Sam Dagdoulas
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Result of a failed adventurer, Dags settled down for the quiet life of a bartender. Unfortunately, the she-devil who holds claim over his mortal shell has designs on him as an acolyte. Thrust back into the adventurer's life, Dags tries to survive.
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My Greatest Attempt At Getting Myself Killed Stupidly
Part One
What, you want the story? Why? It’s ancient history anyway. Short story, too, when you boil it down to essentials. Was once stupid, got smacked down by life, wised up. Now getting pulled back into the stupid. Will probably die from it. The end.
Oh, you will just not. Let. This. Go. Will you? Of course not. It’s not enough to know about a dead body; you need to gawk at it and poke it with a stick.…FINE. Shut up for a bit and I’ll tell you. Bad enough you’re dragging this crap up; I’m not going to spend every other minute answering some inane question.
Like I said, I TRIED, once, to be an adventurer. I didn’t know any better; I was young and stupid, and life on the farm was DULL. I didn’t want to be a farmer, and I was the fifth of six sons, so the best I had to look forward to being was a farmhand for my oldest brother until I died, because that self-righteous prick was never going to pay me a wage enough for me to leave. So, when I heard stories of common-born people winning fame and wealth as heroes and champions, and THEN heard that there were real people who did just that? It gave me something to aim for, an idea for a life that I could craft for my own. When I turned about…. fifteen? Sixteen? Somewhere in there…anyway, I told everyone I was taking off, packed up my shit, and set out to make my way in the world.
I figured it’d be simple: make my way to a city, earn some reputation as an adventurer, join up with a group, kill some monsters, rescue some noble maidens, retire obscenely wealthy and beloved by all. *snort* It’s a damn miracle I survived long enough to make it to a proper city. I had barely a copper to my name, no friends, no prospects, and barely knew enough about living off the land to keep myself alive. And that’s how I was when I LEFT home. About the only thing that kept me from turning around and heading home was the thought of what I was leaving, that I couldn’t give up just because things got hard. I may not have had a good idea of how hard things could get, but I DID know that everything wasn’t going to be easy, and If I gave up before I even STARTED… Like I told you, young and stupid.
Things didn’t get any easier when I made it to Keenwood, the city I made it to. I mean, who would want to hire a scraggly, dirty boy who claimed to be an adventurer and asking for any quests that needed doing? And that’s exactly what I was going around spouting to anyone who’d listen; I’m honestly amazed I didn’t get the city guard called on me more than I did. My guess is, they thought I was just playing pretend or something. I guess my appearance gave me one thing in my favor in that regard. No one would think about taking me seriously.
I hung around there for about… a year, maybe a little less, waiting for my chance. I figured that a group of some kind would come through eventually, and in the meantime, I’d try to make a bit of a name for myself, aside from that scrawny loon that seemed bound and determined to get himself killed in ugly ways. Didn’t work out so well, on either part. Keenwood was busy enough for adventurers to wander through, but the guards took care of the criminals, the walls took care of any wayward creatures, and no one important really lived around the area, so no intrigue or threats to anyone really happened. Certainly nothing desperate enough to warrant hiring some street urchin looking for trouble.
Thankfully, most of the townsfolk would hire me occasionally for chores and gofer work. Only some of them did it out of pity, at least; mostly, they did it so that I wouldn’t resort to begging or stealing, but still. A handful of them found my ambitions charming, even going so far as to try selling their make-work as “quests”, so that it wouldn’t seem so much like charity. To this day, I don’t know whether to be flattered that they thought I could realize my dream or insulted that they thought I was stupid enough to buy their flimsy claims. Either way, I was too broke at the time to be picky.
Then, one night while I was “providing security” for the local tavern (mostly consistent of me failing to look intimidating while occasionally clearing tables), a group came in. A group of REAL adventurers. They didn’t announce themselves as such, but the no-nonsense walk in and the clothes covered in road dust and spattered in various humors gave them away rather quickly. The weapons they wore were a fairly solid clue too.
I knew better than to just run up and start running my mouth, no matter how much I wanted to, after all the waiting; they’d just gotten into town, and I didn’t know what brought them here, of all places. So, I asked around some of the regulars, and got their story: they were veteran adventurers, on their way toward this one ruin, I forget what. An outpost, or a shrine or something; didn’t matter, the place had been abandoned for decades and was little more than a pile of rubble, but it apparently had a sublevel underneath, and they’d heard that it had been taken over as an undead nest that they were going to clear out. They’d stopped in town to resupply on their way through.
I remember thinking that the setup was almost too good to be true. It was almost like some almighty force was lining things up, just for me. So, after they’d had enough time for a few drinks to unwind, I walked over to their table to introduce myself and, hopefully, convince them to take me along.
The meeting could have gone better. That is to say, that meeting was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. They weren’t trying to be intimidating, either; they just saw me wandering around the tavern, thought I was a serving boy, so when I approached their table, they requested more ale before I could say anything. Two refills and an annoyed bartender later, I finally managed to introduce myself. I got to the part when I told them I was an aspiring adventurer, when their leader, an aasimar paladin with a face that looked like it was carved with a hatchet, cut me off to tell me flat-out that they didn’t have any gold to spare. That’s right, they thought I was trying to beg money from them. So, I tried to set them straight, telling them that I wasn’t looking for money, but to travel with them, but between my nerves at the best bet I’d had since I’d started out slipping away, and my indignation at being mistaken for a beggar, what came out was a sputtered, stammering mess that I’m surprised anyone could make sense of.
So, in the span of five minutes, I went from serving boy to beggar to foolish thrill-seeker, with a failing set of wits to boot. Certainly not my best showing. Don’t worry; it got worse.
Looking back, I can only say that those townsfolk who would give me odd jobs to do must have been kinder than I gave them credit for; either that, or they had amazingly low standards for what passed for adventurers, because this group showed no mercy in their estimations of me. I understand that I had room for improvement when I started; I had only the barest speck of an idea of what I wanted to do, and even less experience. To this group, though, I was nothing but dead weight, and they made sure I knew it.
The first one to start was their ranger, a halfling woman called Trenisel, and she certainly didn’t waste time with words. She just hopped down from the bench she was sitting on, walked up to me, and swung a fist. Now, I’m not proud of the fact that the punch she threw knocked me to the ground and left me gasping for breath and clutching myself, but I’m not ashamed, either. Two reasons: first, she was a recurve longbow archer for YEARS before I was even born. Do you have any idea the kind of upper-body strength that builds up? She had shoulders wider than mine NOW, and she could have snapped a plow trace tied around her arm by flexing. A punch from her was no joke. As for the other reason, consider the fact that she was a bit more than half my height and consider where arm level was for her. I doubt there was a man in that tavern who wouldn’t have fallen to that swing. In hindsight, I’m glad I still have those parts in working order. Anyway, after a few moments where I tried to cough up a lung (as well as a couple of my more sensitive bits), she just turned back to the group and shook her head. “Can’t take a hit, not enough sense to dodge, and nowhere near quick enough reflexes to try.” Then she sat back down like nothing happened.
I was still trying to make my way back to my feet when I received my second test, this time from the group’s sorcerer, a weedy-looking water genasi called Naitunof. When he offered a hand from his seat on the bench, I thought he was just helping me to my feet, but when I took his hand, I felt this thick, sticky sensation run along my arm. I jerked my hand back, but the feeling didn’t fade; it continued coursing along, spreading all over me. When it finished, the sensation crept back up to the hand it started, before what looked like a sizeable ball of phlegm shot from my hand, which he caught. While I tried to figure out just what the hells happened, Naitunof pressed his clenched hand to his chest, eyes closed, softly glowing the same phlegm-yellow color as the ball had been. By the time I had fully straightened up, the glow stopped, and he opened his eyes and looked to the rest of the group. This is what he had to say: “About as magically attuned as a rock. A STUPID rock.”
As much as his statement stung, looking back, he wasn’t wrong. Magic and I have never gotten along, the few times I’ve tried. I once received a pre-charged wand, supposed to cast mending charms when you used it. Worked for everyone else who used it, BUT ME. When I tried using it, the bolt of magic instead crafted a fanged slug, which then bit me, THEN caught fire, and when I flung the slug away, the wand went with it, caught by one of the fangs. What was left splattered against a tree and let out a green plume of smoke that reeked of dogshit. Bear in mind, all of this was because I was trying to fix a snapped boot lace. When I say, ‘magic and I don’t get along’, I want you to grasp the full meaning. But I’m digressing. Point is, even though that genasi wasn’t wrong, it was another strike against me, and I couldn’t do anything to dispute it.
Then Nasitto, this bald wood-elf who stood over me by about a foot, decided it was his turn to test me. I remember that he was a monk, but I forget which tradition he practiced, only that he didn’t have a weapon I ever saw, but I also never saw him need one. Anyway, he was one of the few who bothered to wait until I was ready; while I was trying to figure out how this guy was planning to humiliate and/or manhandle me, he simply held up his open hand and told me, whenever I was ready, to hit it as hard as I could.
I must admit a bit of suspicion at that point, and spent a few moments trying to figure out how his test was going to hurt, but I came up with nothing, and he didn’t move an inch while he waited for me. I finally concluded that if this was going to end up the same way the last two tests did, there wasn’t much that I could do to stop it. Refusing to do it was tantamount to quitting, and quitting wasn’t an option, so I shrugged, balled up a fist, and swung at his hand as hard as I could, connecting with a meaty smack.
Pain. SOOOO much pain. That was what I got when my fist slammed into this elf’s open palm. I swear, it felt like I had just punched granite, and considering how much of my strength I put into it, I could feel the recoil all the way up to my shoulder. As for Nasitto? His hand didn’t budge. Not one. Single. Bit. Now, I know he didn’t do anything to earn the glare I shot him while I was cradling my hand, but I couldn’t help it; I was expecting to have some of my ego deflated by these people, but this guy managed to do so by LETTING ME HIT HIM. Besides, it’s not like what he had to say was going to do anything to help ease the sting, either for my hand or my pride: “No self-discipline, no conviction, with recklessness and self-deluded bluster as poor replacements.” He sat back down without another word, making it all too clear that whether I broke anything with that display was not his concern.
Then the oldest of the group, Dargbin, took his turn. A rogue by trade, a goblin by birth, and an unrepentant asshole by nature; that was Dargbin, from start to finish. I don’t want to be “that guy”, but seriously, you know all those insulting stereotypes about goblins and rogues? Dargbin fit them all and added a few more to the list, just for him. Dargbin didn’t care what anyone thought of him; he just did what he wanted, and if you couldn’t stop him some way or another, you wouldn’t, simple as that. When his turn came, he HAD FUN showing everyone that I couldn’t stop him.
Unlike with Nasitto, Dargbin gave no warning. One moment, he was sitting on his bench seat, the next he was standing not a foot away from me, a dagger at my stomach. I tried to fake a sense of calm, thinking he was simply trying to intimidate me. Then his knife hand drew across with impossible speed, and I felt a jolt of pain and a gust of a cool breeze. False bravado shattered, I tried to stumble backwards, only to find one of my feet wouldn’t move. Unfortunately, I found out too late, as I once again fell to the floor of the tavern. I barely had a moment to look down at my traitorous foot and find the dagger that had stuck through my shoe and into the floor, when I found myself staring down the point of another dagger, less than the width of a copper coin away from my eye. Dargbin gave a wide, predatory grin, stretching the seconds as I tried (and failed) to gauge whether he was simply enjoying the power he held over me or if he was planning to ram that dagger home.
“You’re dead.”
Dargbin only whispered the words, but he might as well have screamed them. His point had been proven; my life had been forfeit had he chosen to take it, and it was all I could do to merely avoid pissing myself as it happened. I had frozen, utterly, and he was savoring the fear I couldn't hide. After nearly a minute, the dagger close enough to trim an eyelash disappeared, stashed away once more in the folds of Dargbin’s cloak. By the time I had noticed, he was back at his seat, that damned grin on his face not fading in the slightest. I peered down at my shoe and its newest hole, then glared at him as I pulled myself back to my feet, only to flinch again as a piece of softened leather thumped against my cheek. I looked down to see what it was.
It was my empty coin pouch. He’d picked my pocket even as he had threatened my life, all to prove his point. Now, granted, it was empty most of the time, but STILL.
Rintoom, the aasimar paladin, decided to end the tests with a series of questions. “Tell me, boy,” I remember him asking me, “What tools do you have to safeguard yourself? The world has many perils, after all.”
Okay, he might not have used those EXACT words, but give me a break; I’m trying to remember a conversation I had with the guy almost twenty years ago.
Well, I started trying to tell him about a woodcutting maul I’d taken with me when I left the farm, when Rintoom just shook his head and cut me off.
“No, boy, you don’t understand what I’m asking you. Let me try again. I’ve been a paladin for many years, as you can likely tell. I’ve held many weapons in my hands, but I’ve held one most dear to me for that entire time. Would you care to guess as to what that weapon is?”
I won’t lie, my first thought was the massive two-handed greatsword strapped to his back, but I could tell that he was hunting for better than the obvious answer. Besides, every other test at this point had seemed straightforward only to backfire on me spectacularly, so this time I decided to keep my mouth shut. Seeing as how his expression softened a bit, and considering that, up to that point, it was an immoveable mask of contempt and pity, I’m guessing that my silence was the right answer.
“It’s my faith. My faith has seen me through more trials and perils than any weapon one could set in my hands. In part, it is because my faith is always with me. I may be separated from my arms and armor, but one must strike me down to separate my faith from me. The greatest weapon you may wield is the one that is always close at hand, no matter what. Now, bearing in mind what I just said, what is your weapon?”
I knew what he was saying, but I had no good reply. I didn’t HAVE anything like that. He knew it, too. The prior beatings I took from his group stung, and certainly wounded my pride, but Rintoom’s test was the first thing I’d heard that counted, even marginally, as help. It was another of the hints that I should have taken that screamed that I should have given up, and as hints go, it was a damned good one. Of course, keep in mind; still young and stupid at that point, so I obviously didn’t take it. I didn’t have a good answer for him, but not having a good answer doesn’t stop me from producing a bad one. It’s true now, and it was especially true back then, so seconds later, I presented a pocketknife I carried in my belt.
I watched any possible hope for me die in his eyes as the contempt returned in his expression, the pity replaced with disappointment. Not everyone hated the proceedings, though; I remember Dargbin laughing hard enough to fall off his bench seat, crowing, “All hail the half-man champion, with his trusty butter-slayer!”
I couldn't take any more from them after that. I just witnessed my abject failure at trying to convince them, my plans going up in smoke on the VERY FIRST STEP, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I heard the barkeep yell something after me when I took off running out of there, but I don't know what. I don't even know how long I was running before I stopped, or where I thought I was going; all I remember is ending up in an alleyway, out of breath and wallowing in shame.
But I'll tell you this now, before anyone else tries to tell you differently: I wasn't crying.
I wasn't.
...Shut up.
The next day, I pretty much stayed out of sight; considering how many people had witnessed my unintentional comedy show the night before, I figured anyone who gave a damn would understand. Worst part of it was, I still found myself following those adventurers around when I saw them about town. I remember part of me trying to force them, and our encounter, from my mind. Each time I came across one of them, I'd try to turn away and find somewhere else to be, but I couldn't; the part of me who wanted to be an adventurer (a.k.a., the stupidly-suicidal part) kept trying to draw me to them, wanting to argue my case. The shame still stung, but it was getting burned away by my temper, and the frustration of the day kept stoking it higher and hotter.
Finally, I decided that I'd try again that evening, when they returned to the tavern. I showed up early, eager to show them that I wouldn't be run off so easily. After trying (and failing) to talk the owner into paying me for the measure of work that I did the night before, I settled in, and waited for them to return.
It was roughly an hour after midnight, while assisting the owner in kicking out the drunks to lock up, that I found out that the party had left town that afternoon, heading toward the foothills in the north.
I can still feel the cold pit that formed in my stomach when I heard that. It wasn't fair; I took the suffering they gave out and came back for more, and they didn't even bother to show up?! Once again, life was trying to give me an out, giving me a clear-as-daylight sign that I was not meant to be an adventurer. I recognize it for what it was now. But back then, I just remember thinking one thing:
FUCK. THAT. NOISE.
I didn't even bother to gather up my things, I was in such a rush for the northern gates. Time was against me; even if they made camp for the night, they had several hours head start, and all I had was a general heading. However, I did know that there was only one bridge that led to the foothills. They would HAVE to cross there, making the bridge my best hope at catching them. If they crossed before I caught up to them, it was over; I have no skill at tracking, and the foothills are expansive enough to get lost for days in. I don't know where I found the strength, but through the rest of the night, I ran as fast as my legs could carry me.
It was less than an hour before sunrise when I spotted the bridge in the distance. I was puffing and wheezing hard by that time; panic had overridden my need to breathe for most of my high-speed trek, but now that I had reached the end of my race, I was paying for it with interest. My legs felt watery, and I wore a hundred tiny cuts from an unfortunate run-in with a bramble bush in the dark. But relief flooded me as the bridge grew closer, and when I saw the tired campfire spitting the last of its embers near the riverbank and could make out the occupied bedrolls, Red'drik with his smithing hammer couldn't have removed the smile I wore from my face.
Then an arrow whistled past my head, the fletching grazing my right ear on its way by. I found out later that it was meant as a warning shot, and that it wouldn't have been fired had I approached the camp at a reasonable pace, like a sane person. Apparently, Trenisel took night watch seriously.
Anyway, between the fact that I was ready to collapse anyway, along with that arrow scaring a couple years off my life, I didn't stop so much as I stumbled, tripped, and ate shit, sliding to a face-first halt right next to the ashes of the campfire and waking the entire party in the process.
As bad as things started out, I still heavily prefer that second encounter with the party to the first. Mostly because, on my way down while I was falling, my knee cracked that asshole Dargbin right in the nose.
Seeing as how I was still recovering, not only from my midnight run, but my inauspicious landing at the end of it, I could barely string together enough words to tell them why I had made it all the way out there, but I managed. Needless to say, they weren't too happy about my impromptu travel plans; matter of fact, if not for Nasitto holding him back, I'm pretty sure Dargbin would have made good on the promise of a slow, agonizing death his daggers were keen on delivering. As it stood, they took their turns once again, trying to dissuade me from continuing on yet again, and unlike the time before, they weren't in the mood to play nice.
Nothing had changed from the last time they appraised me, they told me. I was still unskilled, undisciplined, and unprepared. They scolded me for recklessly risking my life in a mindless chase of childish desires, whether it was fame, or wealth, or thrills. They told me that I was going to get myself killed if I were lucky; if I were unlucky, then I would get someone else killed first. They then took it as given that I was to go home, forget about adventuring, and actually began discussion amongst each other to see who would escort me back to town.
Well, except for one of them, who voted to kill me where I stood and leave my remains where they fell. I'll give you three guesses as to who that was.
I don't know what it was, precisely, that set me off. Maybe it was the six of them talking about me like I wasn't there. Maybe it was the unanimous belief expressed that all I'd do is fail. Maybe it was nearly choking on the campfire ashes while I was trying to catch my breath. But when I finally recovered enough to speak, I was done playing nice. I don't remember the words I used; whether it was the passage of time since then, the mix of shame and rage boiling over in my mind, or if it was because I cracked my head on the ground and I hadn't fully recovered. I do remember, though, what those words added up to.
I called them all hypocrites, because at some point in their lives, they were exactly where I was standing. More guts than skill, but still ready to brave the hazards for whatever reason. I asked them en masse how they would have reacted back then, if someone told them to give up and go home. Then I told them what I thought of their attempt at bullying me out of my ambitions, and that's exactly what their little display in the tavern amounted to. That I wasn't going to let something like that keep me from trying, and that, regardless, I was going; the only thing they could affect was, whether I travelled alone or with a group.
By the time I finished unleashing all the vitriol and indignation I had summoned up, Rintoom was standing within arm's reach, shooting a glare at me that looked like it was trying to peer into my soul. It caught me by surprise, but I tried my hardest to return it, believing it to be another test, the test that would matter. If I faltered, any ground I made with the party would be lost, and I would forever be another whining child to them. Besides that, it gave me something to do instead of listening to Dargbin trying to convince the others that my corpse would be a lovely decoration for the riverbank.
Finally, Rintoom relented, and told me I could come along, but with three conditions:
1. I was to obey when given an order, with no question. I could ask why after the fact, but considering my experience, I had no business gainsaying anyone in the moment, especially were it possible our survival depended on my actions, no matter how unlikely the situation.
2. If combat were to occur, I was to stay out of it. If I could, I was to hide. If I couldn't, I was to run, but if combat broke out, I would be a liability. I had no combat skill, or reliable means of defense, and they would have enough of a time trying to keep themselves alive without needing to guard me as well.
3. The arrangement would hold only until after they were done with their current job. Afterward, the party would go their way, I would go mine.
I agreed immediately, thinking that, finally, I was truly beginning my path as an adventurer. Then Rintoom pointed to the camp, and told me to pack everything away. When he caught sight of the confused expression on my face, a light smirk crossed his when he told me, "Oh, did you not think you would earn your keep? You wish to travel with us, you will serve a purpose. We have no need for a liability. We could, however, use a porter." He then pointed back to the camp, continuing with, "Hurry up now, we travel by daylight. That is, if you're still coming along?"
I bit back a grimace and started packing away the bedrolls, all the while wondering how I was planning on carrying all of them and fighting the impulse to simply curl up into one. After the full day before, running through the night, and the tension-filled morning thus far, I was exhausted, and now I was looking at another long, strenuous day before I'd be allowed to rest again.
I was obviously caught in my musings, as while I was clearing the camp, I felt a harsh knock, and next I knew, I was pulling myself from the shore of the river, coughing and sputtering water. Then I heard the high-pitched bark of laughter and saw Dargbin, wearing a shit-eating grin on his face.
"What's wrong, child?" he asked me, obviously enjoying the setup. "I saw you dozing off, thought you might want a wakeup call like you gave me."
I don't know if anyone's picked up on it yet, but I HATED Dargbin. I'd probably still hate Dargbin, if the piece of shit wasn't already dead.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
((To be continued))
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