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The adventurers break for lunch at the Loaded Die, just a five-minute walk away, and return to the town hall with time to spare. The meeting has been moved to Sir Stevington’s office, which is a good deal more accommodating than Elder Jim’s, and two more people have joined - one is an imposing female orc dressed in a smith’s leather apron, her burnished golden hair tied back to show sweat-streaked soot on the deep crimson skin of her forehead; the other is a nonbinary elf in a wizard’s robe, with sea-green braids and a sky-blue face. High on the wall behind Sir Briansworth’s polished oak desk is the taxidermied head of a noob, mounted on a brass-plated plaque. Vector mutters, “Good thing they can’t fit in here, eh?” Pannych and Alice nod, while Phyr snickers. From the middle of the conference table, several more voices can be heard arguing loudly over the speaking stone.
Sir Stevington inclines his head and says quietly, “Welcome back, Lady Pannych, Lord Phyr, and Master Vector. And good afternoon to you, Alice.” The room is suddenly silent, and the adventurers sit next to each other at the large table in the middle of the room.
“Uh, hi,” Pannych says to break the expectant silence.
“Good,” Sir Briansworth says over the speaking stone. “Can we start now?”
“Not until the fuckin’ noobs show up,” a voice says.
“We are still here,” the noob chief says. “As I stated earlier, this is our top priority.” Mutters of indignation roil over the glowing stone.
“OK,” Vector says loudly, “This is Vector speaking, and I’ll be facilitating today’s negotiations. So, first things first: I want all you humans to understand that the noobs are not as stupid, as savage, or as brutish as you all seem to think. So get that through your heads right the Hell-ass now. You will treat these folks as equals, or a couple of demigods will have words with you - probably in the middle of the night, possibly with something very shiny of theirs near something very sensitive of yours. Is that crystal fucking clear?”
There are mutters of assent, and Vector carries on. Alice keeps one eye on the proceedings, so to speak, and the other on Pannych and Phyr. Pannych, for her part, is wondering if it’s possible to stab Sir Briansworth over a speaking stone, and how difficult it would be to get away with it - she also keeps an eye on Phyr, to make sure he doesn’t get too bored and do something to entertain himself. Phyr muses on how it’s nice to kick back and live in a fantasy world with magic spells and talking bears, but he really misses his smartphone for times like this. Also, boobs.
“Look,” he says quietly to Pannych at some point, “I know it’s, like, important for me to be here and everything, but could I… maybe... not?”
Pannych takes a deep breath and whispers, “Sorry, sometimes boring things are unskippable.”
“But this is a game, right? So shouldn’t we be able to just-”
Thusly, the adventurers are brought back to the conversation by a noob roaring, “What?! We never attacked the crossroads!”
Jim says, “Well, somebody blasted Vincent to smithereens, and ate his lunch! How do you explain that?”
Pannych and Phyr share a wide-eyed look. Thinking quickly, Phyr gets to his feet, slams his hands down on the table and shouts, “Look! We’re never gonna get this treaty banged out if we keep getting distracted by the pointless who-did-whats! What’s important is that we all put the past behind us for the sake of a peaceful future!”
There is a moment of stunned silence, then the red-skinned orc says, “The fact remains that noob claws and leather are exceptional materials, and-”
“Lay off it, Svanhild,” Jim says with exhaustion. “While exceptional, they’re hardly irreplaceable. The ironhide moose and the steelbeak gryphon are far superior, and you know it.”
“But we would have to import-”
“Then import them, for the love of all the dead gods!”
“Nonsense, the costs would be unsustainably prohibitive.”
Sir Stevington turns a palm plaintively upward and says evenly, “Surely a subsidy from the noob dung profits could cover such an expense. And if we are no longer hunting them-”
“Our dung?! What on Earth could you want with our dung?!”
The room is silent for a beat.
Vector turns to Jim and asks pointedly, “Exactly how valuable is noob shit?”
Jim hems and haws, but decides to play it straight and says, “Two liters, unprocessed, goes for about ten thousand dollars.”
Phyr’s jaw drops as he makes a calculation of regret. Pannych asks incredulously, “How?!”
Sir Stevington says, “In the first place, it is a potent fertilizer. A few ounces would have a plot the size of this conference table ready to harvest in mere days. In addition to raising our food crops within the town’s walls, it’s useful on the mainland in disaster relief efforts, where a bucket of seeds and a gallon of noob dung can speed along a devastated community's recovery. It has numerous alchemical applications as well, depending on how it is processed: it could be refined into a compact fuel source for travelers, a caustic agent for laboratory work, or a fixative for dyes, to name just a few. That’s not to mention the military applications. In short, it is a supremely valuable ingredient with a wide variety of uses, and Noob Isle is the sole source.”
Phyr flashes a crooked grin and says, “Well, someone sure knows his shit, huh?”
Sir Stevington gives a genteel nod and says, “As you say, Lord Phyr. One of my mayoral duties is to monitor and properly motivate the collection of the substance, and Sir Briansworth of Leetsburg does the same for distribution.”
“But if the supply increased,” Sir Briansworth interjects, “Then the profit margins would be lowered! Part of its value derives directly from its scarcity!”
Jim makes a sour face and says, “Oh, come off it, already! You know as well as I do that the lion’s share is purchased at near cost by House Har’tei!”
“House Har’tei is no more,” Sir Briansworth shoots back. “And on the free market, we stand to-”
“The free market is a capricious thing,” Sir Stevington says calmly. After Sir Briansworth harrumphs his last, he continues: “With House Har’tei in chaos, a sudden increase in the supply of the substance would free us from both the regime’s ‘adjustments,’ as well as its unassailable bargaining position. We could charge a little more for the regime’s share, with a well-placed donation here and there to keep things copacetic, while we keep the price fixed on the open market, and also accrue political capital during this turbulent time - all without much risk, as we remain the sole supplier. And with the ‘trader’ between our towns out of the picture with no wrongdoing on our part, we can also exploit his erstwhile contacts to make a pretty penny on the side, to boot.”
“Just divulge all our secrets, why don’cha,” Sir Briansworth says morosely.
“We stand in the presence of demigods,” Sir Stevington says in answer. “This is no time for secrecy. And Vincent Davosea’s dealings are an open secret among all those gathered here - with the exception of our esteemed interlocutors, I surmise.” A look from Sir Stevington startles Phyr into realizing that his jaw has dropped, and he snaps his mouth shut with an audible clack! “We have nothing to lose, and the world to gain, by negotiating a peace to increase our supply of the substance and ease our procurement of it. That is, of course, if the noobs are willing?”
“We have conditions,” the noob chief says.
“Name them,” Vector says.
“First, the noobs are to be considered citizens of the island, in equal standing to the humans. Our votes will be counted in your elections and referenda, we shall be permitted to run for office and shall hold seats on your councils, and we will have the full protection of your laws and legal standing in your courts.”
A cacophonous crescendo coalesces over the speaking stone as she proceeds through the demand, but Phyr stands to his feet and raises a blaster before shouting, “This is not a hard decision, assholes! Now let the lady finish!” Alice, Pannych, and Vector each give him a look of astonished reappraisal, but then he adds, “We are almost done with this bullshit!” The reappraisal is rapidly replaced with the unmistakable stare of No You’re Ruining It! He sees, and adds, “Now finish your petty mortal business before I lose what patience I have left!” He sits, the humans are silenced, and the noob chief carries on.
“Second, the thousands of acres of forest around your inland town will grow back, unhindered, and you shall not cut down another tree. All the wild places on Noob Isle will be left untouched, to be restored to their natural splendor. Your fortress will be abandoned and demolished.” More disapproval, but it is kept to a low murmur. “Third, Noob Town shall be renamed, for it is not our town. Noob Isle is ours, and its name shall be unchanged.” The dissenting mutters increase again in volume, but are silenced by a thunderous growl.
The noob chief continues: “Finally, you shall dismantle the artillery batteries in your walled town, or refit them so that they can only provide support to Leetsburg. The Leetsburg weapons shall be refitted to fire only seaward, never inland. In return for all this, you shall have dominion over the city of Leetsburg, the walled town inland, and the road between them - the rest is ours. We shall provide you with all the dung you require, beyond what it takes to restore and maintain the land. And we shall also provide you with whatever lumber you request, at no cost to you. Do all these things, and we shall live together in peace.”
There is a moment of hushed whispering and due consideration. An unidentified voice says, “But what if an invading army comes from anywhere other than Leetsburg by sea?”
“Stow it, Charlie,” Sir Briansworth says. “Noob Isle is impregnable by any other approach. If there were such a place, then the army would’ve landed there during the war.”
“And if anyone attacks,” the noob chief says, “Then we shall rally with you to the defense of our land.”
“But what about the loggers,” another voice asks. “They’ll all be out of work!”
“So will most of the adventurers and mercenaries!”
“And the hunters and trappers!”
“They won’t be able to support their families!”
The uproar intensifies, but is swiftly silenced by the noob chief’s roar. “How is that even a question,” she asks impatiently.
Someone shrieks, “You would have all those people starve?!”
“I would? Why would they starve? What on Earth are you talking about? Do your leaders not provide for the needs of your people?”
There is a moment of tense silence as the drastically different social orders are laid in stark contrast.
“We could levy a tax,” Sir Stevington says after a moment. “Anyone who is unable to find work will be relocated to the mainland. With the additional funds from this agreement, it should not be a problem, and those who remain will prosper all the more.”
Alice stands and says, “You’re going to forcibly relocate lifelong citizens and dump them overseas with no plans, no prospects, and no warning? Are you insane?!”
Sir Stevington takes a moment to reconsider, then says, “We can arrange for a placement program-”
Alice slams her hands on the table and screams, “No! You can’t do that! You’ll cause a refugee crisis!”
“As far as we are concerned,” the noob chief grumbles, “The fewer humans on Noob Isle, the better. However, I must say that this seems a most inhumane solution. It is perplexing that you find so many ways to destroy, but struggle to find a way to sustain.” There is a moment of flabbergasted silence.
Phyr whispers to Pannych, “Yo, did someone cast Fireball? Because that was a burn!”
Sir Stevington breaks the silence by saying, “Perhaps some manner of temporary assistance, while they find other work…”
“What other work,” an unidentified voice says. “Everyone has their established roles! We’re a tightly-run colony! What else is there, besides the black market or crime?” Squabbles immediately break out.
“ENOUGH!” Vector raises his voice for the first time that afternoon. “The solution here is simple: provide a baseline income for each person, based on the measured cost of living, so that everyone is able to afford a roof over their head and put food in their kitchen! Then, when they find legitimate paying work, they won’t need it because now they have a job! This is not complicated!”
“That sounds good on paper,” Sir Briansworth says, “But if people get money for nothing, then where’s the incentive to do any better?”
“Would you be satisfied with just enough money for rent and groceries, Sir Briansworth,” Pannych spits, “Or would you try to do better?”
“Well, I would certainly work to raise my station, because I am a-”
“No!” Pannych bolts upright and shouts him down. “So would anyone, you elitist turd!”
“Show some respect for the mayor,” says the nonbinary elf in the wizard robes, who has been mostly silent until now.
“Show some respect for the demigod,” Phyr retorts, joining her on his feet. The elf is cowed, and slouches in their chair.
“Perhaps some would be so driven,” Sir Briansworth concedes, reminded of the stakes, “But what of those who cannot find work to exceed this handout? How shall they be motivated, if working earns them less than doing nothing?”
“Back up a sec,” Vector says, trying to de-escalate. “The sum we’re discussing is the bare minimum to avoid homelessness and starvation. Are you saying that there are jobs that pay less than that?!” Sir Briansworth stammers for a moment, then falls silent.
“What my colleague has struggled to articulate,” Sir Stevington says, “Is that many kinds of unskilled work are done by teenagers, with no families of their own to provide for, and these jobs make for unsuitable long-term careers.”
“Oh, are teenagers incapable of bearing children here,” Pannych asks, wheeling on him. “And are these jobs only worked by teenagers, and zero adults? And does nobody make a long-term career of such work? And does your social order depend on the labor of children whose best option is scutwork for shit pay?” She gazes fiercely around the silent room for several seconds before continuing. “Please, someone explain this to me! Because I am trying to understand your way of life here, but so far, it really seems like your whole fuckin’ system is based on murdering those you dehumanize and exploiting those you employ! So please, tell me I’m wrong!” Not a word is said for a long moment. “That was not a rhetorical question! I demand that you implement Master Vector’s proposal, or you explain to me right the fuck now how your way of life is both sustainable and fair to every living person involved, or I swear by the stars that I will smite everyone on this island myself!” When the silence lasts for a long moment more, she draws her sword and growls, “I’m waiting.”
About this time, Pannych notices that even Sir Stevington is staring in slack-jawed astonishment. She looks to Alice and asks, “I asked ‘em a direct fuckin’ question, Alice. You’re a mystic, so tell me: why is there no response?”
“Because,” Alice says, swallowing hard, “Right now, you sound exactly like the late High Queen Rayla Har’tei, gods rest her soul. And I’d bet the Loaded Die that right this second, they’re all trying to decide if you’re her, reincarnated.”
Vector chuckles nervously in an attempt to defuse the tension and says, “Well, no need to worry on that count. Heh, did Rayla also get this angry from trying to convince politicians and industry leaders to make the world a fairer place for those living in it?”
“Only very occasionally,” Sir Stevington says with solemnity. “Most of the time, Her Supreme Highness, gods rest her soul, simply killed them outright.”
“Only very occasionally,” Sir Stevington says with solemnity. “Most of the time, Her Supreme Highness, gods rest her soul, simply killed them outright.”
“Noob Isle was, for the most part, left to its own devices,” Jim says. “It was not a chartered colony of House Har’tei, just a venture of various moneyed interests who all remained anonymous. The High Queen, gods rest her soul, never set foot on the island in all the years of her rule. Most believe she thought it unlikely to succeed at first, then thought it too difficult to strike down - but few would deny the possibility that she was merely biding her time. Either way, the prevailing mood has always been one of living on borrowed time. That is, until she suddenly disappeared almost a year ago, along with High King Abbe’nei, gods rest his soul.”
“Wait,” Phyr says, “Rayla and Aqu-” there is a collective murmur of gods rest their souls “-were married?!”
“Gods, no,” spits Sir Briansworth. “Co-rulers, peers, siblings-in-arms, but not married. Though they certainly fought like they were.”
“Wait,” Vector says, “You mean to tell me that Rayla and Aqu-” gods rest their souls “-never came here once? So nobody knows what they look like?”
“No idea,” Jim says with a shrug. “Why do you ask?”
“That’s just - weird. Not to know what your own king and queen look like.”
“High king and queen,” Jim corrects.
“Gods rest their souls,” everyone mutters.
“Why do you all keep saying that,” Pannych asks in bewilderment.
Alice turns to her and says quietly, “In case they ever come back.”
There is a moment of quiet reflection while everyone fundamentally reconsiders the situation. Vector collects his thoughts, then breaks the silence by saying, “OK. Enough with the dick-measuring. It’s like this.” He draws his laser rifle and holds it aloft, upright. “This rifle is called ‘The Final Word.’ You would all do well to note that I have it. Now: you will accede to the noobs’ demands, you will institute the food-and-housing substistence plan I proposed, you will tie it to a monthly-indexed cost-of-living analysis, you will disburse it to every human on the island regardless of income, and you can do with your wages and extra incentives above and beyond that whatever you wish. And if the next words I hear aren’t a rousing chorus of ‘Yes Master Vector,’ then I will turn my prodigious powers of speech over to convincing these here demigods that they should just follow their instincts. What do you all say to that?”
Sir Stevington inclines his head politely and says, “Yes, Master Vector.” Everyone else follows shortly after in an unenthusiastic mumble.
“Close, but I asked for a rousing chorus. I will graciously give you one more attempt.”
“Yes, Master Vector,” comes the deafening reply.
“Very well. Have the treaty drawn up and sent to the Loaded Die for approval, and then we shall finally have an accord!”
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