Neverstone: A LitRPG Adventure (The Mad Elf Book 1)

by Ned Caratacus

  The soggy boards buckled under his steps. Not interested in smelling like swamp water for the rest of the day, Era drew his sword and let it carry him through the air. Noah, perched in a tree to dispense healing spells, waved to Era.

  [Ogre 3 — Fling]

  On the ground at last, Era arrived just in time to absorb an intercontinental ballistic Liv.

  [573 DMG to Liv]

  [421 DMG to Era]

  “Oh, hey Slasher,” said Liv, staggering to her feet.

  “Sorry I'm late,” said Era, also staggering footwardly.

  “So's Raphael. And it's not like you missed much.”

  “Kill ugly humans!” roared an Ogre. “Kill humans!”

  “Oh my Gods, NO ONE CARES!”

  “But...kill ugly humans?”

  [Liv — Ice Skull]

  [2,790 DMG to Ogre 3]

  [Ogre 3 was slain!]

  To be fair, humans are ugly, but ogres weren't exactly in a “humans are the real monsters” situation themselves.

  One ogre was left, and it was right behind Era.

  “You can take that one if you like, Era,” said Ofelia, wiping war pixels from her blade. “If I see another ogre in a million years, I'll eat my sword.”

  “We've only seen four,” said Liv.

  “Stuff it, I'm bitter.”

  The ogre sneered at Era, patting its club against its free hand in anticipation. Era brought his sword into the air and prepared to send the ogre to Hell. Now, what's the best way to—

  [Ogre 4 — Stun Baton]

  Era felt the end of a hot length of pipe against his throat, sending electricity through his body. He fell backward as the muscles of his limbs went rigid.

  Well, that happened.

  [Ogre 4 — Decloak]

  A spherical field of holographic shapes surrounding the ogre appeared and disappeared, revealing Raphael. Even without his disguise kit, his mood had left him with a decidedly ogreish face.

  “You left a ridiculous and amateurish opening,” said Raphael. “If that baton were even a dull kitchen knife, you'd be dead.”

  Era already wanted to go back to sleep. “Someone got up on the wrong side of the giant pile of money,” he said.

  [Raphael — Voice of the Savior]

  “Shut up and listen!”

  [The entire team was paralyzed and silenced!]

  [That means you too, Noah!]

  Noah fell from the tree.

  “I've had a very rough night,” said Raphael. “Combine that with the fact that I'm a Prince, and, statistically, that means that you're all very lucky to be alive right now. Anyone else feel like adding color commentary?”

  The implied answer was “maybe.”

  “Good. Now, on to business. During the battle, I attempted to intercept Lord Monostatos and Thoric last night. Though the battle was met with...”

  YularTube — I Beat the Crap Out of Prince Raphael, Force Him to Literally Lick Dirt & Roadkill Off My Boots in a Back Alley While Thoric Plays Sad Violin Music

  Uploaded 6/26/5211 23:09 PM by: LordMontyOFFICIAL

  [LIVE — ARCHIVED]

  [Subscribe] [Comment]

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  [THIS VIDEO HAS BEEN BLOCKED AT THE REQUEST OF KOSCHEI MEDIA HOLDINGS]

  “...a very mixed success, I did manage to glean that the planned space for Ulfenstadt is not in Lemuria.”

  There are five possible reactions to hearing the Prince of Celsior say, “You have until September 1st to reach Level 70. Fail me, and you will be expelled from the quest, and the GU will be allowed to do as they please with Princess Pamina and her kingdom,” and they all depend on the kind of life you've led up until then.

  Era, who understood that jumping that many levels in less than three months was about as manageable as swimming in lava, grabbed his ornithomancer's whistle and scanned the swamp for some cute birds. Any distraction from this tall order of a new job was welcome.

  Liv, who was already building up resentment from the third syllable out of the Prince's mouth, threatened to knit a scarf out of Raphael's cardiovascular system. As a card-carrying member of Celsiorans Against Children Knitting, Raphael was particularly disgusted, and the look on his face as he teleported away thoroughly satisfied Liv's rage.

  Noah, who, for the 2% of readers who haven't caught on yet, was in love with the GU's primary target, cast “Dispel Tension” on himself no less than five times in the span of one minute, and still managed to turn into a hyperventilating mess.

  Ofelia, who knew that Pamina was the single greatest obstacle to Rosencrace becoming its own country, placed a sympathetic hand on Noah's shoulder, because she had manners, dammit! Still, the mental image of that bureaucratic, snot-nosed tart blown to smithereens was more than welcome. Glory to Rosencrace.

  Branwen—wait, Branwen?

  As the heroes trudged across the gravel parking lot, a vein-knitting scream came from the bus. Mischa stood in the doorway of the Doomwagon with an apologetic smile. Steve sat on his shoulder; one could argue that skeletons have a permanent apologetic smile.

  “We might have a situation,” said Mischa.

  Another scream.

  Era groaned. Hi, Branwen.

  Branwen kicked open the door to the Doomwagon's bathroom from within and stretched her arms. The hour she had spent on the toilet was pure agony, but nothing she wasn't used to. Although her digestive system didn't conform to Euclidian geometry, all the barbed wire had to come out somewhere.

  At any rate, the pain had driven away her hallucinations for the time being, and she was back in “LaGuêpe's” bus. And sure enough, there stood an elvish knight, a one-legged fencer, and a Mystic —all of whom were significantly easier on the eyes than their Bug French counterparts.

  But their weapons were drawn. She sighed. This wasn't the part she was looking forward to—even her hour long death by toilet session had its pleasant qualities.

  “All right,” said the pirate. “I know what yer thinkin', and—”

  “Hold it!” said Liv, pointing to Era's sword. “What's that, and what's it made of?”

  “That's a rapier,” said Branwen, “and it's made of metal, specifically steel, and I wanna say there's some mythril in it.”

  Not hearing, “that's a turkey sausage made of sex magic,” the three heroes lowered their weapons. Era would have preferred “that's a Schiavona,” but this wasn't the time or place, so he merely groaned.

  “So, you're lucid,” said Liv. “Why did you follow us? If it's for Noelle, you can for—”

  “Noelle is dead to me! Wretched li'l backstabbin' Delilah! She drags ya in, and suddenly, everyone's A-wordin' ya.”

  “You mean 'Anubis?'” asked Era.

  [Era — Branwen’s Safeword]

  Branwen hit the floor, screaming a variation of “pretty much, yeah” through her teeth. “Point bein' she's danger, that one. I won't speak to her ever again, and I would advise the rest of ya to do the same.” She pointed to Liv. “Especially you! She gobbles up mall goths for breakfast, lunch, an—”

  Liv coughed out an “Anubis” into her cupped hands.

  [Liv — Branwen’s Safeword]

  “Sorry,” said Liv, who wasn't.

  “Anyway,” groaned Branwen, still writhing on the floor, “I'm sorry I almost got your healer dude killed. I shoulda been more careful.”

  “I suppose I could forgive you,” said Liv. “Once. But do it again, and I'll crucify you on a vending machine, cover you in fish guts, and throw you in shark infested waters!”

  A glimmer of hope and wonder appeared in Branwen's eyes.

  “She means that if you do it again,” said Era, “the whole vending machine-fish guts-shark shindig will never happen to you. Ever. Not even if you say please.”

  Branwen groaned, the new threat doing the job. “Alright, alright. But I didn't come followin' you just to apologize. See, I'm recently out of a job—the HMS Video Nasty was totaled during the whole Route 49 thingy, and my crewmates either
died, ditched me, or both. Which means, I'm gonna be joining you bastards to fight Lord Monty!” She smiled, expectantly.

  “Yeah, no thanks,” said Liv.

  “Sorry,” said Era, “I mean, you're really strong, but we're kinda at full capacity.”

  The dwarf's smile grew a few centimeters wider, and 105% more desperate. “Erm. Yes. That's your decision.”

  “Correct,” said Liv. “You can go, now.”

  110% desperate. “I can. And I will. Just—the thing is, you know my safeword.”

  Ofelia sneered. “And we'll say it to you ad infinitum if you don't pack up your scabies and piss right off, you feculent little disease vector!”

  [Branwen — Blackmail...self?]

  274%. “And,” said the dwarf, “if ya so chose, you could spread that safeword. Tell every other street pirate of my weakness. And like that, my berserker career would be over.”

  A sudden, chilly breeze filled the bus.

  “Okay,” said Era. “I promise I'll keep your safeword a secret. If you like, we can grab Noah and he can do his whole Ram's Hoof Oath thi—”

  584%.

  “I'm not leaving until I know I can trust you,” said Branwen.

  Era, Liv, and Noah exchanged a few exasperated glances.

  Finally, Era sighed, and nodded. “Okay, but don't make me regret this,” he said.

  603%. “Or what, elf?”

  “Nothing. Just...wouldn't be very nice of you, is all.”

  [Branwen joined the party!]

  [CURRENT ROSTER (after a July's worth of level grinding):]

  [Era — Fencer — Level 53 — HP 5100 — MP 500]

  [Liv — Mystic — Level 55 — HP 4100 — MP 1030]

  [Noah — Healer — Level 49 — HP 3900 — MP 1400]

  [Ofelia — Paladin — Level 48 — HP 4900 — MP 650]

  [Branwen — Berserker —Level 51 — HP 7400 — MP 0]

  Route 29, which passed through Rosencrace, had the wonderful feature of thirty foot brick walls around each side. Makeshift billboards for renovation projects, future strip malls, and ski resorts in the northern mountains had been strung up along the edges.

  For travelers, this helped to obscure the depressing view of the still-ruined countryside, which meant that Era was eager for a chance to take in the air of his homeland once again.

  Era sat in the crow's nest as the Doomwagon cruised down the passing lane, headed east. Curled up in the bucket seat, he felt the cold fog of the capital's winds fly through his hair, making it lash against his cheeks as he faced backward.

  He sniffed, and immediately regretted it. The whole kingdom still has a hint of that toasted plastic smell. Probably won't smell any different for another few centuries.

  Era's leg stump seized up at the thought.

  Just give it a chance. Maybe there are still birds here. The Light of the Gods wasn't targeting the seagulls, was it?

  [Era — Ornithomancer's Whistle]

  [Nordfalcon was interested!]

  Hearing the clatter of claws on metal behind him, Era turned to the front of the bus. Black plumage with tan highlights and standing at twice the height of a hawk—this was the Nordfalcon, Rosencrace's national bird, staring expectantly into Era's eyes.

  Era grinned. I thought these guys went extinct. “What's up, you handsome devil?”

  “Quack,” said the falcon, which wasn't known for its majestic voice.

  “I agree with your opinion.”

  [Raphael — Two-Point Landing]

  Wham!

  The falcon quacked off into the distance as a white and grey motorcycle fell onto the Doomwagon's roof after completing a sick double flip that, tragically, didn't happen in Era's field of vision.

  Raphael stepped off the bike and propped up its kickstand.

  “Okay, I know it's not gonna seem like we're on our way to level 70,” said Era. “And that's not incorrect, but—”

  The Prince raised a hand. “Yes, about that: there's something I need to tell you. Sadly, I'm on a time crunch, so I'll have to give it here.”

  [Raphael — Magic Printer]

  Pulling another receipt sized length of paper from his fingers, he handed it to Era, and forced his first honest to Gods smile in months. “Good luck, Erasmus!”

  [Raphael — Teleport Self]

  Era noticed that the motorcycle didn't teleport with him. “Hey, you left your—”

  [Raphael — Remote Detonator]

  The motorcycle popped open and scattered its debris across the highway, which then individually exploded. Reason being, Raphael had lots of money.

  HOUSE KOSCHEI

  ~ Liberty Through Innovation ~

  Memo Regarding the September 1st Deadline

  Good afternoon, Chosen Three.

  I realize that the deadline to reach Level 70 by the end of the month may have been a ridiculous request for even an experienced party.

  Fortunately, I have found the 'third path,' as it were. I have discovered a quick and efficient method to reach level 70 within a single afternoon.

  Your mission: using provided weaponry, you are to slay the Sol Invictus.

  We'll rendezvous at the Cliffs of St. Darius Wildlife Preserve at 3:00 PM sharp. Meet me at the fenced in containment area; I'll let the guard know you're coming. Ofelia may come if she so pleases, but for Ilya the Wise's sake, that disgusting berserker you picked up must remain out of my sight.

  Yours Sincerely,

  Prince Raphael Koschei

  The heroes sat around Era as he held the prince's memo on the couch, having read it aloud. Branwen groaned, mumbling something about biting off Prince Raphael's elbows while he was sleeping. Maybe she did almost kill Noah, but the pirate was starting to grow on Liv.

  Ofelia was the only one of them who had heard of the Sol Invictus, and the expression on her face could be objectively described as angsty raisin. “Galgalim help us,” she said, “he's giving us a suicide mission!”

  “Oh, dear. How much of a priest am I gonna need?” asked Noah.

  “You're going to need nothing short of an army of patriarchs. No one's done a point of damage to that beast in a century.”

  “'With the provided weapons, though,” said Liv. “Maybe Koschei R&D cooked up some kind of de-Sol-Invictifier bomb.”

  “Then why, pray tell, haven't they killed him yet?!”

  “No one paid them,” said everyone else. Of course, Branwen's answer was “they're peepots,” which is arguably the same thing.

  Ofelia sighed. “Fair enough. But, look, I dabbled in monster hunting when I was younger. The Rosencracian Hunters' Guild had a scale for rating monster strength—all 26 letters of the alphabet, weakest is Z class. This is a D class monster—any higher than that, and it'd technically be a god, and people would start worshipping it instead of fighting it.”

  “What's a Horse Elemental's rank?” asked Era. “Just to give me some idea of scale.”

  “Q class.”

  A collective brick was crapped all around.

  Thanks to piss poor traffic conditions, the heroes had little choice but to make a run for it as soon as they reached the parking lot. Ofelia elected to stay behind and keep an eye on Branwen. To keep the pirate occupied, she invented a little game called “polish my armor or I'll say the A word.” Noah wasn't a fan of this proposal, but Ofelia reassured him that the pirate was probably going to eat her armor one way or another.

  It didn't help that the path to the aforementioned cliffs was up a lengthy log and dirt hiking stairway in the hills. Era clung onto his floating sword and hovered a few inches above the ground the whole time. In layman's terms: long walks upstairs plus chronic fatigue, plus missing leg, multiplied by hurrying, and divided by lateness equals either pure agony or cheap shortcuts.

  Of course, exhaustion was far from the worst thing going to happen to Era that day. Since seventeen pages of internal monologue consisting of a single, prolonged scream is generally frowned upon in literary circles, let's shift to Liv's POV
for the time being.

  Liv hated hiking trails. Hate was a strong word, but so is death metal, and Liv knows what she's about. Though the Ramblind Forest never had any shortage of monsters, hiking trails just felt insincere. To her, the easiest way to ruin something, especially wilderness, was to have sternly-worded house rules posted in unavoidable places and putting rope fences around where you were supposed to go.

  She groaned. This isn't a forest anymore. This is a Godsdamn leaf museum. I bet they arrest the squirrels for peeing.

  Still, one sign in the near distance was something she didn't mind a bit. Located under a few arrow shaped wooden posts reading “Gift Shop!,” “Ramblind Woodchuck Cafe!,” and “Restrooms!” was “CONTAINMENT AREA—RESTRICTED,” hastily stencil painted over an old sign for “Beach!” That's our stop.

  On through the old wooden barricades, piles of garbage, and warning signs. The tunnel of trees above them faded as they progressed. The roar of the waves below snuck into Liv's ears every now and then; a welcome, familiar sound.

  A rush of wind from higher ground heralded the approaching hum of helicopter blades. Over the last hill in the ascent, Liv saw a mesh fence covered in barbed wire and—geez, sorry for not panicking—more warning signs. Beyond, Raphael stood on the rocky plain before the cliffs. A long, two engine Celsioran military helicopter floated down toward him. Must be here to deliver our fancy new weapons.