‘If anyone knows what’s written here, it’s them.’

‘Sure as frakk they ain’t gonna help us out of the goodness of their hearts,’ commented Koori. ‘For now, let’s leave it with the rest of the loot, okay? Arthroo, will you please take it to the wagon? Thanks.’ He took the grimoire from Sizipha and passed it to the young Dark Knight who had come to support the expedition with his sister. She was currently mending Tycho’s torn scabbard strap with a twine and a thick, curved, leatherworking needle. ‘Let’s relax and unwind now, how about that? We have a nice stash of edible supplies with less than half of the mouths to eat and drink. We ain’t gonna carry it home, so get rowing!’

‘Word. I’m hungry as hell,’ agreed Sinistic, leaving to get some.

‘Damn right,’ approved Tycho who had just returned to sit by the campfire with three bottles of alcohol just for himself, and a sack of pastries. He recalled the harsh words he had to lay on the Rogue woman about the selfless efforts to prepare supplies.

‘Lufillis’ snacks?’ asked Ripperjack.

‘Of course. Want some?’ he asked, unstringing the sack to reveal paper-wrapped buns, croissants, and donuts, and offering them to everyone. ‘They’re kinda stale though but that’s what those bottles are for, among other reasons. No, sorry, I’m not sharing those. Get your own!’

‘I should start my beer business here. If she could do it…’ mused Ripperjack quietly.

They sat, enjoying the food and drinks, the company, and the interrupted melodies from the surviving Bard of the raid group, GhoString. He was being instructed in mandolin play by Wrecktoria, a Wych, who happened to be a musician in her normal life. People like her were a heaven-sent for Bard players, who suddenly had to learn to play actual instruments to be useful in groups.

‘Aaargh, I hate that we have to walk back home! I hate it, hate it!’ loudly complained Sinistic. ‘I think I’m going to just stab myself and save myself the hassle.’

‘Please do,’ Bittervet advised, very focused on an important task.

‘What’s up with men and poking campfires with a stick?’

‘Boys’ rules. Don’t tell her,’ Bittervet implored the gathering, and everyone laughed but played along. ‘But you know, in real life, sailing was the fastest mode of travel and transport until the Industrial Revolution. So I’m saying, we will be walking a lot. Get used to it. Or pick up a book and go figure out metallurgy and steam engines?’

‘Here he comes with his trivia again. Nerd,’ she ruffled his hair with her hand, speaking sweetly all of the sudden. ‘That’s why you get bullied.’

‘First you bully nerds, then you demand faster travel solutions? Who do you think invented them?’ asked Wrecktoria.

‘Oi, I’m not a-’

‘Hey now! Whose side are you on, sis’?!’ Sinistic threw her hands towards Wrecktoria’s side of camp.

‘Against a Rogue? With a fellow Wych, obviously!’

In the morning, the camp would be cleaned up and loaded onto the wagons, including the belongings of those who fell in the Theater, but until then, they rested. They partied and celebrated until well after midnight. They talked, they played roles recreating the fights they had, they even sang. Tycho and Koori discussed bringing more tanks next time. Ripperjack wondered if armored enemies even take damage from dagger attacks if not hit in a vital spot. And as always, they exchanged their best guesses about how they were transported to another world and inserted into game characters’ bodies, and what they would do after getting out.

—

Bittervet got into his tent, cursing its small size. He had to get on his knee to open it and get inside, but before that, he had to remove his equipment. Something nobody thinks about in a game is how it is impossible to lie down in those fancy fantasy armors. Even my damn robes made of fabric, not metal plates, are uncomfortable as heck with those weird shoulderpads and belts and what not. He stashed everything in the corner haphazardly, but the staff simply did not fit inside, so he just stuck it in the ground outside the tent. One good thing carried over from the actual game was that gear simply could not be stolen.

A shower would be great right now, he thought. The people who took the dirt nap are already in Rockbase in their own beds, probably. The Wych was conflicted; he wanted to be in the town already, but not having died in the raid gave him an inner sense of superiority over those who had. The more he thought about it, the more he was glad to actually be in the tent.

What do I always say? Bragging rights are the goal.

He did his best to get himself comfortable on the simple bedroll he had inside. He had no pillow, no blanket, and no cloak to roll up and put under his head, but he was content to just lie on his flank and rest his head on his arm. The alcohol helped ignore the inconvenience. That’s how they slept in the Legions, probably.

Before his consciousness drifted away into dreamlands, the folds of his small tent parted and a blue-haired head poked inside, though he could barely see the colours in the darkness. Only one person could be so audacious to just barge in like that, anyway.

‘Hey,’ whispered Sinistic. ‘Nice tent.’

‘I know. What do you want?’ Bittervet whispered back, not getting up.

‘How rude,’ she grimaced. ‘You’re never going to land a lady like that.’ She squeezed inside the tent.

‘This tent is mine, I believe.’

‘I know.’

She sat down next to him, close enough for their legs to touch, and she removed her own equipment, adding to his pile.

‘Nice underwear,’ he complimented.

‘I know,’ she replied and used his arm as a pillow too, snuggling into him. ‘Oh. This tent is nice too.’