Chapter 1:

The Inn Needs More Beer, and Less Assassins

Living My Best Life as a Inn Proprietor, Scribe to Seshat, and Single Father... In Another World.


It’s four days until the celebration of the Pharaoh’s 14th birthday and I have a problem – the tavern is almost out of beer. I expected several barrels to have been delivered earlier today,but they have not arrived and it’s almost nightfall. I’ve got plenty of wine, especially pomegranate wine from the orchards of the Priestesses of Hathor, but the taste and the price are too rich for the clients that have chosen to stay with us. I am, if I’m being honest, at my wit’s end.

The dinner I’m serving is going over well, however. Several days ago hunters brought in boar, which is being served now as a stew in a Tuscan style. While I saved some steaks for another day, a lot of the shoulder and roast meat has been cubed in a fashion to give a little bit to chew on, and is served with a combination of carrots, potato, prunes, and a little bit of dukkah to give it some kick. The recipe seemed unorthodox, but my head cook Narla swore by it and judging by the number of patrons asking for seconds she knew what she was talking about. I’m encouraging them to eat lots of bread with it, hoping it will last longer, but some of my patrons are treating the soup like a drink all of its own.

This is, to date, the most visitors this inn has had. We’ve got enough rooms to bed 60 guests in the common housing and 10 “private” rooms meant for no more than 4; by my count we’re over capacity by at least 10 and some of these people will be sleeping on the tavern floor. Part of me feels compelled to encourage them to find shelter elsewhere, but this far out in the world I know that if they aren’t staying here they’re likely to be camping out. This complex is one of just a few about a day’s horse ride from anywhere, and this time of the year the night gets deceptively cool.

It would be nice if I could just conjure up some more alcohol, like a priest might be able to summon bread or water, but those aren’t powers I have. Hell, in this world, a lot of my powers come off as managerial. I’m not really a creator and I’m far from a conqueror. I’m a scribe, and I have been trusted to run this inn – complete with dining area and tavern – that is in another world.

This is the part where you’d expect me to tell you about how I was hit by a truck, or died in a freak accident, but that’s the thing – I’m not dead. Many of my clients have died and found themselves reborn here, but for me this is more of a portal fantasy if you will. I’m a visitor, guided here by a Goddess many people don’t even know of anymore let alone worship. I don’t think I knew what I was getting into when I accepted her offer, but I knew at the time I accepted it that it was the right move. Now I find myself in a desert far from the outskirts of anywhere, in a world run off of strange game rules more than the logic I grew up with.

“We’ve got a problem,” my oldest son interrupts my thoughts. “There’s a fight outside.”

It’s always something.

My oldest son, Nehemiah, is a tall teenager with broad shoulders but a scrawny build and a bit of baby fat in the face. He’s always looking to prove himself, even if he comes off untested. The fact that he’s coming to me instead of jumping in on things himself is more alarming than his words. He takes the lead and I wordlessly follow him, grabbing a knotted sycamore staff as we go outside. He moves around two patrons and the door with a bit of a rude edging through; I go between the two with a quick “excuse us” that causes their ire at my son to be transferred into curiosity as to what’s going on. I can hear the battle before I can see it, as it appears to be coming from outside the common housing.

“You need to give that back!” a voice exclaims angrily. “That isn’t-“ and then he is silenced.

I turn around the corner and there’s three hooded figures and an unconscious merchant. Two guards, wearing sand-worn clothing and leather chest guards, are unconscious to the side. I’m a little alarmed because I recognize the merchant as Izro; he travels from the Pharaoh’s city of Noph to several temples and outposts in a loop. He’s a Miw, a cat-human hybrid, and the combination of his race and his sanction by the Pharaoh’s office means his assailants aren’t just common criminals.

I stare down the three thugs, and they turn to me readily. Nehemiah draws his cudgel, a tamarisk club with a small curve and a blunt edge engraved with hieratic symbols for victory. I grasp my staff defensively, putting distance between it’s end and myself. They circle us and spread out, one of them crouching and the other two trying to get on my blind side.

I incite the incantation: “From this battleground, Seshat, open your library and reveal her pages to me! Elucidation!”

This doesn’t give my foes pause, as they continue to move, but it does allow me to see what I’m dealing with. In the same fashion one might see while playing a video game or reading a book from a role playing game, a table of information finds itself in my mind’s eye overlaying each of these individuals. The two going off to the side have generic information; the one in front of me has a name. That’s never a good sign.

The ones on my sides were Iwiw, or dog-people, and were listed as “thugs.” Their stats were similar:
Body: 5
Mind: 5
Soul: 4
Hit Points: 45
Energy: 45
Life Points: 1
Notable Attributes: Desert Adaptation 4
Notable Skills: Stealth 3, Poisons 2, Short Blade 4

One or two well aimed blows should be able to take them out. Those are rather average numbers. But the creature in front of me is a short, bulky man with a bald head and a covered face. His eyes pierce into my soul as I read what I can of him:

Friar, Novice Assassin
Body: 8
Mind: 5
Soul: 4
Hit Points: 60
Energy: 45
Life Points: 4
Notable Attributes: Desert Adaptation 5, Darkness 3
Notable Skills: Stealth 5, Poisons 4, Short Blade 4, Thrown Weapons 4

I had better act fast, before-

And with the flick of a wrist, the fight started. The novice assassin throws a bladed object at me, which I parry with my staff. This leaves me open to the thug from the left, who quickly comes at me with several precise slices of his blade. I take several short steps back to avoid each one. I cannot watch my son, but the decisive sound of his cudgel against flesh is immutable. It is clear his weapon has hit its mark, but by the short curse of his assailant I can tell the fiend is still alive.

I position myself in a way that the assassin and the thug are between me, which may to them seem like a mistake as it allows them to team up on me. If the assassin is foolish enough to close in, he’ll realize his mistake. As the thug I’m dealing with prepares to come at me again, I step towards his attack and not away. I firmly plant my staff squarely at his chest; his movement towards me gives the attack extra force. The amount of damage I’ve inflicted is gamified as well, and in my mind’s eye I see a notification:

The Sycamore Staff finds its mark, dealing 6 points of damage.

He is undeterred, however, and continues to come at me, attacking in quick and controlled jabs. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the assassin saying something to himself. I can’t quite here it, but I firmly hear that his incantation calls upon Nephthys. In a few short moments, his figure becomes hazy and hard to read. It’s going to be difficult for me to actively hit him when the time comes.

I can hear my son scream angrily, and I turn to see him two-hand his cudgel firmly into his assailant’s face. It’s a hard and meaty hit that causes his opponent to stagger back. While dazed, he’s professional enough not to drop his dagger.

The thug coming after me continues his approach, and I attempt to let it bring me closer to the assassin known as Friar. I’m surprised his attacks seem so unimaginative. I find myself playing defense, but that’s working for me at the moment and the flow of combat feels steady and not rushed. I take a quick jab at my immediate opponent’s knee with the butt of my staff and it hits its mark squarely. I see another notification.

The Sycamore Staff finds its mark, dealing 3 points of damage.

This doesn’t even slow him down. He’s still coming at me.

I hear Nehemiah activate a technique he has practiced many times. With a blood lusting shout, he demands “Skullcrusher!” This is a technique that burns through some of his Energy for an inaccurate called shot against someone’s head. I look forward and it appears the worst has happened – the attack has missed its mark, and my son’s follow through has left him open to his attacker!

It is at this moment that the assassin makes his move, coming at me deftly with his blade. I had anticipated him coming at me, but the speed that he dedicated to me was quick. He was wrapped in shadow, and each shadow betrayed my eyesight as his flurry of blows attempted to find bite. To his surprise, I was not easy game.

I continue to play it safe on defense, throwing another jab at the thug who is so focused on attacking me. The jab fails, but it was a conservative attack, and I continue to be able to deflect attacks as they come at me. This proves to be important, because at the same time the lower powered assailant comes at me, the assassin unleashes a skill of his own:

“Thrice Asp Bite!”

In a quick blink, three jabs of his weapon reflect the waning sun. It is more my fortune than my own skill that the first two miss. The third blow is deflected, almost instinctively, by my staff as I pull away. It’s at this moment I realize that the short blade that is intended to kill me is silver, a very uncommon metal for weapons, and coated in a green sludge.

This is proving to quickly be an unlucky day.

Nehemiah is having a worse time of it. He has been struck firmly in the shoulder by the blade of his assailant, and I hope that that weapon isn’t poisoned as well. In anger, my son grabs his assailant and headbutts him not just once but twice. The thug’s weapon is still embedded in my son’s shoulder, and at the moment at least it appears he has no other weapon. My son has trained in hand-to-hand combat far longer than he’s used a club; I do not pity that poor dog-person as he whimpers in pain.

I redouble my focus on the two men coming at me. I had not expected the assassin to be so fast, and his movements are causing me to push myself. I still feel in control, but I worry that control is fading fast. The thug that has been coming at me makes another move against me, and I decide to use his momentum against him by stepping to the side and using my staff to strike at his back. The staff hits its mark and the dog-man staggers forward, towards the assassin.

The Sycamore Staff finds its mark, dealing 3 points of damage.

12 points, if I’m keeping count. A little over a quarter of his health. And now I’ve got both of my attackers right where I need them.

I don’t bother to look at what Nehemiah’s doing, but I can hear a cracking and a scream of anguish from his opponent so it’s clear that’s going well for him. My assailants are starting to put distance between themselves, however, playing more defensively. I’m not going to allow that to happen.

Using the reach of my weapon, I call upon my energy reserves for a basic technique certain to cause the two men in front of me a lot of pain. My staff strikes a swift horizontal crescent, with a short angle that aims at their feet before hitting the ground. It strikes true, although my mind’s eye informs me the full effect was not received.

Crescent Moon Strike is unleashed, dealing 24 points of damage to Thug. Thug gains Status Ailment “Prone.”
Crescent Moon Strike’s damage is absorbed by Friar, Novice Assassin’s Shadow. Shadow has dissipated.

The assassin had called upon the element of darkness to absorb an attack. I’m not sure if that’s clever or concerning, but I’m forced to roll with it. Meanwhile the thug is on the ground in a dazed state. That will buy me a few rounds, at least.

I glance over at my son. He is no longer grappling with his attacker, and instead is throwing blows with his cudgel. The short knife is still in his shoulder, and bleeds with each movement. His attacker is defending himself with wrist guards and is bleeding from his head. My son’s movements have heft that show anger but come with the precision of practice. His attacker defends with desperation. That fight is already won.

The assassin known as Friar makes a precise jab at my jaw but pulls back at the last moment. Instead, he narrowly deflects an arrow that flies over my shoulder. Cautiously, I turn my body to see where it came from. About a dozen of my inn’s patrons have shown up to rubberneck. In the middle of them is my 11-year-old daughter, Alyza. She’s knocking another arrow into her shortbow. The height advantage granted by her desert tiger mount allows her to get a strong bead on my assassin.

The clamor of battle stops for a moment. The assassin clearly considers his options. The thug I’ve knocked down stays on the ground, gathering himself like he thinks he’s going to pull one over on me. My oldest son continues to beat at his assailant.

It only takes me a moment to consider my words. “The merchant asked you to give an item back. Drop it on the ground in front of you, and you’ll be spared.”

Friar scoffs at me. “And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll loot it from your body.”

I can see Friar’s eyes. He isn’t scared of my threat, but he also is caught off guard by the number of people that have caught him. He quickly darts his focus from figure to figure before looking back at me. In a decision that shows no emotion or remorse, he pulls a trinket from out of his sleeves and holds it between his index finger and thumb. I recognize it as a Merchant’s Seal, a seal allowing a traveler to pass through towns with the Pharaoh’s blessing.

I expect him to drop the trinket. Instead, he quickly flicks it at me. As I go to catch it with my off hand, the assassin calls upon the shadows once more to cover him and makes his escape. The thug that was laying beside him is less subtle, crying out as he attempts to pull himself up while running away.

An arrow finds itself firmly in the back of his neck, and he falls again, this time lifeless. In my mind’s eye I see a status message:

Alyza’s Composite Bow of Shu strikes true, dealing twelve points of critical damage. Thug has fallen.

“Why the hell did you let him escape?” demands Nehemiah, as he continues to hit his previous assailant. I am surprised that the dog-man is still standing.

“Because I can always hunt him tomorrow,” I state plainly. Some of the powers granted to me by my patron would allow me to state the assassin’s name and get a general idea of where he was. My oldest child knew this as well, and I hoped he would drop it. The truth of the matter was far more malicious, and I hoped to keep that to myself.

I moved to Izra, the Miw salesman. He was unconscious, but still breathing, which was promising. I did not see any obvious bleeding, which was fortunate. “Do we have anyone here skilled in the healing arts?” I ask of the crowd. No one steps forward. After a few moments, I call upon my son. “Nehemiah, help me carry him onto a bed,” I state plainly.

“Not now, I’m still busy trying to hit this guy!” he states angrily, continued to beat on the thug in front of him. Some of the gawkers had moved forward at this point, and one of them grabbed the thug by his arm and thrown him to the ground. Another quickly moved in to tie his hands up. Nehemiah still wanted to attack him. I angrily called his name again.

“Nehemiah. NOW.”

That got his attention. He hooked his cudgel in a loop on his belt and then made his way over to me. We each carefully got underneath a different arm and together we dragged him inside. As I did so, I passed by our cook Narla. Narla was an attractive tall woman with strong arms and a flat chest, yet most people noticed her eye-catching smile first. This was because she was a Sobki, a reptilian person with a crocodile maw. She grew alarmed was my oldest son and I dragged the merchant in.

“Dearest Hathor, is he going to be alright?” she exclaimed.

“Well he ain’t dead yet,” I state plainly. “Do me a favor, he brought a cart with him. The mules pulling it are nowhere to be seen, so you’ll probably need to secure the cargo. It should have some barrels of beer that are ours? But don’t touch them until our friend here comes to.”

“Understood!” she exclaimed again. Her voice was always loud and usually positive. She waved to a few guests and they headed outside. I realized too late that there were guards outside that were unconscious as well. I’d need to check on them soon.

I considered my options before turning to the crowd. “There was an attempt on one of the Pharaoh’s merchants tonight,” I stated angrily. The news spread across the tavern, and everyone became hushed. “The attackers have escaped, but not for long. I need some volunteers to check on the guards outside near the cart and bring them in.” As my son and I continued to move through the tavern and into a long hallway that lead to several of the private rooms, I heard the silence broken. “What will we get out of it?”

That was not the smartest thing to ask me, but I let it go for now. I push aside the cloth drape that covers the room and lay the cat-merchant down on a down bed, on top of the heavy camel-wool blankets. Izra stirs but does not wake. Once my son moves Izra’s legs onto the bed I head back outside to deal with the mob. To my anger, I see no one has stepped outside to manage the situation.

“Which of you asked what your payment would be?” I ensure my tone is dry and hide my anger.

“That would be me,” a man steps forward. He’s about a half foot taller than I am, and his tan and athletic build shows he’s more of a seasoned warrior than I am. He has a brass khopesh strapped to his back. I find it suspicious he’s not wearing armor. His thawb is well travelled yet deceptively clean. An intelligent guess would state he’s a sword-mage of sorts.

“Friend, do you want to drink tonight?”

“Well, that comes with the bed, doesn’t it?” he replies. A couple of other tavern goers laugh at this response.

“The beer we’re to drink tonight has arrived, but it’s the Pharaoh’s until it is released. If it isn’t released, we can’t drink it. So I’ll ask again. Friend, do you want to drink tonight?” The way I say “friend” this second time is a lot more pointed.

There’s a moment of silence, and the mob behind the swordsman begins to move outside to help long before the swordsman does. I look him over and turn to be dismissive of him when he, too, drops his guard and heads outside to assist. In short manner, the fallen guards are brought inside. One of the guards is carried between two people, one carrying the shoulders and the other the legs. The other guard is thrown over the swordsman’s shoulders. I guide both guards to the same room as the merchant and lay them on a respective bed.

I return to the tavern and my daughter Alyza is there. With her is my youngest son, Locke. He’s a clever seven year old child who struggles to talk because of his autism, and it’s rare to see him in the tavern with this many people present because he really hates crowds. I smile at him, and he notices and returns the favor.

“You’re going to hunt him down, aren’t you,” my daughter accuses me plainly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I dismissively reply to her.

“I hate it when you lie,” she counters.

I consider continuing to cover the truth, but it’s clear my daughter is on to me. “He had a name.”

“The assassin?” she asks for clarification.

To this, I simply nod.

“Well, that’s not good,” is her only response.

I leave my daughter and youngest son to hunt down my oldest. I need to make sure his knife wound is healed properly, and that’s going to require finding a guest who has some healing skills because I don’t retain a healer on staff. In a pinch I’ve got some salves in storage that could heal his wound, but they are stored in a way that requires using an amount meant for a party of six people once a jar is opened and I’d rather not waste a jar if my oldest son is otherwise alright. In the desert, resources can be hard to come by, medicine especially so.

The night began with me annoyed that I didn’t have enough drink for my guests. It had ended with an assault outside of my business’s walls. This was an insult to the Pharaoh, and it was an insult to Seshat, daughter of Thoth and Keeper of the Library of the Gods. More of a concern, however, was that this was an insult to me. Someone sent that small group after the merchant; I wanted to know why, and I wanted vengeance.

But first, there was healing to be done. Then, dinner.