by Daniel Heck
Then stop upon a moment’s news,
As the color turns to…
You stop in horror as you realize the next words have been smudged, as that small portion of the page sits soaked by splashed liquid. As a result, you can’t read the rest of the instruction.
“Oh,” Argent says. “Oh, my.”
Nobody says anything for several moments.
“It appears intuition will have to fill in the rest,” Bartleby says.
“If intuition is incorrect, we have lost the Bard’s Brew,” Argent warns, “There is no trying again.”
On top of it all, you think you hear the clattering of large numbers of skeletal bones, along with the clank of armor and weapons, approaching from down the tunnel. Time is once again of the essence, as the army of Thomerion has come to stop you.
Consider carefully the keywords you’ve gathered throughout your adventures in this book when deciding what to do next.
When will you have Argent stop stirring?
When the potion is blue.
When the potion is red.
When the potion is green.
This is the king’s former love, you remind yourself. There has to be some semblance of good left in her.
You barrel toward your best guess at a cutoff point as Roghet rears back her spear, and close the distance in a few grand strides. She downswings upon Wyver’s exposed back, but you tackle her just in time. The impact wrenches your shoulder hard, and pain lances through your torso. The king, wide-eyed, finishes off a skeleton, then turns toward the source of the commotion.
“Roghet,” he says sadly, “This is my new destiny. Surely you can understand.”
She struggles as you lay upon her back, and her cheeks acquire more grass and mud from ground contact. As you put your entire weight upon her in a submission hold, she goes limp, and you tie her hands with rope. You help her up while tightly holding her arms.
“Wyver,” she says through tears, “I love you. And, I hate you. For this. I just… don’t know how I want to feel.”
The king approaches to within inches of the druid, stepping quietly among the chaos, and strokes her face, wiping the tracts of moisture. They lock gazes, and he kisses her, long and deep. Her eyes flutter like sprites in the wind, and for a moment, the pair look beautiful together, highlighted by the blazing morning sun.
“You will see me again,” the king tells her. “Of course, for now, you know what I have to do…”
Roghet smiles. “I understand,” she replies. At Wyver’s command, you haul her away from the battle, to be taken into the local prison and arraigned on charges of assault upon royalty.
Write down the keyword LOVE.
I would not have it any other way.
You let the pirates go about their business onshore, and pretty soon, it appears that no one monitors what’s going on within the actual ship. You dip further behind the trees and circle toward the shoreline, and see that a gigantic treasure chest sits just behind the near railing, onboard.
You glance about one last time, and make a beeline for the boarding ramp. Your footsteps are silent against the sand, but it hits you that you could attract attention by clomping upon the ramp, so you hold fast, and hide behind it.
You overhear the pirate band discussing something about raiding further inland, which is what they do next, leaving you alone.
Unbelievable luck!
You board the ship with little trouble, open the chest and look inside. Gems of all sorts, along with platinum and gold pieces and a few small weapons, fill the container to the absolute edges. You marvel at it all for several moments, digging through and tempted to take far more than what you need.
There it is.
The biggest pearl you have ever seen sits in the lowest recesses of the chest. You palm it, as excitement rushes through your veins.
“Can I help you with something?”
You jump out of your skin, stand and whirl about to find that a wiry human, armed with a broadsword and wearing a large feathered hat, confronts you. A nearby door to what you can only assume is the captain’s quarters, closed when you boarded, now stands wide open.
“I helm this vessel,” the man says calmly, “And whoever you are, you are trespassing.”
The two of you draw weapons, but the captain kicks you in the face, sending you onto your back. You roll twice toward portside, shifting a couple large barrels by several feet. The ship jostles, causing you to fall again just as you gain your footing. With better sea legs, the captain closes the distance and swings his sword once, twice, three times, each blow missing by mere inches.
Breathing heavily, you look aside just long enough to note that you have circled around to the boarding ramp once again. You rumble down it and toward the forest once again, but are only a few yards from the ship when you hear,
“Never turn your back on a pirate.”
Something whizzes through the air from behind and strikes you between the shoulder blades. You fall to your knees. As unbearable pain shoots through you and blood begins to seep through your clothing, you look down to see the very point of a dagger protruding from your sternum. The last things you hear are the footfalls and murmurs of the rest of the pirate band, returning to investigate the commotion. Soon, all fades to black.
Cruel fate has taken your life. Rise again!
Go back to the previous choice, or…
Restart from the beginning.
The rhyming structure speaks to you, and by now, three cycles have completed, so you direct Argent to stop when the potion next becomes blue. The tromping of skeletal warriors grows louder.
When he stops, the potion just sits there, boiling mundanely for a few moments. Then, its color fades, leaving a perfectly transparent and unremarkable liquid.
Argent hangs his head. “We have failed,” he mutters.
Bartleby shouts from the open door, “We have company!”
Dozens of undead, all armed with swords, burst into the laboratory and zero in on Argent. The other three of you defend him to the best of your ability, and he unleashes a volley of destructive spells, but the enemy outnumbers you by at least six to one. Whenever you down one, another takes its place, overwhelming your small corps, until you find yourself exhausted and badly wounded.
With no regard left for the contents of Argent’s compound, you try to force your way back through the tunnel, but the skeletons’ sheer force bowls you over and onto the dirt ground, where they trample upon you, shrieking in glee.
Don’t let evil win. Read another path!
Go back to the previous choice, or…
Restart from the beginning.
“A pair and a straight,” Saul says. “Just one point to go.” He turns over the four of spades, and places it in the last spot. The final grid looks like this:
You have lost.
I hang my head in defeat.
You consider what you can offer. You don’t have much money, and can’t afford to part with your axe or shield, for your own safety.
The way to get a pirate’s attention off something valuable, you theorize, is with something more valuable.
You clear your throat, and several pirates look in your direction. You step out from behind cover, but keep your distance. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” you bellow, “but you seek pearls, am I correct?”
The men glance at each other, snicker and jab elbows, as if they haven’t seen a dwarf in their lives. “What of it?” one grunts.
“I seek pearls also. But if you can give me the largest one you have on board, I promise to lead you to the most powerful concoction on earth. It can cure anything, it can destroy anything. It can do whatever you want it to!”
They stand, stunned, scratching their heads.
You continue, in dramatic tone, “It is called the Bard’s Brew.”
At this, the pirate crew bursts out in hearty laughter, bending over themselves and slapping their knees. You feel your face flush.
“What is so funny?”
“You
speak of useless legends,” one shouts, “The Bard’s Brew hasn’t been made in centuries!”
You cross your arms. “That may be true, but I seek the ingredients to make it again.”
A stout pirate composes himself and shouts, “He’s serious, fellas.” They begin to calm. “You’d best be warned, landlubber,” he continues, “the last man to imbibe his attempt at such a potion got his insides eaten out by magic gone haywire.”
Another says, “That’s why we don’t believe in them mystical stuff, ain’t that right, boys?” The crew growls and shouts its agreement.
So, this has been a wild goose chase? you think as you scratch your chin. Although, these people are likely just misinformed.
“But,” the stout one resumes, “If it’s pearls yer lookin’ fer, I might be able to talk the captain into letting you join us. You seem harmless enough. Hell, it had been forever since our last good laugh.”
“And,” you say, “the alternative would be?”
“Oh, we’d have to kill you. No sense lettin’ ya snitch to the authorities if we let you go.”
You can’t tell just how seriously the pirate means this last statement, but you figure you shouldn’t take chances. The men guide you on board. Over the next few days, while you sail, you search among their stash several times over, but each time, the goods end up getting sold or traded for pure cash. To get off the boat and back home, besides, would require stealing a lifeboat, and by now, you’re too far away from the mainland to get back to Fedwick in time, even if you did.
You resign yourself to the life of a pirate, and in many ways, it excites you. You get to use many of your military tactics in new and refreshing environments, and the smell of sea salt, along with stiff maritime breezes, invigorate you every time you step above decks. Even your attitude regarding theft begins to change. But you never do get rid of the nagging feeling, sitting there in the back of your mind, that your friend would not approve of such behavior.
Forgive me, you ask of the universe, as you raise the mainsail, before heading to the mess hall for a bite.
Better opportunities await you. Try again!
Go back to the previous choice, or…
Restart from the beginning.
After some consultation with Bartleby, you present his talisman to the fisherman. You show off the intricate carvings in the face and the painstaking efforts that went into the finish.
The youth laughs. “You can talk all day long, but it’s still just a hunk of wood,” he complains, posing with his fists on his hips, “Show me something I could use if I had to.”
Your heart sinks and you mutter to yourself, as it appears you’ll say goodbye to Ol’ Rusty for a while after all.
At least I tried...
The battle is nearly won. Skeletons lay still, in twisted piles over a large swath of land abutting your home. Facing certain destruction, a bishop issues the remaining enemies an order, and they retreat back up the hillside and out of sight.
“Is everyone all right?” you shout.
Grindle and Bartleby check in with you and the king, having suffered only minor scratches. Wyver dismisses some of his men, but keeps the ones that profess to have energy left over, before proceeding to the door of your hut. Bartleby winces at the sight of your shoulder, but recites a minor incantation, which reileves most of the pain.
You meet the king within your bedroom. He kneels over Fedwick, feels for his pulse, and wipes his brow. When he sees you, he stands.
“I was correct. The spell I had in mind should still work, but I need to start immediately. He may only have hours left.”
Wyver pulls a stool up to the bedside, and closes his eyes as you and the others stand watch. From a sitting position, he enters a meditative state, his features composed, no frown or other tension anywhere on his person. He extends both hands, holding one over Fedwick’s chest and the other over his forehead, and Wyver’s palms begin to glow white.
Finally, you think. The joy of being able to speak to your friend again, to know he will make it, washes over your whole being. You are tempted to tell Wyver to hurry things along, but remind yourself that, as he said, patience is required.
You scan the scene, as gratitude swells up within you. These people, you ponder, they devoted themselves to a revolution. You smile, even as you stare into nothing.
There is not much left to do but wait. Since things appear to be under control, you step outside, sit against the outer wall of your hut, and bask in the sun.
A young boy dashes up over the hillside and stoops over you, out of breath. You stand, put a hand on his shoulder and ask, “Are you all right?”
“I bring a message,” he pants. “King Wyver is needed. Scores of undead attack the capital, and the castle!”
You feel the news suck the air out of your chest. “What?”
“The royal army seeks orders, and as they are without a leader, their ranks are a mess. We’re losing!”
You look back toward your hut, as the circumstances sink into you like bricks. The spell shouldn’t take that much longer, and the idea of coming this far only to give Fedwick up now floods you with sadness. The difference in time, however, could mean doom for Ambrosinia itself.
What do you do?
I stall until Fedwick is healed.
I relay the message immediately.
You decide to take a stab in the dark. By now, three cycles have completed, so you direct Argent to stop when the potion next becomes green. The tromping of skeletal warriors grows louder.
When he stops, the potion just sits there, boiling mundanely for a few moments. Then, its color disappears, leaving a perfectly transparent and unremarkable liquid. Argent hangs his head.
Bartleby shouts from the open door, “We have company!”
Dozens of undead, all armed with swords, burst into the laboratory and zero in on Argent. The other three of you defend him to the best of your ability, and he unleashes a volley of destructive spells, but the enemy outnumbers you by at least six to one. Whenever you down one, another takes its place, overwhelming your small corps, until you find yourself exhausted and badly wounded.
With no regard left for the contents of Argent’s compound, you try to force your way back through the tunnel, but the skeletons’ sheer force bowls you over and onto the dirt ground, where they trample upon you, shrieking in glee.
Don’t let evil win. Read another path!
Go back to the previous choice, or…
Restart from the beginning.
“We wore their cloaks,” you note, as a sly smirk crosses your face, “But, what if we ‘were’ troubadours?”
Vermouth grins. “My thoughts exactly,” she chimes.
“Only one problem exists with this idea,” Bartleby says.
“What is that?”
“We have no instruments to play.”
Vermouth giggles. “That is what you think.”
You discuss until you come to a consensus, and glance one last time at the orcblood guard outside the tower. You strip yourselves of weapons and anything that might appear threatening. Upon a silent count of three, your group bursts into his full view and sings at the top of your lungs. Bartleby belts an effeminate tenor, while you struggle with the bass notes. Vermouth’s voice, a silky soprano, holds you together just well enough to make you think that this crazy plan could work.
“Old MacGregor, he was a fine lad…”
“He was a fine lad…”
“Oh, was he?”
“Old MacGregor, he was a fine lad!”
“He was a fine lad, so sue me!”
You dive into another verse as you close the distance, the shock on the guard’s face notwithstanding. Soon, you stand before him, as he scratches his head in confusion, but you do not let up for a single beat. On the final note, the three of you shout an almost-simultaneous ‘Huzzah!’
The guard claps slowly and grunts, “That was… interesting.”
Vermouth says, “We wish you a jolly day, s
ir, and request that you make our presence known within the tower, for we have been sent for, to help celebrate the recent achievements of the church of Thomerion. We are… the Three Blind Mice!”
You glare at her, incredulous. She winks at you, and curtsies for the guard. You follow suit with an awkward bow.
The guard arches an eyebrow and grumbles, “Let me see what my boss says. Stay here.” He turns and enters the tower.
You ask, “Three blind mice? Really?”
Vermouth thrust her fists into her hips. “You think of something better!” Bartleby snickers, but looks aside and whistles when you glare at him in turn.
Quite some time later, the guard returns. “He’s never heard of you,” he says.
Your group exchanges innocent glances.
“However…” the orcblood continues, “he’s in a pretty good mood, and will give you a try. I’ll guide you. Just don’t take forever.”
You follow the guard into the tower and ascend stair after stair, seeing the contents of some open rooms you pass out of the corner of your eye: first an armory, then a recreation area of some sort, and even a mystical laboratory, out of which fly sparks of magic, like bits of molten metal from a blacksmith’s anvil. At numerous points in the climb, other orcbloods frown at you or pound their fists, but relax when your escort explains that you were allowed in.
Finally, the guard stops in front of a plain wooden door, and uses the knocker to rap upon it.
“Thomas,” he shouts.
“Let them in,” comes a voice.
You enter a small study, where the human you thought you saw hiding something earlier sits at a table. He consults a deck of cards depicting what you guess is a demonic version of tarot. He does not look up, but dismisses the orcblood with a wave of his hand.