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The archers on the parapet are firing down at the noobs while mages cast spells from on high and the infantry keep them at bay with their spears. The noobs have been reduced from their thundering thousands to a mere several hundred. The adventurers are making their way back down the road, about a quarter-mile out now, while Phyr tries to think of how to get the apocalyptic hellscape back under control. He’s gotten himself down to about half mana, which is no mean feat: with the refund from his enchanted earring, that means he has spent five times his massive mana pool, or about half-a-million mana.
Suddenly, there is an enormous explosion behind them, and a massive pillar of flame erupts from the ground and rises up into the clouds. “What the hell,” shouts the captain, “I told you to turn that shit off!”
“That… wasn’t me,” Phyr says in bewilderment. As the adventurers turn to face the towering inferno, a gigantic coal-black figure forms in its center, and the vertical blaze twists and folds around to wreathe it in licking flames.
“I AM RETURNED,” it says in a booming voice that echoes off the town walls, opening eyes that glow like embers, “TO DEFEND MY PEOPLE IN THEIR HOUR OF GREATEST NEED.”
“Oh, shit,” Pannych says.
“Fuck my life,” Vector says.
“Who the Hell are you,” Phyr demands.
“I AM IGNIS, GOD OF FIRE, AND I AM OATH-BOUND TO SAVE MY CHOSEN ONES.” Ignis raises an enormous black hand and closes it into a fist the size of a small car. Presently, every flame on the battlefield is snuffed out. “YOU WHO THREATEN MY FAVORED FOLK, KNOW THAT THE LORD OF EMBERS STANDS AGAINST YOU. SURRENDER, AND YOU MAY LIVE. RESIST, AND SUFFER MY WRATH!”
“Hey! That’s my schtick!” Phyr shakes a fist at the blazing deity, who seems startled to notice the adventurers standing alone and unscathed amid the slaughter and destruction.
“WHO ARE YOU TO CHALLENGE A GOD?”
“I am-”
“Phyr, no!” Pannych claps a hand over his mouth, but he wriggles free.
“I’m not letting this chode cramp my style,” he insists.
“THEN LEARN YOUR PLACE,” Ignis says, and opens his hand. “BLAST.” An explosion erupts underneath Phyr’s feet. He takes 19 damage, is thrown into the air, and takes another ten damage when he lands. Pannych takes 16 damage from the splash, and is knocked to the ground. Vector was farther away and is staggered, but unharmed.
“That all you got,” Phyr shouts as he gets to his feet.
“BLAST.” Another explosion sends him flying again, for another 29 total damage after he has landed.
“I eat gods for breakfast,” he says as he lifts himself to hands and knees.
“BLAST.” He takes 29 more damage between the blast and the landing.
“Wait’ll I get my-”
“BLAST.” Another 29, and he has 2 health left.
“OK,” he rasps, flat on his back in the dirt. “I give.” He doesn’t even try to get up.
“I HAVE SEEN YOU BE THE INSTRUMENT OF MY PEOPLE’S DESTRUCTION,” Ignis says. “NOW YOU HAVE BEEN BROKEN, AND I SHALL REFORGE YOU INTO THEIR SALVATION.”
Phyr groans, then rolls painfully to his belly as he says weakly, “I would rather…” He lifts his head to see Pannych and Vector staring at him. Vector’s face shows sadness and fear, but Pannych’s is a pitiless mask of open contempt. When they make eye contact, she shakes her head and turns her back on her best friend since childhood. He has a change of heart. “I would rather… do that… than die.”
Ignis lowers his outstretched hand and says, “RISE.”
“Ugggghhhh, but it huuuurrrrts.”
“RISE, OR DIE.”
“All right, just gimme… just gimme a sec,” and he struggles to his feet.
“APPROACH ME.” Phyr staggers, one agonizing step at a time, across the burned and blasted ground. He stumbles at a few points on the uneven terrain and weaves around a few blast craters, but stands before the god soon enough. “KNEEL.” He yelps in pain as he does so, but obeys. “YOU SHALL MAKE A PEACE ON THIS ISLAND. AND YOU SHALL SEE TO IT THAT THIS PEACE PROTECTS THE FUTURE OF MY PEOPLE.”
“Do I have to do all the talking,” he asks in earnest. “Because I’m not so great at that.”
Ignis raises a hand to his chin in thought, and says, “VERY WELL. BUT YOU SHALL BE ON THE SIDE OF MY PEOPLE FROM NOW ON. AND IF YOU DO ALL THESE THINGS, THEN I SHALL ALLOW YOU TO LIVE. IF YOU FAIL IN ANY PART OF THIS, THEN I SWEAR THAT I SHALL RETURN AGAIN TO KILL YOU MYSELF.”
“OK,” Phyr says, struggling just to breathe. “Let me just… make sure… I got it all. Make peace. Protect their future. And be on their side. Is that right?”
“INDEED. SEE TO IT THAT YOU DO NOT FORGET.”
“I won’t.”
“SWEAR TO ME.”
“I swear it.”
“THE WHOLE THING.”
“I swear… to make peace… on the island… and protect… the future… of your guys… and be on… their side.”
“THEN WE HAVE AN ACCORD, AND YOU SHALL NOT FAIL. I RETURN NOW TO MY REST.” Ignis then turns and walks away toward the forest. As he does so, the tongues of flame lapping out from his body grow until they surround him - and then they begin to consume him. In a few great strides, the god has disappeared into the late morning air.
Pannych and Vector walk unhurriedly to Phyr’s side. He sits carefully on the ground, then takes out his healing ray and goes to work, chanting “ow” all the while. After two rounds, Pannych kicks him in the ribs for 1 damage. He falls over, drops his healing ray, and curls up in pain. “Ow, what the fuck? I’m doing the thing, I swear!”
“It took a resurrected god for you to start taking this seriously,” Pannych says as he retrieves his healing ray. “I’m hurt, man. I’m not saying that facetiously. You look how you wanna look, you started with great stats and items, there’s a whole fuckin’ world for us to explore together - and you go wavin’ your dick around until someone bigger comes along and stomps you. And you say, ‘What the fuck,’ to me?”
“No, not that,” Phyr says, healing himself once again as he sits back up. “I mean the kick. That hurt - it actually hurt. You know we feel real pain here.”
“Oh,” Pannych says, “Does it sting especially bad when your best friend kicks you where it hurts?”
Phyr hangs his head and says, “OK, I get your point. I’m sorry. I guess I had this wrong - I thought it was gonna be a power fantasy. Y’know, be overpowered and just lay waste to all comers.” The healing ray beeps politely as it runs out of power.
Pannych is taken aback. “That’s what you thought this was? This whole time?”
“I mean - yeah. Bolt! Isn’t that what escapist fantasy is all about?”
“I - well - no. Not for me, anyway.”
“What do you do it for,” Vector asks.
Pannych shrugs and says, “Get lost in another world? Be absorbed in an adventure? Focus on the narrative and forget real-life problems? Pretend to be anyone else besides me?”
The adventurers make up, hug it out, top up, and head back to town. Turns out, the Captain of the Guard heard just about everything over the speaking stone, and half the people in town heard Ignis’ side of the conversation. Hostilities have ceased, and the few hundred surviving noobs have gathered in an impromptu encampment near the open town gate. Now that combat has ended, the trio each get 12 XP for the noobs that happened to die within twenty yards of them.
Well within an hour of the fire god’s disappearance, the adventurers have arrived at the town hall and are immediately ushered into Elder Jim’s office. Inside, they see Alice and Jim, accompanied by a dapper middle-aged man. A haughty voice says from a speaking stone, “Bah, I’ve seen guards half-drunk on the job, and they’ll exaggerate anything!”
“No, you don’t understand,” Jim says into a speaking stone. “The entire guard saw this. It was a god all right, and it turns out the noobs are actually under its protection.”
“Hmm,” the other voice says. “I’m still skeptical. But if you’re so convinced-”
“Look, they’re here,” Jim says, waving them in. “Lady Pannych, Lord Phyr, Lord Vector, meet Sir Stevington, mayor of Noob Town.” The well-dressed gentleman stands and bows deeply. “And on the speaking stone is Sir Briansworth, mayor of Leetsburg.”
“Oh, I’m not a lord,” Vector says. “I’m just some guy, along for the ride.”
“Master Vector, then,” Jim says.
“Pleased to make your acquaintances,” Pannych says with a curtsey.
“Hi,” Phyr says brusquely.
“Greetings,” Sir Stevington says with another bow. “I have heard surprising tales of your brief time here.”
“It is… an honor to speak with you.” Sir Briansworth’s tone is grudgingly deferential. “Elder Jim tells me you three are here to negotiate a treaty on behalf of the noobs.”
Vector says, “I think the noobs can speak for themselves. We’re just here to make sure everything works out equitably.”
“Then where are they,” Sir Briansworth asks.
“One second,” Jim says, retrieving another speaking stone and setting it on the desk. “Captain, can you hand a speaking stone over to whichever of the noobs is in charge,” he asks.
There is a commotion, and then a noob voice says, “I am Tilda of the Mountains. To whom do I speak?”
“Hello, Tilda. I am Jim, the elder of Noob Town.”
“We await a peace summit, as foretold by our god.”
“Well, I’m afraid he didn’t involve me in the decision,” Jim says. “Had he done so, I would’ve told him that we need to involve a number of community leaders, and they are very busy people.”
“We have time to wait,” Tilda says. “This is our top priority.”
“I’m afraid it’s not ours,” Jim says with a sigh. “It could be weeks, even months, before a delegation can be selected and work an opening into their schedules, and-”
“Listen, Jim,” Phyr interrupts, “I just swore to a god that I would see this done, and I am not a patient man. So you, and Briansworth, and Stevington, and all your pals damn well better make it your top priority!”
“It doesn’t work that way-”
“It works that way when I say it does,” Phyr interrupts.
“We can’t just-”
“No more excuses! This happens today, or you answer to me!”
Jim scoffs and says, “Is that a threat?”
Phyr takes a deep breath and says with too-calm gravity, “Tell me, Jim: do you make a habit of defying demigods with a divine mandate? How many people do you know who have gone toe-to-toe with a risen god, and lived to tell the tale?”
The elder is silent for several long seconds.
“My apologies,” Jim says at last. “The gods have been dead for so long, and few indeed remember them. Even my own knowledge of them was only academic, until today. But you are right to remind me of my place, and I thank you for doing it gently, if firmly. I shall inform our people that this is a matter of utmost importance, and I assure you that their schedules shall be suspended.”
“And you expect me to negotiate like this? Under threat of divine retribution?” Sir Briansworth’s disdain is palpable.
Sir Stevington softly clears his throat and says, “I think there is a great deal of tension here, and we may not resolve it. But I think you’ll agree that the resurrection of a long-dead god, complete with accompanying oath and prophecy, certainly constitutes an extenuating circumstance. It may be incumbent upon us to make some... allowances in light of today’s extraordinary events. Sir Briansworth, I would strongly encourage you to reconsider your perspective, and measure your words carefully when next you speak.”
Sir Briansworth’s grumbling is audible over the speaking stone, but he says with restraint, “You may be right, Sir Stevington.” The mayor of Noob Town gives a slight nod. “But even so, there’s no way we can negotiate this treaty without industry leaders present! They have a stake in this!”
“How many can you get in an hour,” Phyr asks.
“What?! An hour?!”
“Let me rephrase: how many can you get in an hour, when every human on this island dies if you try to run out the clock on this? An hour is more than generous from me an’ Tilda here.” Sir Briansworth sputters, but ultimately relents, and they agree to reconvene in an hour.
The adventurers break for lunch at the Loaded Die, just a five-minute walk away. They do some game-planning 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 sky-blue skin. 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, Master Vector, and Alice.” The room is suddenly pin-drop quiet, 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,” another disembodied voice says.
“We are still here,” the noob chief Tilda 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 this second. 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 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 zone back in to the conversation when a noob roars, “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 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. You yourself know that the ironhide moose and the steelbeak gryphon are far superior.”
“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 dung?”
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 remembers the package he delivered and 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, Sir Stevington 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 next 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 mediators, I surmise.” A wry look from Sir Stevington startles Phyr into realizing that his jaw has dropped on hearing that Vincent was a big-time smuggler, 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,” Tilda says.
“Name them,” Vector says with an encouraging gesture.
“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, nearly drowning out Tilda’s voice - which takes some doing. 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 Tilda carries on.
“Second, the deforested acres 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 Tilda’s thunderous growl.
She 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,” Tilda promises, “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 Tilda’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,” Tilda 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 she just 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 bursting at the seams as it is! 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, humbled, 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 are unsuitable for 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, but 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 and coordinates some key points with Pannych and Alice, 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 cost-of-living index to be updated monthly, 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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