Threadbare Volume 1

by Andrew Seiple

  But the King was not silent. The King was bellowing in rage.

  More words flashed all around Threadbare, filling up his sight.

  Through blasphemous ritual you have unlocked the Animator job!

  Would you like to become an Animator at this time? y/n?

  Through blasphemous ritual you have unlocked the Enchanter job!

  Would you like to become an Enchanter at this time? y/n?

  Through blasphemous ritual you have unlocked the Golemist job!

  Would you like to become a Golemist at this time? y/n?

  Through blasphemous ritual you have unlocked the Wizard job!

  Would you like to become a Wizard at this time? y/n?

  Through blasphemous ritual you have unlocked the Smith job!

  Would you like to become a Smith at this time? y/n?

  Yes! Yes to all of those! Those jobs would give him the strength he needed to save Celia!

  You are now a level 1 Animator!

  +3 DEX

  +3 INT

  +3 WILL

  You have learned the Animus skill!

  Your Animus skill is now level 1!

  You have learned the Command Animus skill!

  Your Command Animus skill is now level 1!

  You have learned the Creator’s Guardians skill!

  Your Creator’s Guardians skill is now level 1!

  You have learned the Eye for Detail skill!

  Your Eye for Detail skill is now level 1!

  You have learned the Mend skill!

  Your Mend skill is now level 1!

  You are now a level 1 Enchanter!

  +3 DEX

  +3 INT

  +3 WILL

  You have learned the Appraise skill!

  Your Appraise skill is now level 1!

  You have learned the Glowgleam skill!

  Your Glowgleam skill is now level 1!

  You have learned the Harden skill!

  Your Harden skill is now level 1!

  You have learned the Soften skill!

  Your Soften skill is now level 1!

  You have learned the Spellstore I skill!

  Your Spellstore I skill is now level 1!

  You are now a level 1 Golemist!

  +5 INT

  +5 WILL

  You have learned the Command Golem skill!

  Your Command Golem skill is now level 1!

  You have learned the Golem Animus skill!

  Your Golem Animus skill is now level 1!

  You have learned the Invite Golem skill!

  Your Invite Golem skill is now level 1!

  You have learned the Toy Golem skill!

  Your Toy Golem skill is now level 1!

  You are now a level 1 Smith!

  STR +1

  CON +1

  You have learned the “Refine Ore” skill!

  But the last one came up with words he’d never seen before.

  You cannot learn the wizard job at this time, all adventuring slots are full!

  Seek out your guild to forget an existing job!

  Nothing to help his strength or constitution! He wasn’t in much of a better situation Threadbare realized, mind churning with the enhanced power from his buffs. He had to think fast, figure a way off of this stupid sword before—

  Your party has been disbanded.

  —and there went his stat boosts.

  Below him, Melos put two and two together and got fifty-seven.

  “The Scout!” he hissed. He rushed from the room. “Take the scout alive! I want him alive!”

  Grimly, Threadbare considered his chances. He could probably do it, he thought. One last good lunge, hope it didn’t rip him completely open, and he could be off the blade. Then he’d find his way outside, go to find help, and try to communicate matters to Celia’s friends. It would be hard, but they could find a way to save her. He would find a way to save his little girl!

  All it would take was one good push, and a little luck...

  ...a flash of black fur caught his sight. Movement below? Threadbare stared down, as a teddy bear half his size toddled out from where she’d been hiding, and looked around.

  Then she looked up at him.

  And the house collapsed, as red numbers flashed by Threadbare’s vision and everything went dark...

  *****

  Mordecai sagged in the tree. Out of arrows, out of stamina, out of sanity. His quivers were empty. Through hit and run tactics he’d dragged them off into the trees and the hills, combing wide for him. They’d find him, soon. He’d trained their scouts well.

  He’d had to put down his own students, this night. Every corpse who wasn’t armored was a face he recognized, and he hated it. What had it been for? What had it all been for?

  Three jobs he’d pulled up from the unlocked jobs section of his status screen and added, strictly for the benefit of getting their level up pool refills. Three times he had refilled his stamina and sanity and fortune. Three times he’d gone back in, using One Last Arrow to pull ammunition out of nothing, and channeling his stamina into his other archer skills. He’d harried the troops, worn them down through hit and run tactics, and used Arrows of Light to take down the second dragon. But it had taken everything he had, those three times, and now here he was, hiding in a tree, with men spreading out his way and one more goddamned dragon above.

  “Status,” he whispered, and the old scout glared at the jobs he’d grabbed, for no other reason than to buy Caradon time. Assassin, Bandit, and Bard, the first three on the list of options.

  Beyond, the house groaned and shivered, and Mordecai closed his eyes as it fell into fiery ruin. His last hope was gone. He’d been buying time for nothing. The king’s voice rung out, ordering him to take the old scout alive. Mordecai wasn’t the brightest man, but he figured he knew who that was.

  “Fuck it,” he growled, and below him the King’s scouts twitched at the noise and started toward his section of the forest. “Damned if I’ll give ‘im tha pleasure! Status.”

  If you’re going to go out, go out in style. He went down to the job, and found the next one in the list... and chortled at the appropriateness.

  “Yeah...” he drawled.

  And then Mordecai was a Berserker.

  “Rage!” he bellowed, and leaped from treetop to treetop as the dragon came in. His agility, already off the charts was boosted as his vision turned crimson, and he leaped up to meet the big beastie, grabbing ahold of its harness and swinging up to meet its very surprised rider. Unfeeling of his wounds, with stamina full to bursting, Mordecai yelled “Headbutt!” and slammed his skull into the rider’s helm.

  But no matter how good Mordecai’s attributes were, the Rider wasn’t too far a level from him, and the newly-trained Berserker’s skill was only at level one.

  The rider dropped his spear to draw his sword—

  —and Mordecai caught it, broke the heavy spear into two, and wailed on the rider with the two improvised clubs, rattling his armor, knocking him free of the dragon. With a wordless howl Mordecai leaped on him and rode him down, watching red numbers fly out of him, riding him onto the mountain and into a tree, clubs flashing as he hammered him to death and beyond.

  And as the all-too-short rage faded, and the crimson washed away from his view, he realized that there were words there now.

  By attaining level 25 as both a scout and an archer, and killing a foe using two weapon style while in the wilderness, you have unlocked the Ranger job!

  Would you like to become a ranger at this time? y/n?

  Mordecai stood, stunned, staring at the air. “Yeah,” he whispered.

  The ranger skills and stat boosts scrolled by, but he closed his eyes. Decades he’d sought that job, that job that nobody knew how to get anymore, that job that had evaded him for so long. And now, here at his last stand, he’d unlocked it. His jobs were full now, he knew. That was fine.

  But seriously, what the hell kind of weird unlock WAS that? What did two weapons even have to do with
being a ranger?

  “Here! He’s here!”

  Grinning, Mordecai whirled. “One Last Arrow!” He snapped, pulling an arrow from what had been an empty quiver a second ago...

  ....and realized he’d dropped his bow during his berserk rampage. “Shit.”

  The scouts dogpiled him, punching and kicking, and he fought, but he was already wounded and tired, so tired, burned through so much stamina in one last mad rush.

  Jericho, his own student, looked at him sadly, watching on with his bow down. He had one arrow nocked, just to make sure. Mordecai fought anyway, glaring at him...

  ...then a rustle in the bushes, and Jericho glared to the left. Mordecai, struggling to get free of the beatings, managed to shoot a look left—

  —to see Bak’Shaz looking on with horror. “Run, boy! Run!” Mordecai whispered to him through the wind, and Bak’Shaz withdrew into the underbrush.

  Mordecai sagged with relief, which fled as he saw Jericho’s eyes. He saw too!

  But Jericho lowered his bow, and nodded once to the old scout. Mordecai bowed his head. He’d taught the lad well, after all.

  Five minutes later, bound, he was unceremoniously thrown at the King’s feet. The bare-visaged demonic helm glared down at him, crimson metal gleaming in the light of the burning house.

  “You were his last companion, weren’t you? You’ve got that vital job, the one nobody else in this kingdom has. And let me guess, you’ve no intention of teaching it to me.”

  Mordecai looked at him. “Yeah,” he said, “Thass right. And the secret dies wi’ me.” He had no clue why the King cared about the ranger job, but he wasn’t about to hand it over to this son of a bitch.

  “No lies detected,” one of the armored troops to the King’s left said. The tyrant shook his head.

  “Nothing’s ever easy. All right, bring him. We’re done here.”

  *****

  Zuula struck from the storm, on spirit wings, gliding silently as an owl. She killed, then swept back into the rain-filled night. She’d borrowed owl skills, using her spell, and they came in useful when one wanted to kill quickly and quietly.

  Every time she struck another soldier down, she’d call in the thorny vines she’d summoned to rip at another group of soldiers, keep them panicked and shouting. The totem mask boosted her strength to obscene levels and let her strike down the soldiers with a quick flurry of blows, shattering armor and spilling blood to the ground.

  One of the drums in the distance fell silent. “It’s a toy!” She heard one of them shout. “Just an animated toy!” Zuula grinned. The girl had done her job well. She commanded the four remaining drums in her party to pound louder, and dove down to snatch another soldier up. He cried in her arms, turning to look at her, and she jammed the pointy end of her warclub through his visor. He died, choking and she dropped him.

  “Burn the trees!” She heard the officer call, and she grinned with wicked glee as she soared back past the treeline, knowing what was about to happen.

  The dragon overhead beat massive wings, burst through the rain, and its rider gave a sharp command. Flames billowed forth, coating the trees, coating the hut, coating a few of the screaming soldiers who didn’t get out of the way in time.

  And every firework that she’d had Jarrik tie into the treeline went off at once, sending up flares and bursting lights and smoke trails in a hissing, brilliant roar of pyrotechnics.

  “Unclever fools!” Zuula boomed, as she flew up, flew up to the dragon, reeling as it threw its rider, reeling as she caught it around the neck, hung on like a monkey, and clamped her club against its windpipe. “You come to kill an orc at night?”

  Zuula choked the dragon out, shooting glances back as it died, doing her best to keep an eye on things as it tumbled through the sky, trying to shake her. But it was a lesser dragon, barely a drake, and her arms were iron. The totem mask burned through emotion, fueling her strength.

  It was a good time to get out of the clearing, honestly. The rain was dying down as the winds let up, and more than that, the hut was on fire. The fireworks had been one of the little traps she’d laid.

  The hut itself was another, Or rather, the piles and bundles of dried herbs that lined the walls of the hut had been a trap.

  By the time Zuula had killed the dragon and flown back to the clearing, billowing greenish fog filled the air. The pattering rain had dispersed it a bit, but without her Poison Resistance, Zuula couldn’t have safely gone back in.

  The men who had been stuck breathing the smoke hadn’t been shamans. They didn’t have poison resistance. Zuula found them stumbling around the clearing, hacking at trees and each other, frothing through the visors, and she killed them, one by one. It was hard work and tiring work, and by the time she was done, her buffs were about half gone. So was the smoke, but that was fine, it had done its job.

  The middle-aged woman sagged, leaning on her club, feeling sweat pour off her mostly-naked form. Tiring, this. Four children and a lot of days tending the hut had softened her, made her fat. But this wouldn’t be a thing, soon. Soon she could rest.

  And more armored forms moving through the woods meant her job wasn’t done yet. Zuula took to the trees again, flying up, silhouetted against the burning hut—

  “Dispel magic!” A woman’s voice snapped.

  Zuula tumbled to the ground, shorn of her flight in the space of two words. But she pushed it aside, for she had bigger problems.

  She knew that voice.

  “Mastoya...” she hissed. “Traitor girl! Unclever daughter!”

  “Hello mother,” A woman, clad in form-fitting white armor, enameled plates assembled into a spiky mass of metal. She wore no helm, and her face was as green as Zuula’s. But all-too-human eyes found her mother’s, seeing even through the glow of the totem mask, and Zuula felt her stomach roll.

  “Stand down, mother.”

  “No!”

  “I have the authority to take you alive. You and my brothers.”

  Zuula sneered. There was only one way this night would end. “You been lied to, or you lying.”

  “So that’s it, huh? You’re going to kill me like you did the rest? I knew some of them. Some of them were worth a damn, mother. They didn’t deserve you. Nobody deserves you.” Mastoya drew her sword, blade shining with blue runes, crackling with ice as she pointed it around the clearing.

  Zuula hefted the club, and hesitated. She’d built things into the totem mask, yes. She’d built them in there to protect her mate. Protect her tribe. Protect her... family...

  The mask’s strength faltered, and Zuula closed her eyes. So this was how it was to be.

  “Orc means tribe,” she said to Mastoya, her biggest failure and strongest child. “Orc means family.”

  “Well,” Mastoya said, reaching up to run her gauntleted finger along the scars her mother had given her years ago. “You’re half right.”

  They fought in the rain, gentle now, too gentle to help. Between the remnants of the fire and the glowing runes of Mastoya’s armor, there was too much light for Zuula’s darkspawn skill to help her. And every time she cast a buff, her daughter would dispel it.

  “Corps a Corps! You taught me how to fight you,” Mastoya hissed, as they struggled, blade to club, and the freezing glow sapped Zuula’s stamina. “I’m a cleric now, a priestess of Ritaxis. The Goddess of War!” Mastoya shoved her back, and Zuula staggered, off balance.

  “And a knight, too! Pommel Strike!” Mastoya yelled, striking her mask with her heavy hilt. Wood cracked, and Zuula fell back again, trying to regain her footing. But Mastoya would not give her the space, and her blade flashed, getting past Zuula’s guard, carving through her armor and skin and chilling her blood.

  Finally, Zuula had enough. “Beast Shape Five! Bear!” The shaman roared, throwing her club to the side and spreading her arms.

  “Dispel Mag- shit!” Mastoya yelled, finally out of sanity. In front of her, her mother grew larger. The newly-transformed black bear lashed back at
the armored knight, and Mastoya hissed as she fell backward, slipping in the mud.

  “You drove me to this!” She yelled, after the third claw swipe ripped along her side, buckling the plates and cracking a rib. “Twisted Rage!” Mastoya screamed...

  Zuula fought, but was no match for the raging half-orc. Her daughter’s blade clove into her again and again, and the black bear staggered, slumped to the side, and fell.

  Roaring in triumph, Mastoya closed in for the kill, sword raised high, any sense of mercy gone to the fury.

  And to her horror, Zuula saw a figure racing through the mud, a familiar figure running, axe out, rage shining in his own eyes. Garon, her second son, come too late, far too late and at the worst time. She had failed! Her child would die!

  “Run, unclever boy! Run!” Zuula croaked.

  And then all was bloody darkness.

  *****

  The cat sat in darkness, grooming his fur.

  Well, that had been a mess. Pulsivar had marked that new little bear for trouble, and fled at the first opportunity, retreating far back into the woods. Then there had been shouting, and fighting, and a whole lot of stuff he was quite sure was absolutely not anything to do with him. The rain had been unpleasant, too, while it lasted.

  Those big scaly burny things in the sky had been right fucking out, though. Pulsivar drew the line at those things. He’d fled further, up into the hills, to his favorite sunning spot where he could overlook his domain and pee upon it freely. There he crouched, grooming himself sternly as a rebuke to the silly hoomins below.

  It took quite a while to get done, so he took a nap. Tiring, climbing up this high. Took a lot of work. He hoped his hoomin appreciated all the trouble Pulsivar had gone through.

  He woke hungry when daylight came and killed a songbird on his way down, to whet his appetite until he got to his bowl of cream. He did hope his hoomin was prompt with it, sure, there had been some trouble last night but whatever. One had to have priorities, after all, and Pulsivar was sure that the old man had learned that by now.

  The house wasn’t a house anymore.

  The house was now a smoldering wreck.

  Pulsivar stared at it, tail twitching.

  Oh no!

  His cream was going to be late!

  *****

  LUCK +1

  The stat increase rolled across his view, in total darkness. Threadbare had no way of knowing that he’d been just lucky enough, that the house had collapsed in just the right way to drop him into the basement without killing him.