vs. Rats

Sorry Zorro, I misled you. When it comes to this quest, I have another ulterior motive.

“Zorro thinks I’m traveling with her… but I’ll prove that she’s traveling with me, that unkempt brat.” I murmur.

Zorro doesn’t consider me a warrior.

If I kill all the rats, that proves that I’m the hero and provider for Zorro, the hundred level girl with zero common sense. This party will be mine!

And I’ll get some exp too! I approach the kameleon who tends to the bar. “I’m here to take the que- “

The bartender has a sallow, exasperated aurora, and a quiet sense of contempt that’s strangely familiar. “-hey, aren’t you that apple-cart guy? The one with the apples Zorro ate?”

“In the morning I sell apples… in the evenings, I sell beer for Ganeleon. Is someone having two jobs so surprising?” He says.

It is not, but in my mind I had always thought of him as “Guillaime, the apple merchant” or “Guillaime, that price-gouging lemon-faced jerk”. I suppose I’ll just have to think of him as just plain vanilla ‘Guillaime’ instead.

“I’m here to clear out the rats,” I say, and he stops polishing his glass.

“That is not as easy a task as it sounds,” says Guillaime, running his rag in circles again. “The previous bartender was tasked to do that and failed to come to work the next day. Maybe he was fired, maybe he left town, but it is most likely that he was killed.”

“Bring me a drink,” I say. “And make it strong. I don’t have money, but just deduct its cost from my reward.”

Guillaime’s scaly face shrivels into  strange terrain.

“Very well,” says Guillaime. “I’ll ask Bertrand to cover for you when you die.”

He searches the bottles and selects one called “Daniel Jack’s.”

“Thank you. Does that mean I have the rights to a last meal?”

“Anything I can provide from the bar.” 

“Then I’d like a side of string,” I say.  

Guillaime doesn’t even seem surprised.

“I don’t understand human cuisine. Rather than eat good healthy food like insects or birdmeat, they’d rather eat seasoned sawdust.”

He pops the register - *ching!* - and unties some bundled banknotes. He heaps those strings loose onto the plate like so much spaghetti, and is about to add butter, sugar and salt before I stop him - “it’s good as is,” I say.

I pocket the string and the whiskey-bottle for later.

“Lastly,  give me access to the supply closet.” I say.

“The cleaning-agents there will kill you if you drink them.” says Guillaime as he hands me the key.

“Isn’t it obvious that I’m not eating any of this!?” I say. “I’m not someone like Zorro!”

In the closet I collect the last few things that I need. Since I’m carrying a lot of odd equipment some of the patrons gawk and stare.

They’re mostly other kameleons, but a young woman’s there too, the nun. She calls out, and pierces me with searching, violet, eyes.

“You wish to kill the rats, yet you have no weapons with you. Even if the bartender allows you to go simply to your death, I will not.”

I shrug. A mop, a cloth, a hundred-proof whiskey and a bundle of twine aren’t any weapons normal a soldier would use. But they’ll serve just the same.

“Scratch damage will not be enough to win, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She says. And this note catches my attention. The person talking to me isn’t a nun; from her bearing, combat-understanding and her fierce voice, she’s a warrior. Why she’s dressed the way she is I don’t know.

“If I rely on scratch damage or critical hits I definitely will die.” I say. “But that’s not what’s going to happen.”

I stride away to Guillaime before she can reply. “I’m ready to head to the cellar,” I say.

Guillaime slides the stone door. “Knock on the door three times when you are done and I’ll unseal it,” he says. “After the rat infestation, we’ve made it impossible to open it while inside the basement.”

“Hahaha… worried that the rats would open the door with their tiny little paws?”

Guillaime remains silent, and the joke hangs in the air and dies. Before I lose my courage or gain enough reason to turn tail, I descend. 

***

The basement door grinds shut, like a tomb’s. And then it’s just the rats, the dark, and me.

The steps are creaky and weak; rotting wood bends with each footfall. There’s an incessant hair-raising squeak, and when I halt the squeaking continues - its the sound of the rats.

“SPARK!”

I say, and a flame blossoms from my fingertip. That fire alone, candle-like, is not enough to pierce through the dark. However…

“SPARK, SPARK, SPARK, SPARK!”

I cast the art four times more, until all the fingers on my left hand are lit. There’s no rule that I have to wait for a flame to go out before casting it again, after all.

With this, there’s just enough light for me to see about fifteen feet into the room. The basement is musty and reeks with a yeasty smell - the barrels heaped by the north wall contain ale.

A solitary red-eyed rat stands on a granite tile in the middle of the room. Though I’m not sure if ‘rat’ is the right word, because its the size of a scurrying shoebox.

Direrat | Level 7 Creature

Shield: 0/0 | Str: 12 | Def: 2 | Agi: 7 | AP: 0/0

It opens its mouth and reveals four sharp fangs. Then it doesn’t squeak, it shrieks,.

“SCRAKK!!

I snap off the mop’s head and swing the stick at the rat with full force. It connects with the rodent’s skull; but the now-bleeding rat shoots out from underneath it and leaps at my neck.

I catch it, with my flame-filled left hand. Its fur is covered with a greasy, meaty, slime, and while it claws and scratch at me -

7 damage to Maru! Shield break!

- the disgusting oil’s set ablaze. Soon, what I’m holding is a charred skeleton, and then the skeleton dissolves into bright dust.

“So they’re weak to fire… good.”

Gained 8 exp!

Night creatures and pests hate flames and bright light. Though moths will happily burn themselves to a crisp, they’re an exception - smoke disorients most insects, and larger animals avoid the searing heat.

So I had assumed the rats would be susceptible to fire. However, these ‘Direrats’ are even more vulnerable than I predicted.

Since they lack protective shields, they burn immediately. And their glossy fur acts as an accelerant.

“Free exp.” I smile, and make my way to the stone tile where the rat had stood. From here, I still can’t quite see the walls.

There’s a quiet-pitter patter, and then the pitter-patters begin to overlap. Waving my fire-filled hand side to side, I see shadows of the grisly creatures.

“One… two…” my smile slips off my face. “Three… I’ll get bit a bit, but I can probably handle that much…”

Their eyes follow me warily as they hunch underneath the ale-barrels. Their pupils are small and beady, smaller than those of the shoe-box sized rat I slew.

I walk closer to the wall opposite the barrels to gain space. This wall’s comprised of dark rippled jut-out stone coated in an oily, hairy, mold.

“Come on out, cowardly ratfinks...”

Yet the hidden rats won’t attack. Their eyes are fierce and defensive; the rats chitter and hunch back.

If I can’t coax them out then I’ll need to burn the barrels. I only have two SPARKS left - so I make some preparations with my mop, whiskey, rag, and twine just in case.

But I soon realize that those frightened eyes aren’t fixed on me - they’re fixed on what’s behind...