by Pirateaba
The small Goblin smiled. She raised a finger and Ryoka didn’t hesitate. She lunged forwards and kicked the small Goblin as hard as she could.
Her bare foot met the cold impact of metal rather than flesh. The Goblin had managed to raise her shield, but Ryoka’s kick still catapulted her across the ground.
She didn’t see whether the Goblin was going to get up. Ryoka turned and sprinted away, dodging Goblins as they poured over the hill. She felt something graze her arm and then heat on her back—she juked left and the fiery bird missed her. Ryoka kept running and then they were behind her.
—-
After about ten minutes Ryoka couldn’t hear any more Goblins shouting. She kept running though. She didn’t trust her ears.
But her body was aching. She was at the end of her tether and eventually Ryoka had to slow to a jog. Her legs felt like lead. Like someone was holding onto each foot. She was tired.
But she ran on. The Goblins disappeared, giving up on her or having found better quarry.
And Ryoka ran on.
She had escaped with everything important. The ring Teriarch had given her—the letter—her money pouch—and she still had the potions strapped to her rucksack. She left the Goblins behind and ran on.
Ryoka ran.
—-
As she bandaged her eighth cut Ryoka took stock. She unslung her rucksack, relieved the pack hadn’t been badly damaged by the Goblins. She didn’t have much. But she still carried a lot.
She carried three healing potions, a ruby ring, a letter, dry rations, two flasks of water, a change of clothing, a ball of lye soap, a toothbrush wrapped in wax paper, salt, a small lantern, what passed for toilet paper in this world, her iPhone and headphones, a lightweight blanket made of wool, a pouch full of gold coins, and her sins.
The last weighed heaviest. But Ryoka had stopped thinking. She only knew to run. So she did. She ran up and down the rolling hills, finding the road again. Following past the tall gates of Liscor, running down the road where the traffic thinned, until the road was barely visible around the grass that had reclaimed it.
Running on. Towards the Blood Fields.
—-
On her fortieth mile the grasslands changed. The hills stopped rolling, and she felt herself travelling down an incline.
The longest hill in the world.
She would have laughed. Or screamed when the spiders came out of their pits. But she ran on, leaving the deathtraps behind and sticking to the road. The grass was not safe.
And the road was empty.
Because the land beyond Liscor was desolate for miles, even of bandits. Bandits preyed on travelers, and who would travel so far north? Better to take a ship. Or if travel had to be done, it was best done in a caravan armed to the teeth.
The road stretching south from Liscor ran down through the plains and branched into several paths that would lead to major cities, the Gnoll tribe lands, and even the coast. But to get there every traveler had to pass through the Blood Fields.
And they were death.
Ryoka knew this and she ran on. The landscape changed under her feet. Grass became sparser, tougher; less pleasant to run on and more full of weeds. She stepped in a patch of something like nettles and had to stop.
By the light of the first campfire Ryoka stared at her swollen foot and ankles. She used one of her precious healing potions, spreading a bit of the liquid over the worst parts, watching the swelling decrease.
But the itching remained. She didn’t want to waste any more potion so she stayed awake.
After the two thousand and thirty fourth sheep Ryoka drank a few gulps of water, flushed a bit of water out of her system, and slept.
—-
When she found the second stream Ryoka’s water had nearly run out and it was the third day. She’d run all day on the first day, but the second had seen her walking.
Because of the rocks.
The road and the ground had lost vegetation, except for the most virulent and prickly of bushes and dried vegetation. And without a soft padding, the ground had become gravel. And try as she might, Ryoka couldn’t bring herself to keep running over mile after mile of pain.
She filled her water bottle, hoping the clear water was potable and walked on. Her feet hurt. But she had to keep going. There was no turning back.
—-
As she popped the fifth blood blister, Ryoka wished she’d brought shoes. But she hadn’t and the pain was only fitting. So she kept walking. And only now, in the silence of slower motion could she hear her thoughts again.
She wished she couldn’t.
—-
It was all a mistake. All of it*. I should never have come to Esthelm. I should have kept running.
*Not a mistake. Your fault. You fool. Fool.
My feet hurt. They’re in agony. The ground is broken. But if I keep walking I can go on. My calluses are tough. They’re—
I hit her. I shouldn’t have. And Calruz. That Yvlon…
I—shouldn’t have done it**.
**Of course not. You fucking idiot.
But what could I have done? She challenged me and Calruz was—it was because he was rude to Garia***.
***No it wasn’t. It was you. You idiot. You fool. Foolish, stupid, inbred bitch without a shred of gratitude for the people who saved you! HEALED YOU. Gave you a hand when everyone else turned their backs and YOU ATTACKED THEM AND HURT—
I try to erase the voices in my head. But they keep talking. Blaming. And they’re right.
This is all my fault.
I burn bridges as I breathe. I hurt people with my words and what I do. It sounds fine to me, until I remember that there are good people in this world. In every world.
I can still remember the feeling of hitting Ceria. I can still taste blood. Feel my fists and feet kicking Calruz.
It feels like a dream. Or—a waking nightmare. But it happened. And the sensation is not unfamiliar to me.
I have done this before. Many times before.
How many times is many? Enough so that I can recall sitting in small rooms, waiting for my parents to talk with teachers or the police. But those were fights and I was usually acting in self-defense even if only I saw it that way.
This is different.
This was wrong.
My feet hurt. A sharp burst of agony—I stop and pick the sharp rock out of the bridge of my foot. It’s just physical pain. Not important.
Why did I do it? Because I wanted to fight. Because I hate their levels. So I’ve said. But Ceria—
“But someone who rejects the way the world works just because she doesn’t like it—that’s new.”
Not because I don’t like it. Because the world is wrong.
Say who? Me. But that’s idiotic. Without Levels how would anyone survive against monsters? Perhaps—there are ways. But this is the way the world works. Why do I resist it?
Better…better to die an idiot than a slave.
Madness. This is all wrong. I hurt them. I hurt the ones who were kind to me. What did I think I was doing? I’ve cut off ties, estranged myself from adventurers, Magnolia, the Runner’s Guild—
To hell with them all. I don’t need them.
I do.
I don’t.
Ryoka Griffin doesn’t need friends. She’s lived so far without them.
Lived under her parent’s influence and money, you mean. Ryoka Griffin hasn’t tasted the real world. And she never would have. But here I can’t survive this way.
Why not? Who is Ryoka Griffin? Why does she need anyone?
I am Ryoka Griffin. But what does that mean? It’s just a name. Not even one I chose. But it’s mine. All I have.
Define Ryoka Griffin for me, then. Go ahead. Do it.
Smart. Brilliant. Or good at taking IQ tests. A clean bill of health—no physical illnesses, flaws, or anything else. Talented. The kind of student they look for in ivy league schools.
Flawed.
Terribly, cripplingly flawed.
Flawed by perfection, which is to say that I have nothing which defines me. Some people are shaped by adversity and measure their selves against what they have accomplished and fought for. But the curse of the privileged is that without having needed to strive for anything, nothing of value is made.
I practiced martial arts because I wanted to be able to defend myself not because I had to. I studied in school and got perfect scores because I liked learning and winning, not because I was driven to it.
I—
—Am a hollow person.
Or am I looking at this the wrong way? Arrogance. Even in my own head I call what I have perfection. Perfection is perfect—if I was perfect I wouldn’t have these problems, would I? No. This isn’t perfection.
How do you define Ryoka Griffin? An equation?
(|Perfection| – Social Interaction) + Anger + A Bit of Magic = Ryoka Griffin? Or is it—
(|Perfection – Human Interaction | + Rage + Loneliness) + Another Chance = Ryoka Griffin?
Well, obviously I’m not perfect. But in certain areas I lack flaws or disadvantages. My IQ score—
Means nothing. It is an arbitrary measurement that does not take social ability, creativity, emotional stability into account. Rather than call your physical adeptness and mental ability a perfect standard, refer to it instead as tabula rasa. You are a blank slate, but what has been put in is arrogance, antisocial behaviors, rage. You have corrupted the purity of what has been given.
Corrupted? Is it my fault I was an outsider since I was born? My fault that those other little bastards can’t even see past the color of my skin or who gets the highest score in class?
Here come the excuses. Always the same rhetoric. Always the same lies. That was years ago. Why can’t you admit you caused most of your own problems yourself? Even your daddy issues are—
I do not have ‘daddy issues’.
But you hate him. You hate him for what he was not. And that is unfair. You hate your classmates for what they aren’t. You hate them for not accepting you and maybe that’s fair. But you hate everything you encounter sooner or later. They are all worthless. They will let you down.
What does Ryoka Griffin love? A list:
-Running
-Music
-Knowledge
-Magic*
-Martial arts
-Being angry
-The open sky and breeze on my face as I stare across a thousand miles of untouched land
-Adventure
What did I want back there? To be free of Yvlon—no, Magnolia. Her and her damn attempts to control me. It’s her fault. If she hadn’t pushed.
All she’s done is ask you questions. She offered you aid and you refused it. She put a ninja on your rooftop, but was he there to hurt you or guard you? When has she directly attempted to hurt you? She’s not like Persua.
That bitch. She’s an example of why these people aren’t worth the time it takes to outrun them. Those cowards—
Garia is no coward. She is brave and honest in her own way. But she can’t run alone. Just because you can, why are you holding everyone to the same standard?
I—can’t think straight. I have to deliver this damn ring and the letter. From an elven mage. So many questions. That was what I should have done. But I got bogged down with all the adventuring nonsense—
You wanted to see them. More than learning magic, you wanted to talk to them, didn’t you?
I hurt everyone I see. I should never have gone to them. And they are not perfect.
Calruz is an arrogant, patriarchal fool. Gerial’s nothing special. Ceria is—
Listen to yourself. What about Sostrom? What has he ever done to you? He fixed your iPhone. He gave you music.
But the other adventurers—what were they like? The same. They enjoyed watching me fight. There was a hierarchy there, and the way they talked. ‘Work together. Don’t rock the boat. Keep your head down and maybe you’ll be okay.’
The same. The same as those bullies. The little bastards who strut around in their small world, pushing everyone down so they feel taller. And if you stand up to them they run and hide, cry, retreat in the face of any kind of bravery but always stab from the corners and shadows with words and actions, those—
void bullyMethodology() {
do {
if (bullies.size() >= 1){
System.out.print(hurtfulWords);
System.out.print(internalizedRacism);
System.out.print(thoughtlessBile);
if (bully.aggression >= 2){
hurt(bully, victim);
}
}else{
Bully b = new Bully(individual, victim);
bullies.add(b);
}
if (victim.isStillResisting == true){
bully.aggression++;
if (victim.fightingAbility >= bully.fightingAbility) {
makeFalseAccusation(bully, victim);
cowardlyAttack(bully, victim);
spreadLies(bully, victim);
}
}
} while (victim.alive == true);
}
//Of course, a bully is not an individual but a group. And the group dynamics mean all bully the ones who stand out so that a group can be a group. There can be no unity without someone to band together to hurt.
I hate them all. I will never forget them or their smallness. The world would be better off without them.
Yeah. Better off if they were dead.
I can’t keep thinking like this. When the fury boils in me and I want to lash out—it’s the same. The same. But at the wrong targets this time.
I stop and fish around in my pocket. There. My iPhone. The screen wonderfully, magically lights up. There’s not much power left. Too much listening to it during the night. Should have turned down the screen brightness. But enough.
I hit shuffle and the music starts. Centuries by Fall Out Boy starts playing. Good music. But—not the right music for the moment.
I switch to the next track. Counting Stars by One Republic. Better. Faster.
You can’t hide. You can’t run from what you’ve done. Not here.
Normally the music can drown out all of the voices. But not this time. They’re too loud. But I keep going. I walk faster and switch to the next song. A better one.
Another One Republic song starts playing, but this is a collaboration. Timbaland’s Apologize ft. One Republic.
For a second my finger hovers over the next button. But I keep walking. The song hurts. But that’s fine.
“It’s too late to apologize.”
I speak it to the desolate wasteland. The faint, cold breeze takes my words away.
Yeah. Too late.
Except it’s not too late.
If I could rip out the insides of my head I would. But I can’t. My feet bleed. They’re in agony. But even the pain and the music isn’t enough.
Go back. Grovel. Put aside your useless pride for once and maybe if you are sincere and humble they will find it in their hearts to forgive you.
Too late. Too late and I can’t do it. I don’t know how.
You’ve never tried. And these are the best people you’ve met. Good people. You admire them. Secretly, you want to be like them, don’t you? Free. You’d rather be an adventurer than a Runner, but you’re afraid of what you’ll find inside yourself if you start killing.
Shut up.
You’d rather level up and be part of this world, but you can’t believe it’s real. You can’t be part of anything larger than yourself because you fear it. But you like the Horns of Hammerad. You owe them.
Ceria.
She taught you magic. Gerial is honorable. They travelled a hundred miles and paid to heal you. You may have given them gold in return, but your debt is greater than that. You like them.
I can’t—can’t go back.
You can. They would forgive you. And if they don’t, they are not the people you think they are.
I can’t.
Try. You have to
try. If you just give it once chance, who knows what might happen?
Besides, the Minotaur’s pretty damn ripped. And you’re a sucker for guys with good bodies, aren’t you? You could totally get over the fur. Size might be an issue but—
Okay, we’re done. I crank up the volume on my iPhone to max and wait until my ears are ringing before I turn it off. By that time the sun is setting.
It’s getting dark. And the grayish brown soil and rocks have changed under my feet. Now—the earth has turned dark. Crimson. Blackish red. Sangria and umber in places, but mainly, shades of red. Mahogany, rosewood, crimson, wine.
Red.
It’s wrong. How can blood stain the ground for so—so long? But the dark colors are everywhere. It can’t all be blood.
Can it?
The Blood Fields. The place of death where armies clashed and fight even to this day. An empty wasteland designated as a place to do battle. It sounds ridiculous—an area where nations march their armies to fight like gentlemen dueling each other?—but this is a good spot for it. It’s one of two gateways linking the northern and southern parts of the continent and so armies of Drakes and Humans collide here when one side invades the other.
And apparently, where thousands die in events like plague or war, the potential for the dead rising is far higher than anywhere else. Only places like the Blood Fields are safe. Something—I read something about the dead not seeming to rise or disappearing in this area?