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Magnum Opus

Chapter 1: Silent is the Fallen Tree

Blurb

Verik Stormleaf was a simple woodsman living on the outskirts of the small township of Grimvalle. He lived a happy life with his wife Ceria and daughter, Faelea. Every day, he would chop wood that he would carry to town to sell. Summers were mild, winters were unforgiving and all this quietly spoken man ever knew was the peace and repetition of his life as another cog in the wheel of his home.

Tragedy struck, however, when Verik's family is attacked by a bear and his family slaughtered. By sheer stroke of luck, a young blacksmith's son, Cliff Gale, found him and carried him back into town where his wounds were tended. He survived but his wife and child did not.

Heart filled with vengeance, Verik's fate takes an abrupt turn as he is swept up in a world bigger than his small, isolated life where his skills in swinging an axe are put to good use. From serving in the army, fighting through an oncoming war and navigating through a political coup, Verik finds his eyes opening with young Cliff at his side at all times.

Will his heart ever mend from the loss of family and learn to love again?

In Between the Pages

Realism was still on the bench.

Cliff approached him, gripping the Archetype tightly in his hand.

“I didn't expect you back so soon," said the stranger. “I can only assume that with the presence of that door right there, you jumped right into your first Story."

Cliff's brown eyes drifted to where Realism indicated. A few yards away from the bench sat a ramshackle and ruined wooden door. Made entirely out of some thin sticks bound together to vaguely form a door, it sat within a flimsy wooden frame. A wreath of dried, green leaves with little berries sat on the door. Ragged cuts scratched the door's twigs, exposing the white wood beneath. Blood was splattered across its surface.

“I didn't see a reason to stick around after freeing myself from the Ink," Cliff admitted. “Hesitation was what got me sucked into it in the first place."

“Decisive and a fast learner," Realism observer, tapping the dark, wooden slats that made the bench thoughtfully. “Perhaps that's why you were chosen." He shrugged absently, dismissing the thought. “That's neither here nor there. Right now, you've got a mission in front of you." He held up five fingers. “And I've got five pieces of advice that might just help."

Cliff nodded grimly. “Hit me up. I'll take any help I can get."

The stranger gave him a thin smile. “That's the spirit." With a wave of his hand, wisps of light danced around Cliff's body, little thread-like streams that dug into his clothes, twisted through the fabric and illuminating the fabric.

“Whoa! What are you doing!?"

“Giving you some plot armor," Realism chuckled softly. “If you wanted to twirl around and dance in a magical girl-esque transformation sequence, you're free to."

Cliff felt a blush creep up his cheeks and he crossed the Archetype across his chest defensively even as the light continued to spread.

“Aren't you supposed to be an advocate for realism!? How is that realistic!?"

The stranger with the silver glasses chuckled softly. “What is realistic is subjective. Different people perceive reality differently, after all. Rules change depending on which world you step into. Which actually is a perfect segue into my point."

The lights around his shoes faded first revealing a pair of steel-toed black boots that rose up about a quarter of the way up his shins. Black and green with silvery heels, they were surprisingly light despite looking so heavy. A pair of black pants with a deep green trim appeared across his legs. The cuffs were decorated by white print that looked like a fence made out of the heads of fountain pens, almost like a crown's spokes. Kneepads etched with an eight-pointed star where each of the star's arms was made out of a the heads of a fountain pen and a circle encompassing it. His shirt transformed into a solid white collared dress shirt where the hems ended in an almost lace-like style that was shaped like that emblem. A black and green hooded jacket wrapped around his shoulders. That same emblem appeared on his back in blazing white.

“Whoa!" Cliff exclaimed. “What did you do?"

“Armor," answered Realism curtly. “Those clothes will offer some degree of protection from the Unwritten. At the very least they won't kill you instantly. It won't offer much protection against other dangers though. They're just clothes after all. They will also change shape and appearance depending on the world you enter so that you don't stand out so much."

“Great." Cliff ran his fingers through the lace edges of his shirt. “What does this emblem mean?"

“Possibilities are for your own writing."

“Okay…" Lifting his gaze to Realism, he said, “Thanks for this."

“Not a problem. Secondly…" The stranger held up two fingers. “Ultimately, everyone created in the Story you enter is made from the same Ink as the Unwritten. They will be incapable of hurting the Unwritten even if the Unwritten can harm them and bend them to Oaks' will. However, if you can inject these characters with some of the purified Ink that you gather from the Archetype, they'll be able to stand on their own."

Cliff regarded the pen-like weapon in his hands. From what he gathered in that small scene back at the Appendix, he wasn't really destroying the Unwritten. Rather, he was claiming their Ink for his own so that he could do whatever he wanted with it. Theoretically, he could rewrite the Story himself. However, he didn't have enough Ink for that or the infinite control that Oaks had over the Magnum Opus. He might be able to make small changes here and there with what little Ink he had and, as Realism was suggesting, empowering the characters within to oppose the Unwritten.

“Wait…" he began, lifting his gaze. “If the characters are made out of the Ink does that mean…?"

There, Realism held up a third finger. “Yes. The Archetype can take away the Ink of a character and undo them entirely if you need. If that's what it calls for. Just be careful with this power. The Archetype is a pen. It isn't an eraser. You cannot undo what is already done. There is a difference between writing a character into the pages of a book and never having to interact with them to writing a person into reality." Realism seemed to glance downwards for a moment. “A fact far too many authors tend to forget."

Then, with renewed conviction, Realism lifted his gaze again and locked it with Cliff. “Next, remember that no author is ever alone and collaboration is a good way to work through blocks. If you find yourself up against a wall, work with the characters you have encountered. Oaks created these worlds and the foundations of these characters but only you can make them real."

Cliff nodded grimly. “And the last piece of advice?"

Realism flicked his fingers towards Cliff. A soft beep immediately rang in the young man's ears and transparent indicators appeared in front of him, hovering in space about a foot away from his face. In the bottom right were bars, one seemingly indicating his overall health while the other sat mysteriously empty. On the bottom left was what appeared to be a minimap. At the center top of his gaze was what appeared to be a compass.

“Whoa! What the hell!?" he exclaimed, swatting at the displays with his free hand.

“There might be questions about why I can't just outright save you," Realism said grimly. “Unfortunately, my abilities are extremely limited in this tale. Even I cannot overwrite another person's work." The entity sounded quite annoyed. “Especially in this seemingly infinitely recursive reality."

“Huh?" Cliff asked.

Realism shook his head, dismissing the thought. “All I can do right now is give you a few tools that could help when you drift between the Magnum Opus and the laws of the surrounding reality." He lifted a finger. “Think of it like this: I can do so much more in the outside world - the one where you were born in - because I am allowed to. But within the Magnum Opus, where Oaks is lord and god, I cannot interfere. Only when you drift outside of the Opus - like say when you die or when you transition into a new Story - can I contact you and offer my help."

“Then can't you do anything about Oaks?" Cliff demanded. “Can't you smite him with lightning and thunder or something?"

The stranger shook his head. “And where would that leave you? Stuck in a world that will never see an ending, that's half-complete." The man leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “No. I'm sorry to say that you are trapped in the Opus until such a time that you wrest control of it from Oaks and take it for yourself. The Opus needs a writer."

Then he turned back towards Cliff. “Besides, if I do too much, it'll break the immersion and Oaks might just unleash his Unwritten immediately. The heads-up display I just gave you will be of use. You should have a compass, a minimap, a health meter and an 'Ink meter'. That should help you achieve your goals."

Realism held up a finger. “But don't be in a rush to escape the Story. Remember, the Story needs a Setup, Climax and Resolution. It needs a Protagonist and an Antagonist. Neither of which necessarily have to be tangible characters. If you remove any of those, the Story will cease to be. If you end up befriending the Big-Bad-Guy and removing the conflict that would lead to the Climax, Oaks is just going to create something worse. Shake things up too much and he might just scrap the entire idea and plunge everything and everyone into the Ink."

Right… He mentioned that is the basis of the Story that Oaks made for me.

That was the foundation of the story. If someone took out the foundation of a building, the entire thing would collapse. Cliff wasn't sure what would happen if he was still within a Story when it collapsed but he wagered that it would not be good.

Still, his goal was to find that 'piece' of Oaks that the mad writer had put into the Story and exorcise it from the tale. That way, he could make it his own. Then he could finish it and leave it as he saw fit.

“There is a tenuous balance right now between Oaks' confidence of his power versus your tenacity and individuality," Realism continued. “At the core of all this is Oaks' desire to keep selling his Stories. He has no artistic pride anymore. No desire to experiment. No drive to challenge his limits. I hate to say it, but the only thing keeping him from killing you outright is that he's a curious what you'll do. Keep that in mind as you make your way through the Story. You have to pander to him while secretly wresting control of the Story for yourself. Tick him off too much and he might just throw something impossible against you."

Cliff regarded the Archetype. “So the only reason that he's not throwing God against me right now is because he's genuinely curious what I'll do?"

“Exactly. So be careful."

Nodding grimly, Cliff regarded the door sitting there waiting for him. “Alright. Any other pieces of advice?"

“Just remember one last thing," Realism said, holding up a finger. “Your writing. Your story. Your way."

Taking a deep breath, Cliff lifted his head, holding it high and strode towards the door. There was no doorknob. So he just pushed it open…

… and walked through.

Grimvalle

“Cliff! Get your lazy ass up!"

Cliff started awake and was immediately aware of the itch of dry straw against his skin. A grimace rumbled from between his lips as he sat up and was immediately greeted by the smell of coal, sweat and hard-packed mud. Through blurry eyes, he appraised his surroundings, taking in the small loft which was packed with the straw that he lay upon. As he straightened, he slammed his head upon the wooden rafters and grimaced as his vision was invaded by dizzying stars. Rubbing where his head had made impact, he took a second to recover.

“Cliff!" came the hoarse voice again.

“Coming!" he replied instinctively.

Who am I even going to?

Gingerly, he shuffled across the wooden floor, disturbing the straw around him as he made his way to the edge of the small loft which looked more like a little storage attic in a wooden hut. A flimsy wooden ladder sat at the edge of the loft and as he rolled over to it, he became aware of the scratchy tawny tunic he wore that felt like it had been carved out of a burlap sack. His legs were covered by a pair of dirty, off-white trousers that were baggy but would catch the hairs on his legs in a way that any movement would feel like they were being pulled out of their roots. His feet were covered by a pair of 'shoes' if they could be called that. They were more like sacks that were tied to his ankles by ropes.

This must be what Realism meant about the clothes making me fit in.

Rung by rung, he headed down to the ground floor of the hut. There was no flooring. It was entirely just hard-packed dirt. Beneath the loft there was a large bed covered in straw which currently lay empty. Across from the bed against the same wall was another empty bed. If he had to guess, this home housed three people including himself. Right behind him was a table and judging by the three seats on it, his suspicions were correct. Windows were carved into the walls but without any glass or anyway to protect the inhabitants from the elements. There was little else in the home. No stove. No fire. Just the table and the three chairs.

If this is meant to be my family, I'm thinking we're pretty poor…

… or I live in a poor village or something.

“Cliff!" came the bark with increasing urgency.

Feeling his body snap to attention, he charged towards the lone door. For a second, he paused. The door to this hut was made out of rectangular, wooden planks. It was not the same door that was bloodied and torn while made out of twigs that he had used to enter this home.

So… I'm not the protagonist?

He pushed open the door and was immediately met by the clean and crisp air of a rural medieval township. To his right were other smaller homes made out of wood with thatch rooftops. They were all of differing sizes with roads made of hard-packed dirt leading from each one and leading up a small hill where a stone fortress stood. Wooden walls encircled both the village and the fortress. Everyone in the village was dressed much like him. Simple clothing, some wearing cloth headgear to protect them from the sun and some didn't even have shoes.

Something he immediately noticed was that there was a lack of women in the village.

I know Oaks modus operandi. He is a gay writer after all. Women often take a second seat unless they are part of the main cast.

It was a common criticism about his works - especially from the feminists out there. Defenders of Oaks' stories would remind them that Oaks wrote what he wanted to write and he was not going to forcibly insert women into the story just because they said so. Oaks' response to the criticism was often a very calm and apologetic statement that he was a gay man and knew how men acted and writing about women when he had no experience as one would be an insult to the gender.

Up until a few hours ago, it was one of the reasons that Cliff admired the man. He was just as good at writing compelling worlds and relatable characters as he was at maneuvering the ever-changing whimsy of a world in the public view.

“Cliff!" barked that grumpy voice again. “Where is that boy!?"

This time, a bright, chipper tenor added to the tone. “I'll get him, father."

With those two tones in the air, Cliff was able to follow the sound around the left corner of the house. There, he saw a young man with the same-brownish-red hair as himself bounding over to him. Much like him, the man - who was probably just a year or two older than him, was wearing a dirty, soot-covered tunic like him. The man was taller than him though and had thick, meaty arms covered in some a few slight discolorations from healed burns. A pink-peach fuzz covered his cheeks and he beamed down at Cliff with surprisingly straight teeth.

“There you are, brother!" exclaimed the man, wrapping a thick arm around his shoulders. This stranger who claimed to be his sibling had torn off the sleeves of his shirt and Cliff could already smell the scent of body odor off him from being hard at work. This man led him towards the small forge and smithy sitting beside the house where a huge, burly man worked.

Oh shit… I'm in a family of blacksmiths!

Fantasies of those thick, muscular arms wrapping around him, touching him in ways only family knew how to and fucking him permeated his mind. There was no doubt that Oaks' works were influential in his development in more ways than one. Not hard to imagine why many of Oaks' other victims would decide to stick around in their chosen worlds especially as his eyes fell on his 'father'.

The man was just as tall - if not taller - than his brother. His hair was darker and had a slightly receding hairline with the dark-brown, curly locks tied back into a ponytail to keep the strands away from his dark eyes. A heavy brow was covered in soot from working the forge. His huge, hairy chest was barely contained by the shirt and apron he wore, a thick bush of his hair clearly visible across his chest. The immense arms that were three times the size of an average man's were covered in similar burns as his brother. But this man had a bit more of a gut.

The blacksmith caught sight of him as they approached. “There you are," grunted his 'father'. “You've slept half the morning away."

His brother laughed heartily and slapped Cliff's back, the force of the blow causing the young man to stagger forward. “That's our Cliff! After all, he needs all his energy to run errands for us! We are lucky to have to stay at the forge but he runs all over town making our deliveries."

The blacksmith straightened, his brown eyes glistening with mirth and a bit of pride. Cliff felt a little twist in his stomach. There was genuine affection in those eyes. Fatherly love. He brushed aside the feeling for the moment. It was another trick of Oaks to get him to lower his guard.

“What's wrong, son?" rumbled the blacksmith. “Cock got your tongue?"

“Huh?" he stammered, immediately envisioning the thick cock of his 'father' deep down his throat.

“The rooster cawed hours ago and you can barely speak!" laughed his brother. “Come on, little brother! Father has finished with this morning's work! You need to wake up and make those deliveries! The baron is expecting his sword!"

The blacksmith turned, exposing his wide back and thick neck. It took all of Cliff's willpower - addled from having just woken up - to not jump onto his father's back and nibble on that neck. Something told him Oaks wouldn't mind and if this was one of the writer's more sexually charged stories, his father certainly wouldn't mind.

That thought was pulled aside, however, when his father pulled a large sword from a leather sheath. “You will have a few deliveries to make before noon."

The blade was beautiful. Its hilt was crafted with intricate runes and designs that was vaguely reminiscent of Celtic design. A clear jewel of some sort was embedded into the heart of the crossguard. The sword itself was long, broad and shimmered in the daylight. It was almost white. The sheath, in contrast, was made of jet-black leather with bronze buckles. A bear's, snarling head was emblazoned upon the leather.

“Be sure to take care of this, son," rumbled his father, slamming the blade back into its sheath and handing it to Cliff. “You tell the baron that Reeve Gale put his blood, sweat and tears into this one."

Gale… that must be my surname in this world.

So I would be 'Cliff Gale'

And my brother…?

“Percy," rumbled Reeve. “Help your brother with his pack."

His brother, Percy, headed towards a large satchel filled with other tools that looked freshly sharpened and maintained. “Careful with these, brother. Father was sure to sharpen each one."

Cliff took the satchel and slung it over his shoulder. Then he took the offered sword. Deciding not to question too much since he had just entered this Story, he simply asked, “Where are the other tools going?"

His father began listing off a few names that meant nothing to him but he was clearly expected to understand where they lived. Thankfully, his father always mentioned an occupation after each item. The towering bear of a man would say that the spade was meant for Stephen the Farmer and he would know he'd have to head out to the outskirts of the town to deliver it. As the names were ticked off, little pings appeared over his minimap, indicating that a new goal was activated.

“You got all that?" asked Reeve.

Cliff nodded. “Yeah. I know where to go."

This hirsute father rolled his eyes. “You say that every day but you always get lost." He nodded towards Percy. “Go with him, Percival. At least for the first few stops."

“But I want to help you with the rest of today's work!" Percy whined, dragging his arms dramatically.

“Go!" snapped their father playfully. “There isn't much else to do and I would rather you both deliver those goods in a timely manner and we get paid than to churn out these orders and have to wait until tomorrow's delivery."

Percy groaned and swung his whole body in an exaggerated fashion towards the road. “Fine." As soon as he was facing away from their father, he clapped Cliff on the back with a bright grin. “Come on, little brother! Let's go!"

A soft ding followed by a few words flashed across Cliff's vision, invisible to everyone but himself.

New Objective: Make today's deliveries before noon. [0/10]

A list of locations and deliveries appeared in front of him before shrinking over to the top left-hand corner of the HUD that followed his gaze. There were little pings on his minimap that indicated where he was to go.

I wonder…

A little blink towards the minimap and the entire panel - invisible to anyone else but himself - was suddenly consumed by the map. Most of it was concealed by a bubbling, inky mass indicating that he had yet to 'discover' it. However, as he moved with his brother, more and more of the map was steadily being revealed. Satisfied with the mechanic, he minimized the map and followed his brother away from their house to the main road of the village.

“We should head up to the fort first," announced Percy, pointing up the hill. “Best not keep Baron Grim waiting."

Baron Grim…?

“Baron Grim?" he repeated.

His brother gave him a bright grin. “Still sleepy, eh brother of mine?" Once again slapping his back, Percival Gale recounted how Arthur Grim was once a squire for Duke Schandev. However, after proving himself on the battlefield, Grim was given land and a title of his own. Having earned the title of Baron, he was given the surrounding land and called his township 'Grimvalle'. The forests to the west past the farmlands were known as the Grimwalker Forest in honor of the Baron.

This story was told as they strode up the dirty path up to the fort. A few guards were posted at the door. One stopped them and demanded what they wanted with the fort. Percy proudly announced that they were here to deliver the sword.

Knowing Oaks, that sword is going to play a pretty important role, Cliff thought to himself. I don't think I'm meant to be the protagonist of this Story… but he'll want me play my part in it.

The guard let them through, informing them that the Baron was in the training yard to the left of the fort's gates. Percy boasted that he knew the way. The indicator on Cliff's minimap clearly marked where the Baron was stationed. Still, he let his brother take the lead. It seemed to make him happy.

Cliff couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if he had such a positive and enthusiastic older brother in his life. All he had was a judgmental younger sister and super-Christian parents. Not that his parents were ever cruel or hurtful towards his sexuality. When he came out to them, they were accepting of him. But whenever they gave him encouragement, he felt the pang of disappointment in their voice. Like they were being supportive because they had. His sister attributed his sexuality to being a 'phase'.

Pushing that thought out, he approaching the training grounds. In a small town like this, it was really more like a circular pen with a low, wooden fence denoting the perimeter of the grounds. A few straw dummies were placed on the edge of the circle where some guards dressed in crude, leather armor and some plates of steel were swinging wooden swords and practicing drills.

Amongst them was the Baron.

Cliff's heart jumped to his throat.

The man was a beast. He stood at an impossible six and a half feet tall, had thicker arms than even Percival's father and had a thick belly that was more muscle than fat. He wore a heavy, iron necklace that draped over his broad shoulders and highlighted his traps over his crimson tunic that was just as dirty and stained with sweat as everyone else around him. His legs were dense, meaty and bunched with immense muscles as he swung the immense spear he held with frightening precision and skill. Despite being so colossal, he wielded that spear like he was born to be part windmill. He spun it in both, hairy hands so fast that it made a whirring sound as he approached the poor soldier that he was matched against. The soldier was confused and unsure what to do as the Baron suddenly stomped one foot in front of the other and then used the momentum of his building spins to lunge forward.

The young man froze, the spear just missing his neck.

“Holy shit…" Cliff breathed.

“That's our Baron!" exclaimed Percy, throwing himself against the walls of the training grounds, hooting and hollering. “The Grim Tornado! Woooo!"

The Baron caught sight of them both, grinning through his dense, well-trimmed black beard. His curly, dark hair with flecks of gray dusting the temples was matted to his broad forehead. Cheeks slightly flushed from exertion and the sun, the Baron clapped the soldier on the shoulder, offered a few pieces of advice and then strode towards the two Gale boys.

As he approached, Cliff felt the sheer sexuality and authority radiating from the man. He strode with the confidence of a quarterback that knew he could get any girl he wanted but bore the easy-going smile of a humble man that would give tender love as easily as he would plow your ass while you begged for his cum.

“Boys!" bellowed the man, spreading his huge arms wide. “What brings the future blacksmiths of Grimvalle to my fort?"

Cliff was staring for so long that Percy had to elbow him to bring him back out of his stupor. Unbuckling the sword, Cliff held the blade - sheath and all - towards the Baron. Unsure how he should act, he bowed his head instinctively but only managed to catch sight of the huge man's enormous feet hidden by thick, muddy boots.

Fuck… I want him to step on me.

“Y - Y - Your sword, Your… uhm… Highness…?"

The Baron let out a loud, booming laugh. “That's what I like about you, Cliff. You are adorable and bring a light to my days."

Those words immediately snapped Cliff out of his heady-arousal and back to being the D. E. Oaks Expert. That line about 'bringing a light to my days' was a typical Oaks-esque Chekhov's Gun. Somewhere down the line, maybe in the midst of heated sex or a terrible battle, the Baron might just use that same line on him. It would be a brilliant callback to when the Story first started and bring readers back to this awkward moment.

Nice try, Oaks. What? Trying to set me up with the Baron? Is he going to be King one day and I'll be his consort? I'll get to live in the lap of medieval luxury for the rest of my life while you profit from my story?

His quiet fuming was interrupted when the Baron Arthur Grim's hands picked up the sword. Cliff straightened and watched the Baron retrieve the sword.

“Amazing…" breathed Arthur Grim, twisting and swinging the sword in one hand as easily as one would a wooden stick. “The make is magnificent and it is perfectly balanced." He peered down the edge of the blade. “And this metal… Is it Aurorasteel?"

Percy beamed brightly. “Father spared no expense on making your ceremonial sword, m'lord!"

The Baron threw his head back. “Your father should also have known that I am not one to stand for ceremony!" He hefted the blade over his shoulder. “I will be making a trip to the capital in a few weeks and I needed a sword for ceremony, yes, but I would not be called dead with a brand new blade that is untested and without a chip!"

“You are leaving in a few weeks, m'lord?" Percy blurted, his eyes shining. For the first time, Cliff noticed the little necklace his brother wore around his neck. It was a simple silver amulet with a piece of amber within it that matched the energetic man's eyes hanging from a black thread but it clearly set him apart from the others in the world. “For the capital?"

“Yes," boomed the Baron. “Barbarians from the north are becoming unruly and the King is gathering all the nobles to create a strike force to eliminate their offensive before it reaches our borders." Arthur Grim shrugged his immense shoulders. “We are too far south for these barbarians to hit us and I suspects it will be purely a show of support for our dear monarch. I would not be expected to do much more than show up. I would need a retinue to come with me, of course."

A broad grin crossed through his thick beard, once again showing off his straight white teeth.

You know a character is meant to be fucked in one of Oaks' books when they have perfect teeth.

Hard to get aroused when you're kissing someone with black, rotten chompers and rancid breath…

“What say you, boys?" bellowed the Baron, beckoning them over. “Who would like to test their mettle against your father's new blade? Should you impress me, you would earn a place by my side to travel to the capital."

Percy held up his hands, shaking his head. “Ah, it would be an honor, m'lord but my future rests with hammering steel and providing your men with arms. The day I wield a sword is the day the world ends!"

Oof… Foreshadowing there?

“And what about you, young Cliff?" chuckled the Baron. “Surely a courier must have some way to defend himself."

A crucial decision and one that Cliff wasn't entirely sure where the path would lead. It was still far too early in the story to determine if this was the road that Oaks set for him. Challenging the Baron could deepen their relationship and could be exactly what the Holder of the Magnum Opus wanted for him. Declining though was fitting his character as Cliff Gale, courier and son of the town blacksmith. A typical hero's journey, however, could use this moment to establish his role as a protagonist.

You know what?

Cliff pulled the pack he was holding off his shoulder and handed it to Percy. As he did so, he reached into it, hoping to grab any other weapon that might have been there. He recalled he was meant to deliver a dagger to Brienus the guard so maybe he could use that.

However, as he did so, a little menu appeared in front of his vision.

'Draw the Archetype?'

Dare he draw the mythical weapon that could remind Oaks that he was here as an unwilling participant? Could he ruin the Story now and destabilize its foundations so early into the tale? Or should he go with the Plot and act like the submissive little blacksmith's courier boy with greater ambitions that Oaks wanted him to be?

Fuck it! I would've been willing to help you, Oaks.

It's why I wanted to be your assistant.

But if you're going to treat me like a simple-ass two-dimensional character that's trapped in some sort of gay-harem isekai, you've got another thing coming.

So he drew the Archetype.

There was a brief burst of light as he grasped the hilt of the sword and drew it from the satchel. Percy's eyes widened and his jaw hit the ground as Cliff drew the weapon and vaulted over the fence, facing off against the Baron. Surrounding soldiers and a few of the fort's staff saw and wandered over curiously at the defiant blacksmith's boy who wielded an artfully crafted weapon.

“What is that?" the Baron asked, his eyebrows knitted together and nodding towards the blade.

“Another of my father's masterpieces," lied Cliff, holding up the sword. Luckily, fencing was still one of his favorite hobbies. After picking it up during high school and continuing to pursue it during college, he was quite adept with the sword. In his free time - which was a lot these days as he worked at the library - he constantly read about different styles of sword wielding throughout centuries and across different civilizations. Sometimes, he hated himself for over-analyzing how videogame characters wielded swords or how movies portrayed sword-wielding.

There was actually a science to the stances they took.

And this was the prime time for him to put into practice the style he had developed both in his imagination and in the backyard of his parents while he was raking up leaves.

Cliff stood with the Archetype in his right hand, standing on his side with both feet facing towards his opponent, left foot forward. The sword hung behind him, sword tip pointed downwards while his other hand was slightly bent in front of him, fingers out towards his opponent.

Remember MOM. Minimize, Observe, Maximize.

The Baron grinned at him. “Let us not be too hasty to damage your father's good work, Cliff. But…" His black eyes drifted across the gathered crowd. “I think this would make for a fine showing to our audience of your father's good work!"

Minimize your profile.

“En garde!" roared the Baron and charged.

Observe your opponent.

The Baron swung the glistening longsword straight down at Cliff, clearly not aiming at him but at the space to his right to intimidate him.

Maximize impact.

Lightning fast, Cliff's free hand snapped out striking at the Baron's wrist as it came down. The sword in the huge man's grip immediately dropped as the ruler of Grimvalle's grasp on the sword was forcibly loosened. That dislodged the blade from its precision fall, threatening to come slicing across Cliff's arm. Just as fast, however, Cliff pulled his arm back, switching his feet and snapping the Archetype upwards, slapping the blade off to the side while bringing the tip of his sword right up to the Baron's neck.

A hush fell upon the crowd.

Whoa… I think… I think I've faster than before.

That turned out better than I thought!

There was no doubt that the alterations that Realism made to him and the power of the Archetype made this all possible.

The Baron, his eyes wide, raised his hands in surrender and took a step back. “That was very impressive," rumbled the bear of a man. “Where did you learn such swordsmanship?"

Cliff lowered his blade with a little sigh. He placed his free hand over his chest, offering a shaky smile.

Okay… I've showed off enough.

Let's placate Oaks a little.

“To be frank, I've been watching you fight for most of my life, m'lord," he lied. “I've observed how you swing your sword. How you move your feet. What I did was made to counter you and you alone in a fair fight. Out in the battlefield and against anyone else, I doubt I would be so lucky."

That was a clear lie. Somewhere, deep down, he knew he had just grazed the surface of the capabilities that he was now granted.

A little smile touched the Baron's lips. “So you have been watching me that keenly, eh?"

There's the typical Oaks innuendo.

Despite knowing this was clearly part of the pornographic plot before him, Cliff still averted his gaze and blushed. Even if this was a character created to entrap him in this mystical book, it was still flattering to be hit on by such a hunk of a man.

“Perhaps you should show me how well you've observed me," quipped the Baron, leading down to pick up the sword from the mud.

“It would be my honor," Cliff said, backing away and heading back towards his brother. “But apologies, m'lord. I've got other deliveries to make."

“Go," the Baron said, his smile growing broader. Cliff could not help but feel the beast of a man was leering at his ass. “Expect a summons from me when travel arrangements are finalized in a few days."

Right… I won so I'm going to have to accompany him to the King.

Sounds like I'm following the Plot… For now.

Cliff briefly looked up at the sky, wondering if his warden and tormentor was watching.

See that, Oaks? I'll dance to your tune for now but these steps are my own.

“I look forward to it, m'lord," Cliff said and jumped the fence. He grabbed the bag from his brother and started for the gates again. Percy was blabbering incessantly about how he had caught the Baron by surprise and questioning him when he had the learned how to wield a sword or when their father had made the blade for him.

He wasn't listening though.

Because in front of his eyes flashed the words: 'Objective Complete: Beat Baron Arthur Grim in Silent is the Fallen Tree'.

When he blinked the words changed.

'Obtained Level 1 Mastery over the Archetype - Font: Typewriter'

Questions flowed through his mind as a few other statistics were thrown his way. Apparently the Archetype was currently configured for something called the 'Typewriter' and he had mastered its first stage. What that meant, he was unsure.

What were these 'Objectives'?

The Synopsis

“No! No! No!" roared Oaks, slamming his fists against the lectern but cautious not to hit the glowing book and its pages in front of him. “You weren't meant to win!"

Cliff was meant to deliver each of the tools to the townspeople, establishing his character and enabling the audience to grow connected to each of the other people in town. The Baron's challenge was scripted, yes, but it was one that the deuteragonist was meant to lose. Cliff was meant to use the dagger that was meant for the guardsman. This would form a benchmark for the Cliff's skills with the sword which he would eventually develop over the course of the story.

Oaks had a whole character arc planned where his Protagonist would be far more skilled, far more powerful and inspire Cliff - while stirring the young man's loins. Their relationship would continue to develop and Cliff would steadily grow stronger. One of the story beats they would cross would eventually be the Protagonist's begrudging acceptance of Cliff's skills!

But this… this was not what he had planned.

Where had Cliff become that skilled with the sword? What was that stance? That technique?

“And that… that sword," hissed Oaks. “What the fuck is it!?"

The letters and scrawls all over the Synopsis hissed and chittered like a billion ants clambering over one another. The dark writer sighed to himself softly and straightened in his high-backed chair. For a moment, he closed his eyes, listening to the scribblings twisting and spiraling all over the enigmatic room.

“Yes," he sighed at length. “It is not the end of the Story. It does not derail the Plot." His eyes snapped open, an inhuman red glow shining behind his dark irises. Taking up the crystal quill, he tapped the pointed edge through the air where it pierced space, causing a black-purple ooze to bleed from the wound. “Verik is still in play. So are the others. But let us give him a little extra motivation. Let's stir the hands of destiny."

He pressed the quill against the shimmering, golden pages… and began to write.

“Skurrald Narvath," he intoned, a dark grin crossing his features. “… newly crowed Barbarian Bandit King…"

Ironbark Forest

Never before had there ever been a 'Barbarian King' let alone a 'Barbarian Bandit King'. Recent times had changed the opinions of the northerners, however. It started when an charismatic noble came from the south. A man who came with gold, riches, food and weaponry. He started with one clan and told them that he would bring them salvation from the sparse, wild wastes of the land and grant them the lands of King Marvellian if they would help him conquer it.

The plan was simple. The barbarians attacked from the north while this noble's troops would seemingly 'come to the aid' of the beleaguered King from the east. In reality, they would weaken the King's forces and only aid the barbarians until such a time that their duplicity was revealed. Then, they would ally with the barbarians openly and conquer the rest of the land. With their troops seeded throughout the King's domain, it would be easy to rip through the remaining defenders.

Of course, it was another thing to gather all the barbarian clans and tribes to agree to such an offensive. Even one tribe, no matter how powerful, would not be enough to challenge the might of a kingdom. So this noble went from clan to clan, tribe to tribe, village to village and with his honeyed words and briberies of everything the northerners needed, convinced them to form the Circle of Kings.

Each 'King' was assigned a function.

The Barbarian War King was in charge of the main force, mustering the troops and slowly marching south to Marvellian's borders.. The Barbarian Arms King was responsible for forging war machines and equipping the remaining forces. The Barbarian Provisions King was responsible for staying behind and ensuring supply lines constantly fed the marching men.

And then there was Skurrald Narvath, the Barbarian Bandit King.

In his hands was the task of slipping behind enemy lines with his small force, raiding villages and weakening the enemy forces. While he had already slipped past the patrols with his small force of thirty men, he was just beginning raiding. A few caravans here and there, some stragglers and a few lone patrols.

The towering six-foot tall titan with a dirty blonde Mohawk and various scars all over his arms and chest understood very well that even the smallest cut could fester and cause an infection. Eventually, his band would join with the main force and they would have their chance at looting and pillaging.

His deep, green eyes appraised the campfires around his small camp hidden deep within the woods and far from any town. His men were loudly celebrating their latest raid - just an attack on a merchant caravan. Barely put up a fight. Some of his men were showing off the silken finery they had pillaged before throwing them into the flames. His people didn't need such things. Maybe they would be sold eventually to fund the kingdom that slimy noble had promised but that was a problem for the future.

For now, Skurrald's bloodlust was sated. “Men!" he roared, immediately catching the attention of his barbarians. Pumping a fist into the air, he roared, “Drink on the sweet milk of this victory! Tomorrow, we march south! We raid! We hunt!"

They roared in response.

Satisfied, he turned towards his tent that was barely big enough to contain his immense bulk. Skurrald stripped off the thick fur armor that hung around his shoulders and let them slam into the ground beneath him. Dust was kicked up from the impact. As they traveled further south, his armor was getting hotter and harder to carry. Not that it would be anything he admit. He stripped off the heavy, leather straps that crisscrossed his chest and the studded leather pauldrons that they held. Sweat and blood had glued the straps to his hairy chest. It was like peeling off a layer of skin from him. Unwilling to let himself wince in weakness even in the semi-privacy of his own tent, Skurrald threw the armor to the ground.

He did sigh, however. Grabbing the silver buckle that the Circle of Kings had granted him that crowned him as the Bandit King, he undid the belt and let the heavy, leather and fur kilt that hung around his waist and covered his thighs. Wafts of his musk lifted up to his nostrils and he flared them, taking in his own scent. Many barbarians claimed to grow aroused during the heat of battle and many others decried such instincts are demonic or unnatural. Not Skurrald. He reveled in it. Battle was the only time when he felt free, strong and unstoppable.

Running his immense hands down his muscle gut, brushing the treasure trail that led down to his crotch, he could feel himself growing more and more aroused by the second. Despite the overwhelming lust that came over him during battle, he was not so stupid as to stop and masturbate when he was swinging his huge cleaving sword. That only meant that he was all the more eager for release during these private moments. The ultimate edging.

His fingers brushed the slate gray loincloth which was already straining against his thick, fat, uncut cock. A distinct wet spot was forming at the tip. Meaty digits probed the little lake of precum, pleasing himself as he pulled them away from the cloth and watching the clear, sticky substance form a bridge between his sheathed dick and his fingertips. If ever there was a sign of his virility, it was this.

Lifting his sticky fingers, he brushed the clear ooze over his lips, savoring the smell and the light taste on the tip of his tongue. A smile crossed his hairless features. Many Barbarians had teased him when he was younger for being incapable of growing a beard beyond the light, blond fuzz that now shrouded his cheeks. Against his pale flesh, it was nearly invisible. However, he had made sure to punish those of his kin for mocking him - never to death. There was still brotherhood and kinship to think about. Just thinking about their bloodied faces against his knuckles made his cock twitch and secrete more of his precum into his loincloth.

Skurrald was far too occupied with his self-pleasuring to notice a different kind of ooze starting to gather behind him. In the shadows of his tent, a purplish-black goo started gathering. The pool quietly churned and bubbled growing in size until it was about the size of a dinner plate. From within, a pair of solid, pearly white eyes sprang open. A rounded growth pushed out from the pool, carrying the white orbs with it. Slithering through the air with only a vague intent in its primitive mind. As more of it was extracted from the pool, the remaining Ink seeped into the creature that appeared like a rough, curling question mark in the air sporting two white eyes or just a vague spiral made by a single brush stroke.

It's eyes spied Skurrald whose back was turned to the Unwritten.

A single command burned within its mind.

Change. Corrupt. Cum.

The Unwritten slithered through the air, unhindered by gravity. Moving like liquid through the air, the vaguely serpentine creature collided with the Barbarian King's leg and immediately began curling up its thick leg, spiraling upwards with a speed and precision that didn't provide Skurrald with any time to react.

The Barbarian King barely felt the jolt of cold that came from the Unwritten's touch before it was rocketing up his leg, past his throbbing cock, across his bare chest and suddenly hovering over his face, its eyes locked with his.

“What -?" was all he could manage.

Then the Unwritten shot straight for his open mouth, slithering down his throat and filling him. A cold like he had never felt before spread out from the creature's body, starting from the center of his chest and radiating outwards until his very extremities felt like they had been plunged into a cold, unforgiving ocean. As the tail of the Unwritten vanished between his lips, Skurrald fell to his knees, his boots still on his feet. He found himself inadvertently swallowing, his fingers - still sticky with his precum - hovering over his throat, knowing full well that he couldn't do anything to extract the strange creature from him now.

Strange as it was, the cold that encompassed him didn't cause him to shiver or chatter his teeth. It was strangely… calm. Cleansing. Fear and confusion consumed everything in his mind. Forget the barbarians celebrating outside of his tent. Forget the Circle of Kings or the promise of a prosperous northern kingdom.

He just could not understand what was happening. Questions flowed through his mind.

Then the answer came.

Change. Corrupt. Cum.

From the haze of terror and uncertainty, came the clarity of those three, simple words. His weakened mind embraced those words with frightening ease; a lost sailor drawn to the distant glow of a lighthouse. With his body already in the throes of arousal, it was not difficult for the Unwritten to rewrite the neurons in his brain.

Pleasure came with purpose.

Purpose derived from infecting others and transforming them.

To transform others, he needed to cum on them which would, in turn, bring more pleasure.

Never been one of the more intelligent barbarians, Skurrald grasped his meaty cock from underneath his straining loincloth and succumbed to the infection and D. E. Oak's will. With no defenses to stand in its way, the Unwritten began to twist and rewrite the Bandit King's entire existence, his own body.

A meaty hand that was gripping his cock tightly bubbled and roiled, veins bulging beneath the surface of his skin. Bones let out a gentle heat that cut through the chill of his infected body. Coffee colored fur sprang from his knuckles and spread all over his hands, consuming his nails and replacing them with blunted, black claws that jutted from the tips of his fingers.

Thick, corded muscles along his forearms bulged and tightened. The fur spread further up his arms, seemingly to only accentuate his scars all the more as they actively avoided them, leaving the marks bright pink against the sea of light-brown fur. The blond hairs on his forearms which had once stood nearly invisible against his body grew denser and more pronounced, forming a clear trail up his arms, curling behind his elbow, up his triceps and flaring back out into a pelt across his scalloped deltoids. Fur covered the rest, spreading over his biceps which doubled in size.

With his arm fully transformed, he now had the implement to jerk his meat and he proceeded to do so without hesitation. His musk grew stronger as the change spread across his chest and armpits. The scent in the air was distinct his but different, changed. It only served to arouse him further, infected pheromones in the enclosed tent multiplying the progress of his transformation three-fold.

His already impressive pectorals ballooned out, two perky, dark nipples forced to point downwards as each plate of muscle became the perfect peak of masculinity. Cresting these mountains was a thick crest of dark blond hair that seeped from the valley of his chest and sprayed out like a majestic eagle spreading its wings across his collarbone. If one squinted, it would be possible to see how this crest just barely kissed the pelt of blond hair on his shoulders.

Skurrald lifted his still-human hand towards his nipple, pinching it and sending an electric jolt of pleasure throughout his entire body. That bolt send his spine rocketing upwards, adding an entire half-foot to his already impressive height. Lucky that he was kneeling because as the transformation spread to his legs and added yet another half-foot to his mass, he would have burst out of the tent.

Creamy fur spread down his other arm and belly, giving a strangely smooth appearance to his stomach even as it was framed by solid obliques. The belly grew to fit the rest of his mass, momentarily hiding his throbbing cock. But within moments, that was not the case. With a resounding rip, his huge dick burst from his loincloth, sending shards of the pre-cum soaked fabric all over the tent. The titanic cock crested the mound that was his belly, giving him more and more length for his paw to stroke feverishly.

As the change spread down his other arm, building the muscles of his triceps and biceps, his grip around his nipple grew stronger and stronger. He tweaked the sensitive flesh, turning the dial of his change and submission to the Holder to the maximum.

Already titanic legs built for trudging through knee-high snow and traveling miles exploded in sheer mass, thick veins pulsating and leading directly to his cock. Heavy balls blossomed, filled with infected seed and throbbed with a need to release its corruptive payload. His calves burst, straining the fabric of his boots. The sound of leather straining was a precursor.

RRRRRRRIP!

Shreds of fur and leather scattered behind him. The soles of his boots fell uselessly against the ground. Black claws scraped across the ground jutting from thick toes attached to enormous feet.

There was nothing holding Skurrald back. His tongue hung out past his lips, panting heavily with every pulse of his throbbing cock. The fur spread up his corded neck, his traps rising up to swallow his throat and causing his already deep voice to drop an entire octave. He tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling of his tent which was so much closer to his face. For the briefest of moments, he closed his eyes as the immensely relieving warmth spread across his features.

His ears were consumed by the creamy, brown fur - both outer ear and inner - before they were dragged to the top of his head. His stark, blond Mohawk grew longer and wilder, a stark contrast against his coffee-colored fur. The warmth throbbed through his face, pushing his nose out in front of his face into a long, square muzzle. His eyes snapped open. For a moment, they were completely pearly white like that of the Unwritten before burning, amber-colored irises burst through and his pupils contracted.

His cock erupted.

Skurrald let out a thunderous roar as his cock ejected purplish-black cum from his balls. Waves of ecstasy spread throughout his mind and body, shaking the last vestiges of the Barbarian Bandit King from this newly shaped frame. The newly formed literal bear of a man rode the tides of his ejaculation with each burst, a dopey smile crossing his ursine features as he was brought a taste of the satisfaction he would receive from the transformation.

“Change," he intoned, between each gallon of black cum he produced. Had he still possessed some human sense in him, he would have realized that the amount he ejected from his thick, long cock was certainly more than his balls could contain regardless of how big they were now. Yet the rate his body produced the corruptive seed was able to keep up with his throbbing cock.

“Corrupt," he rumbled, more clarity entering his eyes.

From the lake of seed he had produced which now took up half of the tent, a multitude of pearly white eyes sprang. Like before, those eyes were drawn into the air, pulling with them the serpentine bodies of the Unwritten. Within moments, there were half a dozen of the dark beasts hovering in the air.

A dark grin crossed Skurrald's features as he regarded his 'children'.

“Cum."

The Unwritten shot off in different directions, slithering under the fabric of the tent and dispersing into the camp.

Outside, none of the barbarians gave a second thought to their Bandit King's roar of pleasure. More than one man in their camp would be finding company in their brother's hands and finding ecstasy in release this night. They continued to celebrate, oblivious to the lurking Unwritten in the shadows.

On raider, a lanky man by the name of Kerngolr, was facing the Bandit King's tent so he was in prime view of tent flaps when they peeled open. For a second, he was curious why their King would come out after having just relieved himself. Then that was replaced with confusion as what emerged from the tent was not their titanic king… but a colossal beast with a thick, erect monster of a dick saluting them.

Kerngolr was halfway up from where he was squatting when one of his barbarian brother let out a cry to his right. He turned in time to see the man - Gulr - fall on his back, swatting at something black and purple slithering down the his throat.

“What in the Gods' name…?" he began. Then Gulr's cock shot out up, tearing through tough leather and fur like a sharpened sword, impossibly long and dripping with precum. Gulr seized his member without hesitation, roaring in pleasure as his entire body erupted into a beastly shape. Shreds of armor flung out in all directions, one piece of leather even landing in the fire that stood in front of Kerngolr and sending sparks everywhere. Within mere moments, Gulr was shooting purplish-black ichor from his dick and the barbarian now a monstrous bear-man.

A strong scent of man, sex and cum permeated the air and invaded Kerngolr's mind. Where there should have been horror and confusion, instead, there was… curiosity and the permeating question of what such a huge cock would taste like. Unable to control his own body, Kerngolr strode over to his corrupted comrade, placing himself between the bear's legs. Gulr grinned at him. Somewhere, his barbarian brother was still in there and that eased the barbarian's mind, cementing that what he was about to do was perfectly natural.

So he opened his mouth and even before he had wrapped his lips around the monstrous cock in front of him, he was already changing into another beast. His ursine features lurched forward, consuming the throbbing member in front of him, consuming the infected cum directly and changing his thoughts. Within moments, he was shooting his own corrupted cum to join the pool that Gulr had produced. More of the Unwritten were birthed from the goo as they continued to mate.

Freikr had been slumbering in his tent when he heard the sounds of panic. Instincts took over and he barely even noticed the thick musk in the air by the time he grabbed his weapon - a spike club - and was charging out of his tent. He was already naked. Not even two feet out of his tent and he felt something thick, warm and sticky slam against his cheek. When he turned, he saw two huge bear men fucking amidst the ruins of a tent. For a second he wondered what he was seeing… then wondered how he could join in.

He dropped his club and, drawn by a powerful force by the two, huge, muscular ursine bodies tumbling and tussling in the throes of sexual pleasure, knelt. He shoved his face right between the ass cheeks of one of huge hair beasts. Such an act would never have been conceivable to him in the past and even the thick, heady musk from the bear couldn't quite convince him that this was completely right. Then the first droplets of corrupt cum from a previous mating session fell upon his lips and he was lost.

Freikr found the taste delectable and he immediately wanted more. He shoved his tongue right into the pulsing hole, lapping up the cum and feeling the raw power of the change surge through him. His whole body convulsed and was quickly dragged into the maelstrom that the two bears were caught in.

Moments later, two became three. Pools of black cum was gathering in the remnants of the tent.

Perluf was standing guard on the outskirts of the camp. When he heard the commotion, he immediately turned and charged back into camp. The youngest of the strike team that accompanied the Bandit King, he was eager to prove himself. When he burst out of the tree line into the camp, he couldn't understand what he was seeing.

Bears were attacking the camp.

But there were so many. Did bears travel in packs and form raiding parties? Why did these bears have such muscular, humanoid features? What was that black goo they seemed to be leaving everywhere?

And what was that smell?

Perluf raised his spear. A battle cry was barely out of his lips when a huge, powerful paw seized the back of his head, turned it to the left and immediately shoved it into a musky armpit. The young barbarian made the mistake of immediately taking a gasp of surprise as he got a lungful of his Bandit King's corruptive essence. His eyes widened when he saw the streak of a blond Mowhawk sitting between the titanic bear's rounded ears.

“My… My king!?" he choked but by the time he got the second syllable out, he was barely resisting and the spear was falling out of his fingers.

“That's it, Perluf," rumbled the Bandit King, amber eyes burning. “Breathe me in. Join my march to Grimvalle. Change. Corrupt. Cum."

The young barbarian's defenses shattered, not that there was much to keep them up. The moment he realized that his liege had changed, the Unwritten's power latched onto his loyalty and twisted it to make him succumb to the transformation. His cock was exploding out of his armor a second later and he was spraying his black cum all over his lord's feet in a sign of his subservience.

“Change," rumbled Perluf, pulling his new muzzle away from Skurrald's pits while licking his lips. “Corrupt. Cum."

Grimvalle

Cliff spent the rest of the day delivering the rest of the tools to the various people of the village. He was purposefully evasive towards Percy's questions about the Archetype and sneakily slipped it into his backpack while dismissing it. He learned quickly that if he were to 'sheathe' the blade, it would disappear from sight. Still, he kept his pack close to him and with Percy being easily distracted, the topic of their father's mysterious masterpiece vanished. He just hoped that Percy wouldn't bring it up again the moment they got back home.

The trip across the village took longer because Percy was insistent on interacting with everyone. Very sociable. Clearly an extrovert.

The two Gale Brothers spent almost half an hour speaking to the two town guards currently posted at the huge, wooden walls marking the perimeter of Grimvalle.

Brienus was the bigger of the two with chocolate skin and an easy-going smile. A giant with a heart of gold, he was more than happy to engage Percy in the gossip of the town.

Foulk was the other guard and was a constant, nervous wreck. Though he was fit, he wasn't nearly as big as Brienus, he was older with his hair clearly shining gray beneath the steel helmet he wore.

Both guards didn't have a uniform or even the same kind of armor save for black trousers and a copper belt marked with the emblem of three trees standing side by side and a single spear standing horizontally at their base - the emblem of Grimvalle. They both did have a pair of bracers around their wrists to offer some uniformity in their attire but other than that, they had various forms of protection. Brienus had a cuirass while Foulk wore a leather vest. Brienus was carrying a mace while Foulk just had two small clubs. More deterrents than actual weapons. Most of the weaponry went to the soldiers in the fort and if big trouble were to come their way, these two were supposed to tell the For. Really, they were little more than militia.

It took them another thirty minutes to make it to Old Man Duggin, a farmer who worked alone and still managed to provide so much grain to the town. Though he was fully gray, he had wry strength in his lean physique and tanned skin.

Percy spent another thirty minutes hearing Duggin complain about his neighbor and rival farmer, Raynoldus. It was gossip in the town that Raynoldus was after Duggin's land for some reason. Raynoldus has three sons that helped him on their farm. Yet, despite the extra hands, Duggin was still able to maintain the output and deliveries as the younger Raynoldus.

It pissed off the rival farmer a lot.

Lastly on their trip was, by far, the farthest of their stops - the Charcoal Brothers as they were called.

Nycolas and Gyrard Coalman were true to their name. They lived in two charcoal burning huts on either side of the road. Both brothers constantly competed with one another to provide charcoal and wood to the town. They got raw wood from the woodsman that lived even further and deeper into the Grimwalker Forest. While they were in constant competition with one another, they were still brotherly with one another and it was clear that they loved each other. Cliff found it a little humorous that these two provided exactly the same service to the town, lived across from one another and still competed against each other.

As Percy was finishing trying to convince the two to merge their efforts, Cliff heard the tell-tale creaking of wooden wheels on the bumpy road. Though he wasn't sure how he knew what wooden wheels sounded like, he still turned in the direction of the noise and noticed someone emerging from the woods.

“Who is that?" he asked aloud.

Nycolas, the older of the brothers and sported tumbling light brown hair that was made darker by being in the presence of near-constant soot, turned to where he was pointing. The tall, lanky man, narrowed his green eyes and shaded them against the afternoon sun. Then he beamed and waved at the approaching figure.

“Ho! Verik!"

As the figure came into view, it became clear that there was a towering, red-haired man riding upon a cart pulled by a lone donkey. On the cart were long, freshly chopped logs. Cliff's heart skipped a beat the moment he saw this man.

Verik had to be about 5'10'', just a few inches taller than Cliff. The man had a mane of wild, red hair that he tied back in a braided ponytail. A thick, full beard that naturally smoothened into a fiery point that hung just above his collarbone hung on his broad, hardened features. With shoulders as big as boulders and traps that swallowed his neck, this man was an absolute beast. The plain, dirty and sweat-stained gray tunic he wore had the sleeves cut off just like Percy but his chest was so big that what remained of them almost looked like a stringer on his immense, body. 'Thick' was the best way to describe the titan. He possessed that little bit of a 'V-shaped' torso and there was abs glistening through his shirt but he was still wide enough that his body screamed 'mass'. The fact that this man also wore a blue and red plaid kilt tickled something in Cliff that he didn't know he desired.

Oh shit… I think I have a thing for Scottish redhead bodybuilders! Or are kilts Irish?

Just imagining Verik hauling huge logs onto his cart shirtless wearing only that kilt made his mouth dry and his cock twitch. When Verik waved a hand and grinned, showing pearly-white, straight teeth even from the distance, Cliff felt knots form in his stomach.

Holy shit… Was I meant to get it on with him and not the Baron?

Unless this is a whole thing where I'm meant to have multiple partners…?

Am I going to be stuck in a love-triangle between the hot, successful, rich, wealthy noble and the burly, loving, peaceful lumberjack?

Cliff slapped his own forehead loudly.

Oh fuck you, Oaks.

Percy leaned over at him curiously. “Are you alright, Cliff?"

Realizing that such a gesture was both outward and likely unfamiliar in this medieval setting, Cliff quickly said, “I thought there was a bug on my face."

As the cart drew closer, Cliff got a better look at the man. Bright, blue eyes shimmered beneath that heavy brow.

“Hello!" boomed Verik in a cheerful greeting. His voice was like the gentle rumble of thunder in the distance that heralded summer rain. Loud but oddly soothing. “The Gale Brothers! I am surprised to see you so far from town. What brings you here?"

“We were just delivering some goods," answered Percy immediately. “The brothers needed new shovels for their coal burners."

Verik beamed brightly. “Well it is just as well that you are here." The red-haired lumberjack reached behind him and pulled out a large axe. Cliff was no expert on axes but even he could tell that the edge of the weapon was severely blunted. “I was going to pass by town to ask your father to sharpen this for me. If I could trouble you to bring this? I left far too late today and am eager to get back to my wife and daughter."

Cliff's heart plummeted.

Uh-oh.

The rare appearance or mention of women. Verik was hot in every conceivable way. Based on other stories he had read from Oaks, something was going to pull him from his wife and child and cause him to develop feelings for another man. It would be central to his growth. Conflict between his marriage and family and his desires. Oaks' works around the topic of sexual awakening of previously straight men were celebrated for their depiction of the protagonist's struggle.

Protagonist…

Cliff's eyes widened.

Oh shit! He's the Protagonist!

The profile fit. He was entering the Story when Verik was already married and had a child. As he had previously observed, there were no other women in town so that would make Verik's situation extremely unique. Apart from his physical appearance, the foundation was there for something that would disrupt Verik's world. Sexual encounter with a young blacksmith's son perhaps?

Fear shot through his heart.

Wait… I just agreed to go on an escort mission with the Baron weeks from now.

Was I not supposed to that? Did I skip to that part? Was I meant to meet Verik first, get to know him and then go on the trip which would make him miss me? Worry about me?

As he began going over Oaks' previous works, that fear grew in his heart.

Fuck!

His eyes darted from left to right, searching for any signs of the Unwritten. When there were no ominous pools of dark ink or those scraggly humanoid monstrosities, he mentally breathed a sigh of relief.

Maybe my deviation wasn't so bad.

I mean, we're still meeting here.

“I'd be happy to take it," Percy exclaimed brightly. He glanced over his shoulder at the sun behind them. “It's getting late. Father would likely not be able to finish this until tomorrow."

“That's fine," rumbled Verik with a bright smile. “You are saving me a trip to town. I'll head over tomorrow to pick it up. Expect me before noon." The lumberjack laughed softly. “The trip is a long one even with old Daisy here pulling the cart."

“I can only imagine!" Percy exclaimed, taking the axe from Verik. “Did you need help with unloading your cart?"

No!

“We'll be late," said Cliff instinctively. “Father was expecting us before noon and we have already missed our midday meal." He hiked a thumb in the direction of Grimvalle. “I hate to be rude, Verik, but we really must be off."

Percy smirked and crossed his arms. “Look at that. Beat the Baron in swordplay once and already eager to tell our father about it."

Verik's sharp eyebrows rose. “You beat the Baron?" He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Then again, he is more accustomed to wielding a spear than a sword."

“It was just a fluke," Cliff said, his cheeks starting to burn in embarrassment and arousal. Thoughts of licking the man's armpits which were covered in dense, fiery-red hair permeated his thoughts and made it harder and harder to turn away. The fact that he was supposed to choose between this guy and the Baron was making him dizzy. Some part of him wondered if he could disrupt Oaks' Story by reconciling the two and happily being in between them both at the same time.

Unless that's exactly what he wants me to do.

That thought brought him back to earth and he began heading back towards town. “Nice seeing you, Verik, Nycolas, Gyrard! We've got to go!"

Percy gave chase. “We'll have your axe nice and sharp by noon tomorrow, Verik! Come pick it up at the smithy then!"

“I'll be there! That's a promise!"

Is that another Chekhov's Gun? Verik always keeps his promises?

They peeled away from the Charcoal Brothers. It would be another few hours or so before they reached the town and perhaps another fifteen minutes before they got back home. He wasn't sure why, but he knew that he would get some harsh words from Reeve Gale the moment they were back. Not to mention he was starting to feel hungry. Part of him wondered if nutrition was one of the stats being tracked by his HUD.

“Hey Percy," he began, trying to fill the silence of their trek. “What do you know about Mr. Verik?"

“Hmmm?" replied his older brother. “Verik Stormleaf is his name. Not Mr. Verik. Would be Mr. Stormleaf if anything." Percy tilted his head, tapping his chin with the blunt head of the axe he was carrying. “He came here with the Baron. Twenty… no… Thirty-six summers old. I think he fought in the same war as the Baron."

“And his wife and child?" Cliff asked.

Percy grinned brightly. “Oh! You mean Ceria and Faelea! They're both so nice! Ceria makes these jam-filled cookies that she sells at market and Faelea is the cutest! She's only six and already growing like a weed! The woods do make people strong!"

Oh boy. That's a strong backstory right there.

More and more, I'm thinking Verik is the Protagonist of this Story.

Cliff was fairly sure he was not meant to defeat the Baron using the Archetype so he was fairly sure that was against Oaks' will. However, because the Unwritten had yet to appear, he was fairly sure that little bit of defiance either went unnoticed or was inconsequential. Which only supported his theory that he was not meant to be the Protagonist of this Story. The fact that Verik had a wife and child made him the more likely candidate.

The town gates were starting to grow larger and larger in the horizon. As they drew closer, however, he noticed a group of individuals sitting by the side of the road. Three of them were perched on the fence indicating the limits of the farm while another two were absently throwing rocks at the cattle in the field beyond the fence.

“Oh no…" rumbled Percy. “It's them."

Cliff cocked an eyebrow as he slowed his pace to match his brother's. “Who?"

Lowering his voice so as they would not be overhead even though there were still some distance away, Percy said, “You know. Ansell and his gang."

I wish I had some way to look up these names.

Seeing his blank stare, Percy grit his teeth clearly showing disdain for the first time since Cliff had met him. “Ansell, Mikhael, Walken, Francus and Hicket. Those five are troublemakers. They barely work. They do odd jobs all over two. Taking work where they can. They live together in one home. I think it's Francus' after his parents died. We hired them once, remember? When deliveries were really urgent."

“I guess…?" Cliff responded with a shrug.

“I'm sure they stole those tools," Percy growled. “But nothing could ever be proved. He set father back months. People don't trust Ansell and his gang in general. Especially when they are known to play pranks around town." Percy's nose wrinkled in disgust. “I still remember when they threw manure at our home. It took ages to get the shit off our thatch."

“Why do people keep hiring them then?"

His older brother shrugged helplessly. “We need the hands. Grimvalle is a small town, after all."

And filled with guys so it's not like it's going to start growing anytime soon…

“Keep the purse with your coin close," hissed Percy, straightening and starting to stride forward again. “Do not talk to them."

Suddenly, the little pouch filled with all the coins he had obtained from all their deliveries felt very heavy and very hot against his waist. Realizing that Ansell's gang were on the left side of the road and so was the pouch, he untied the purse from his left and hooked it to his right. Percy nodded in approval.

The moment they came within earshot distance, the gang of five stopped what they were doing and began to move to intercept.

Is this part of the Story? What purpose does this serve?

Antagonist for the first act?

“What do we have here?" snarled the man in the middle. He had to be around Cliff's age, skinny and with pockmarked skin. It was with great relief that when he spoke with that nasal voice of his, he revealed crooked teeth. One was even blackened.

So this isn't an enemies-to-friends-to-lovers story.

Thank whoever is up there.

“We're just heading back to town, Ansell," Percy said, barely containing his irritation.

“Well then you'll have to pay the toll." Ansell held out thin, spindly fingers.

“Toll?" spat Percy. “You don't have the right to charge people a toll for this road!"

One of the bigger men stepped forward. He towered over both Percy and Cliff. There was a black cloth band over his left bicep, making it more obvious that his muscle was very large. There was no intelligence in his dull, brown eyes. Clearly just a brute.

“Easy Hicket," Ansell sneered through a vicious grin. “It seems to me that the Gale Brothers don't know how it works around here."

The tallest of the men let out a snicker that reminded Cliff of a gibbon's giggle. This man had a necklace made out of heavy looking chains and a golden amulet hanging from it. “Tell him, Ansell. Tell them how it works."

“I will, Francus," Ansell said with a smile. The leader of the gang made show of dusting off some imaginary dirt from the navy-blue jacket he wore over his deep, red tunic. The vivid colors of his dress indicated that he was at least partially wealthy. Considering he ran a gang of sorts, this set him apart from his goons and established dominance.

“See, if you don't pay the toll," Ansell continued. “Hicket and Walken here will have to make you pay. In blood."

Another burly man stepped forward. Compared to Hicket, he wore a weathered and ragged shirt and trousers. He was also barefoot while the others had some form of footwear. Still, despite clear lack of functioning clothing, he was just as big as Hicket and equally as threatening.

“And don't think about trying to run," Ansell continued, waving over his shoulder at the fifth and last member of the gang. A thin man wearing a red tunic and had a band of knives around his wrist. “Mikhael has been working on his aim. He can pin a fly from the air at twenty-yards."

Percy scowled, raising his arm protectively across Cliff's chest. “This is robbery! You're basically bandits! What's stopping us from telling the guard or the Baron about this?"

“Nothing," answered Ansell dismissively. “But what proof will you have? It's your word against ours."

“And your word is as rotten as a carcass in the summer heat!" Percy barked back. “We will win that trial!"

Ansell lifted a finger at him and tisked. “But one more rotting carcass in a graveyard is overlooked. How will people be able to tell that this is yet another crime we allegedly committed from all the other false accusations that have been thrown our way? Our noble names have been tarnished enough without you having to dance around a perfectly legitimate business transaction."

Again, Ansell held out his hand. “So pay up and you may pass without a drop of blood shed." He turned his hand to point at the pouch on Cliff's waist. “Say… everything in that purse of yours ought to do."

Percy pushed Cliff back further. “This everything we collected from our deliveries! Our father put so much work into making and sharpening those tools for the people of Galevalle!"

“And we are people of Grimvalle so we are entitled to a share of the profits. Now hand it over. Half for you and half for your cowering brother there."

Percy gnashed his teeth. There was fast calculation in his eyes. Likely he was wondering if they could run for it and either lose them in the fields or make it back to the Charcoal Brothers were they could get some help. Cliff had to wonder if the Story would actually have them run back to Verik who would then save them.

Defiance bubbled up his chest.

No. Even if it would mean going against the Story, bullies like these should not go unpunished because people are too tired to persecute them!

“I have an alternative payment plan," Cliff said ominously, stepping around Percy and reaching into his pack.

A new notification appeared in front of his eyes.

Within the now, empty-pack, he summoned the Archetype and gripped his handle.

'New Objective: Defeat Ansell and his Gang [0/5]'

“What's this?" chuckled the leader of the gang. “And what do you propose, little Gale?"

Cliff pulled the Archetype from the bag, throwing side the pack at the same time. Ansell and his goons immediately jumped back in surprise at the appearance of the magnificent blade.

“Mercy."

Ansell pulled his head back and sneered. “Mercy?"

“Right. I give you mercy and you let us pass. Refuse and… we'll see what happens."

Percy gripped his shoulder tightly. “Cliff! What are you doing?"

He shrugged off his brother's hands. “Bullies like them who get away with shit like this need to be taught a lesson. I'm not going to sit by and let them force people to obey them because they think they're immune from consequences!" Glancing over to his brother, fire in his eyes, he said, “Stand back, Percy. I've got this."

Seeing the intensity in his eyes, his brother backed away.

Ansell let out a loud cackle, showing each of his crooked and blackened teeth. “Look around you! You're outnumbered! You think one of your dear old daddy's fancy looking swords is enough to win against us!? Think again! Walken! Hicket!"

The two brutes charged. Hicket was slightly faster, more eager. There was a flash of malice in his eyes as he charged at Cliff with a wicked grin on his face. Cliff had enough time to take his combat stance…

MOM…

Minimize profile.

Observe opponent.

Maximize damage.

As Hicket lunged at him, huge arms closing around him in an attempted bear-hug, Cliff sidestepped the brute, noticing that the man was right-handed. So he stepped to the giant's left, his weaker side. As Hicket slipped past him, his hand snapped out, slapping the man's ear and sending a wave of air right into the gangster's eardrum. That threw Hicket off balance and immediately confused him and the man toppled to the ground.

Then there was Walken who was just a few steps behind. The sudden fall of his friend and fellow brute caused hesitation in the man. Likely he was used to using his size to intimidate people that he wasn't actually used to combat. Cliff took advantage of that.

Like liquid, he danced around Walken, drifting into the man's blindspot and snapping the blunt side of the Archetype into the back of the man's legs with enough force that the bandit was forced to his knees. In the next second, Cliff slammed the hilt of his blade into the back of Walken's neck, immediately knocking him out.

Objective Updated: Defeat Ansell and his Gang [1/5]

Just one defeated. That meant that Hicket was still in the fight.

Eyes still on the foes in front of him with his own version of intimidating menace, he leapt into the air, rising a good eight feet into the air - something he knew he couldn't have done normally. He somersaulted in the air and -

WHAM!

Landed right on the Hicket's back, feet together in an elegant position. The brute - so used to winning his fights - gagged and with all the air rushing out of his lungs, was defeated.

Objective Updated: Defeat Ansell and his Gang [2/5]

Cliff swung the Archetype threateningly behind him and stepped off Hicket casually.

“Next."

Ansell's face grew red with fury while Francus, the pseudo-noble behind him began to back away, his face turning pale. Ansell reached into his coat and pulled out a dagger.

“Mikhael," growled the leader of the gang. “With me!"

The knife-wielding rogue drew one such knife from his wristband and immediately threw it at Cliff. All too aware of his brother behind him, Cliff refused to act out one of those scenes where he would win against the bandits only to turn around and find a stray blade in his brother's belly. So he didn't dodge the flying blade. Instead, he swatted it clear out of the air, making sure it slumped down to the side and nowhere near Percy.

Wow… Even with all my practice, I would never have been good enough to block a knife flying straight at me!

The power of the Archetype, I guess.

Knife after knife came flying at him and each one he swatted aside. Mikhael only had five of them and when he reached the last of them, he paused before throwing it. Gritting his teeth he charged forward alongside Ansell.

They were running at him low and fast, looking to get below his guard.

Their mistake.

Cliff tipped the point of the Archetype into the dirt and dragged it across the ground in front of him, flicking it upwards at the last second. A wave of dust and dirt flew right into both combatants' eyes, immediately disrupting their attack. Cliff slipped past them both, ignoring them for the moment and zooming straight towards Francus.

The unarmed man immediately lifted his hand and let out a shrill, girlish scream. Cliff ducked and swept the bandit's legs right out from underneath him. To finish him off, he slammed the hilt of his sword into Francus' forehead.

Objective Updated: Defeat Ansell and his Gang [3/5]

With the obvious loose end that would try to flee out of the picture, Cliff darted back towards the other two bandits. Only he clearly avoided them and stopped in front of Percy, sword at the ready.

Yeah, I deal with one of you and the other one threatens Percy.

Not going to fall for that cliche.

Mikhael was the first to recover and with a snarl, he charged, flashing his remaining knife. His eyes were bloodshot from the earlier attack meaning his aim was terrible. Cliff took a step forward and used his free hand to curl around Mikhael's outstretched arm before locking his arm, catching the robber's arm with a sickening crack that forced him to drop his knife. Cliff kneed the man in the stomach before letting him fall to his knees. Then he gripped the Archetype in both hands and swung it at Mikhael's head.

Percy let out a little squeak but the flat side of the blade - no edge - slapped into Mikhael's head with a reverberating thud. The knife-wielding bandit dropped to the ground.

Objective Updated: Defeat Ansell and his Gang [4/5]

Ansell, still partially blinded, roared and charged, swinging his dagger wildly. The erratic attacks made it difficult and for a second, Cliff wasn't sure where to strike. Then he noticed that Ansell was left-handed. Seeing his opening, he thrust his sword forward but had no intention of striking the bandit. Instead, he made sure that it was stretched ahead of him and the blade perfectly vertically so that he could maximize the surface area that was in the path of Ansell's swings.

CLANG!

As expected, Ansell's wild dagger strikes hit the blade. Though both of them were forced to recoil by the blow, only Cliff was ready. As the bandit leader staggered, Cliff was already using the momentum of the recoil to jump at his foe and slam his palm right into Ansell's nose.

Crrrrack!

Blood burst from Ansell's face and the man let out a high-pitched scream.

“Aaaaah! My nose! My fucking nose! You broke my fucking nose!"

Cliff stepped over the man and slammed the point of his blade into the ground. Ansell stopped squirming as the shining blade of the Archetype was just inches from his ear.

“Be grateful that is all I broke," Cliff warned ominously. Then he shot the man a little smile. “And would you look at that, looks like you got some mercy after all."

With that, he pulled the blade out of the ground, swung the blade over his shoulder and turned towards his brother, an exhausted smile on his face.

“Let's go Percy. We're done here."

Objective Complete: Defeat Ansell and his Gang [5/5]