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Magnum Opus

Chapter 2: Unheard 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 hot, 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.

Peace, however, is fleeting and fate equally cruel. When tragedy strikes and takes his family away from him, he is consumed by a desire for vengeance against the animal that robbed him of his happiness. Driven like a force of nature and without a purpose save to avenge his family, can Verik find the peace he truly longs for? Can anything calm the storm that rages in his soul, lashing out at everything around him but with its center hollow and empty?

Cliff Gale lived a peaceful, simple life as a courier that carried the wares of his father, Grimvalle's blacksmith, to paying customers. However, he has a great secret. Chosen by unknown powers, he wields the arcane sword, the Archetype. His destiny drives him to combat the dark, corruptive force of the northern barbarian tribes that have resorted to a malign perversion of their bloodlust.

Can the light of the Archetype prevail against the chaos of the barbarians and their ursine forces? Can Cliff find a reason to fight for more than the greater good and find happiness in the world he is destined to save?

Can this hero ease the storm that is raging so close to his home?

Oaks' Mansion

As much as he wanted to spent an eternity within the Magnum Opus, perched in the Synopsis and watching little Cliff Bolt struggle against the Story, Desmond Eli Oaks needed sustenance and was still very much human. So he was forced to step out from the magical realm and sit down to eat.

He made himself a simple lunch of chicken and some greens as he was impatient to hurry back to the Synopsis and see what Cliff had done. Time progressed differently within the Stories than in reality. One minute in the outside world could mean years in the Story. It all depended if there was anything even remotely interesting or noteworthy that happened. The Opus generally recorded these things.

It would make for poor writing if something in the tales was spontaneously revealed to have occurred later. Of course while he could always add edits, that would have to happen after the Story was completed. Any alterations while the Story was still being written would invoke the Unwritten and that was not something he wanted to use too often. Especially not so early.

As he ate his chicken salad on the kitchen counter, he still recalled the tutelage of his mentor from so long ago about the usage of the Magnum Opus.

“While powerful," intoned Clarence Blackwell, “the Unwritten are your will made manifest in the world of the Story. One stray thought, one fanciful whimsy, one moment of distraction is all it will take to ruin your Story. The Unwritten are mindless beings that only do what they are told. If you abruptly think of cleaving the world in two, the Unwritten will do exactly that. If you invoke them and your doorbell rings and it rips you out of your concentration, then those very same bells will be echoed by the Unwritten."

One of the reason Oaks chose this farmhouse in the middle of Nebraska as his base of operations. It was far out in the middle of the fields. No one was around to bother him. The mailbox was a drive away from his fenced-off property. The nearest neighbor was a ten minute drive in either direction. He was not going to be distracted.

Ever.

Of course, there was another factor that even the great Blackwell hadn't accounted for.

“What they hell is that 'Archetype'?" Oaks rumbled to himself. “How was he able to do all that?"

He dismissed his worry as quickly as it came. Again, he could not afford to worry or be distracted. Any stray fear could ruin the entire Story. Yes, he had already used the Unwritten once but it was a needed alteration. Besides, this made the story far more exciting and erotic. Just what his audience wanted. Now it became less of a medieval romance and had a little bit of the arcane in it.

“Yes," he told himself. “This will turn out to be a better story than expected. So thank you, Cliff Bolt. You have only made this a better tale." His fork grazed against the bottom of his plate and a glance down revealed he had already devoured his meal.

Something to be expected. Usage of the Magnum Opus was a drain on his personal resources. One of the reasons he ate so much and maintained a rounded stature. He needed to stockpile his strength. While the only restriction on entering the Synopsis was that there was no immediate food or water to be had should he need to replenish himself, using the Unwritten drained him directly. After all, there was some part of him in the Unwritten he created - his will and directive.

With a satisfied smile, he got to his feet, grabbed a whole bottle of water and drained it by the time he returned to his study. He once again sat in front of the tablet that was the Magnum Opus. A quick glance at the clock told him it was around one in the afternoon. Promising himself that he would only stay for another four hours, he plunged into the Opus and entered the ever moving world of the Synopsis.

He perched himself on his throne, a satisfied smile on his face as he peered into the golden pages of the story he had crafted and recently renamed from 'Silent is the Fallen Tree' to 'Unheard is the Fallen Tree'. It was a clever title, or so he told himself. Meant to hint at how Verik's pain at losing his family would remain bottled up within the lumberjack until someone - supposedly Cliff - unlocked it through tender care and love.

Now, instead of staying silent, Verick would instead be 'unheard'.

Rubbing his hands together in anticipation, Oaks read what had recently been written in the pages. His excitement quickly waned, replaced with confusion followed by terror… and then rage.

“What the fuck?" he bellowed. “How the fuck did he jump eight feet into the air!? How is that possible!?" He glanced off to the right. “Does he have control over the Story? No… That's impossible. I still control the Narrative." His eyes darted back towards the tale. “It must be that damn sword of his!"

The chattering and chirping of the letters and scripts around him echoed in his ears.

“No," he snarled softly. “I won't use the Unwritten again. Not yet. There are still some story beats to be met after the last time." Oaks nodded grimly to himself and leaned into his chair, tenting his fingers, a cruel smile splitting his beard. “I'll put you back on track, Cliff Bolt. You will care for Verik and eventually love him. You may have skipped a few steps but you are still on the road I set for you."

His grin grew broader.

“Let the tree fall."

Grimvalle

Convincing someone as talkative, enthusiastic and infinitely curious like Percy to secrecy was a feat in and of itself but somehow, Cliff managed to swear his brother to silence about his abilities. Something told him that Percy was a man of his word and no matter how much he wanted to blurt out the truth, his brother in this world was not going to go gossiping about the mysterious sword or his abilities.

That didn't stop the incessant questions while they were mostly alone. When he dismissed the Archetype and the weapon vanished in a flurry of thread-like beams of light, the barrage of queries came.

“What is that sword!? Where did you get it?"

Cliff decided to be as evasive as possible with his answers. It was not difficult given he didn't know much about the weapon in general or its abilities. A blessing perhaps from the enigmatic Realism

“I don't know. I guess I was just… chosen."

“How were about able to do all that?" Percy asked. “You flew!" His brother spread his arms wide, his expression and fascination bringing a smile to Cliff's lips.

“It's the sword," he half-lied. He was pretty sure a contributing factor was this menu that he could activate at will, another gift from Realism. However he had no evidence to that.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?"

“I've been practicing I secret." That, at least, was not that much of a lie. His years fantasizing and miming movements in the backyard had paid off somehow. Though his sparring with shadows and ghosts in his imagination were always clumsy and disjointed, it seemed that here, in this world, it was far more focused and precise.

Makes me wonder what else I can do.

As they approached Grimvalle itself, he had to wonder what kind of damage his actions had done to the greater Story. Considering the world wasn't ending around them, he had to guess it wasn't too bad. Again, it made him wonder if he was following the Plot that Oaks had set for him… or maybe he wasn't doing anything significant enough to warrant intervention by the Unwritten. A part of him also wondered if Realism was just part of the greater Plot; a device to convince him to follow a path that was supposedly counter to Oaks' desires but, in reality, was exactly what the mad Holder of the Magnum Opus wanted.

As they approached the town gates, the older of the two guards, Foulk, lowered his halberd towards them.

“Hold there, youngsters," warned the elder guard. Though he was much thinner than his counterpart, the dark-skinned Brienus, there was this strength about him. Nervous and with craggy features, Cliff got the impression this was the kind of guy that would try to avoid combat and conflict as much as possible but when he was triggered, he was a force to be reckoned with.

“What seems to be the problem off -" He cut himself off from calling these guardsmen 'officers'. They were not officers of the law. Really, they were more like militia; men and citizens who stepped up to offer their time to provide some semblance of order beyond the fort's soldiers. “Sirs," he finished, forcing a light smile.

“Care you explain that?" Foulk asked, using the point of his halberd to indicate Cliff's chest.

A look down revealed that there were a few splatters of blood on his tunic. Likely remnants from when he had crushed Ansell's nose.

Crap! How do I explain this?

“Oh don't tell me you've started scratching them again, Cliff!" exclaimed Percy loudly. He gently slapped Cliff's hand, a gesture to play along. “We need to clean out your bed! And wrap your hands in bandages so you stop scratching your bites!"

Brienus winced loudly, turning his head away while his white teeth flashed, a start contrast against his dark skin. “Ah, it is the season for the spiders to be out. Pray you aren't bitten by the brown ones. They are a death sentence."

Foulk gave Cliff a pitying look. “I know it is hot, young one, but sleep with your clothes on. Spiders enjoy dark corners like your loft. Follow your older brother's advice. Clean your bed before you drift to slumber tonight."

The older man lifted his halberd and waved them through.

“Now run off, you two. Daylight is sparse and you know we must close the gates soon."

“And thanks again from bringing my dagger!" laughed Brienus. “I saved up half a year's salary to buy one from your father!" Just to prove his point, the taller, bulkier man unsheathed his new weapon. It was made out of a beautiful black metal with intricate golden carvings depicting roaring bears and a strange, golden edge. According to Percy, it was made of a metal called 'Blood of the Gods' because it looked black and normal on the outside but when carved and sharpened the interior was gold.

“I'm glad you like it!" laughed Percy, gently pushing Cliff forward. “I'll be sure to give my father your thanks!" He then grinned at Foulk. “Perhaps you'd like one too, Foulk."

The old man gave him a craggy smile, a distinct gap showing between his two front teeth. “Ah, such expensive weaponry are not for me. Give me practicality over showmanship."

“Are you calling me 'showy'?" demanded Brienus. “I'll have you know that weapons made of the Blood of the Gods, while beautiful, are extremely hard and difficult to dull!"

The two traded barbs while Cliff and Percy navigated past them.

“We best find you some place to clean your tunic before we meet father," Percy whispered to him. “He is not so easily convinced."

Cliff agreed and they found a trough for some of the animals nearby. He peeled off his shirt. For a second, he feared that removing it would expose its true form - the clothes Realism had given him - but, much to his surprise it remained a simple tunic. Strange as it was, he still felt like he was clothed even as he was shirtless. Perhaps the real clothing's protecting was more… metaphorical than literal?

He washed the tunic, the blood blending into the grime of the fabric. They waited a little longer until it was dry enough not to arouse suspicion - which was not too difficult in the heat of what he assumed was mid-summer. Then they returned to the smithy. Upon approach, they heard their father's hammer slamming against iron in the back.

“We're back, father!" Percy exclaimed.

“About time!" roared the bear of a patriarch. “What? Did you go chatting with everyone again, Percy?"

His brother grinned sheepishly. “I couldn't help it!"

“That's why Cliff is the courier," grunted Reeve. “He delivers the goods and is done with it. Even if he does get lost sometimes." He shook his head and gave Cliff a gentle smile. “But I'm glad to see you both safe. I grew worried when you were not back by noon."

“Sorry," Cliff apologized. “I kind of got caught up with the Baron. He challenged us to put your sword to the test."

Percy tensed beside him.

“Oh?" Reeve asked, raising a bushy eyebrow. “What happened?"

“I got a lucky swing in," answered Cliff. “Our Lord is more used to the spear than a sword so I was fortunate."

There was a spark of disbelief in his father's dark eyes before a broad smile crossed his features. “Ah! That's my son! Quick as lightning! You must have impressed him!"

Taking his queue, Percy said, “He did! He even invited Cliff to join his escort up to the capital in a few weeks!"

There, Reeve's expression darkened. “What?"

The boys exchanged glances. Suddenly, Cliff was back to being a preteen being scolded by his actual father for doing something he wasn't meant to. The closest estimate was that day when his dad caught him digging up the backyard, filling the hole with water and openly wondering why he wasn't getting a pool.

“Baron Grim has been summoned to the capital," Cliff began. “That's why he needed the sword. He needed a ceremonial blade with him to show off as he met with the King. Apparently they're gathering to talk about something to do with the northern tribes."

“And you are to accompany him for a moment of lucky swordsmanship?" grumbled Reeve. Then his father's features softened and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ah, Arthur has always been one to pounce on an opportunity when he sees one." He beamed at Cliff. “Who knows, perhaps you will impress someone in the capital. Mayhaps you will be another squire." He waggled a finger at at Cliff. “Just remember that should you have your own land and castle that you have family here."

Is that where the Story is meant to go? I prove my heroism in the battlefield or something and become lord or king?

Maybe I end up marrying Arthur or something?

But where would Verik fit into that as the Protagonist?

Percy's thick arm around his shoulder brought him out of his reverie. “Your personal blacksmith right here!" exclaimed his brother.

“You have a long ways to go before calling yourself an official blacksmith, boy," growled their father playfully. “Now have you boys eaten?" They indicated a negative. “I have bread and fruits inside. Eat up and then help me in the forge."

“Thanks," Cliff responded. Then realizing just how distant that sounded, he forced out, “Father." A sense of awkwardness and betrayal filled him, like he was cheating on his actual dad. Just to brush past it, he reached into his pack and held up the axe that Verik had given him. “Before I forget, Verik the woodsman asked if you could sharpen this for him. He'll be by tomorrow by noon to pick it up."

Reeve picked up the axe and examined it, stroking his beard thoughtfully with his other hand. “Hmmm… I remember this axe. I made it for him for his wedding day. Good to know that he still uses it."

Uh-oh… More back story. More emphasis on his relationship with his wife.

“I'll have it done," said his father. His eyes glimmered as he regarded Percy. “With the help of my apprentice, of course."

If Percy's eyes could glimmer with stars, they would. His elder brother pumped a fist excitedly into the air. “I'm ready!"

“Eat first!" laughed Reeve. “Then come and help. We have daylight yet!"

The two boys returned to their hut where they had a quick lunch of honey-encrusted bread with some almonds baked into it and fresh fruit. Not exactly the most gourmet fare but after not having eaten for the majority of the day, Cliff surprised himself when he wolfed down the meal.

In his excitement, Percy finished first and rushed outside to help his father with the remaining work. That afforded Cliff some time alone. He quickly checked his statistics. There was a small icon next to his health bar that, upon examining, popped up as a 'food buff'. Apparently 'Honey Almond Bread' and 'Fresh Fruit' gave him a little boost to his regeneration and even restored some of his Ink Points.

Further examination of the menus available to him revealed that he could track his completed objectives. Defeating Ansell had rewarded him skill points. Unlike the games he was used to, these points were automatically allocated to the abilities he had used in combat. The points went into his 'MOM Stance' which was fitting. A few points went to his jumping ability and perception skills. Strangely, his MOM Stance was now at Level 2 and he apparently had an ability point to spend.

When he explored what he could spend it on, he realized that he could put those points into an entirely new menu - Abilities. Abilities could likewise unlock further skills but points he earned from improving his skills were not bound to being spent to certain abilities. So while he focused primarily on his physical skills, he could spend the ability points on anything he wanted.

So the leveling system here is based on how often I use my skills and improve them.

No doubt the higher my skill level the harder it will be to earn ability points so it encourages me to round out my skills.

That was not all, of course. Improving his skills conferred minor but still useful passive bonuses with each level. Persuading people became easier. He could jump farther. Even his MOM Stance became more refined.

Conversely encouraging me not to abandon abilities that are harder to improve as they're already high level.

He examined the available abilities and found them quite varied but also limited at the moment. More would likely be unlocked as he grew in strength. Chief amongst the ones he currently possessed was a series of magical abilities.

Some of his skills unlocked associated ability trees. His MOM Stance, for instance, had an associated MOM Ability Tree that possessed the counterstrike ability. Not all skills had this but he had no way of determining what was left to unlock.

Sort of like dynamic storytelling…

I wish I had a manual of how these things worked.

“Cliff!" barked his father from the forge. “Start on dinner, would you? We have meat and vegetables. Make us something nice."

“Sure, father!" he exclaimed, again feeling dirty for calling Reeve his dad.

Shaking off the discomfort, he closed the menu for the moment. An indicator on his minimap led him to the side of the house where some meat was hanging to be air-dried. He plucked one particularly fatty looking piece and reached down into the crate filled with vegetables - mostly cabbages, onions and carrots. There was a fire pit and pot out in front of the house.

He was crouched in front of it before he realized that he didn't have any idea how to start a fire. Never having gone to Boy Scouts or taken any sort of survival training, he was a little out of his depth. Though he knew the basics from what books he had read and video tutorials he had perused, actually putting it into practice was an entirely different beast.

Then again…

He quietly opened his menu, went to his abilities and…

… found Fire Magic.

Here goes.

He spent his lone ability point on the Fire spell which opened an entire ability tree for him. Gor now, he could cast the most basic of fire spells. Glancing around to make sure no one was looking, he held out a hand towards the fire pit.

“Fire!" he whispered softly. A burst of flame erupted from his palms, a brief ball of fire that slammed into the pit and immediately caused it to erupt.

Excitement shot through him like electricity and he straightened. He curbed this thrilling sensation, however, and quickly began moving to cook the meal. It would be a simple stew. Without salt, pepper or any seasonings, it would be fairly bare bones but he wasn't about to complain. Though he did apply a few modern techniques to the meal.

First, he placed the meat into the heated pot and allowed them to cook and brown before removing them. Then he poured some water into the pot to deglaze it. Once most of the water had been reduced, he threw in the vegetables and let them soften up. More water went in and he allowed the vegetables' flavor to soak into the soup. Lastly, he added the meat again, stirred and let it cook.

It was savory, had a little bit of a meaty taste and was hearty enough that it was decent. The entire endeavor took a few hours because of the open flame and his inexperience with such a cooking method.

During that time, he explored his skills and abilities. It surprised him that he didn't have that very many skills to begin with. Basics such as athletics, acrobatics, perception, persuasion and the like. More likely would appear once he actually used such a skill. He was sure he didn't see the 'cooking' skill there initially. After having started the stew , however, it was now present and steadily increasing.

As for his abilities, he guessed it followed the same rules. While there were some basics such as elemental magic and improvements to his MOM Stance, he wouldn't be able to unlock anything new unless he had intimate knowledge of it.

His eyes drifted to the corner of his vision at his health bar. As expected, a small portion of it had been reduced to cast the spell. There was no 'magic points' or 'MP' to use. He was actively draining his own stamina to cast the spell. Eating food and resting would replenish his health but it didn't restore itself on its own.

Which begged the question… what were Ink Points for?

And what was the limits of his magic?

As the sun was setting, his family came over to feast. They sat outside, using wooden bowls to scoop themselves some of the delicious stew. Coupled with some more bread, and it was a hearty meal that filled them all.

“This is delicious, Cliff," Reeve said. “Well done, son."

Hope you're not trying to tap into some daddy issues there, Oaks.

But still… it's nice to be appreciated.

“Thanks, father," he replied, soaking some bread into the stew.

There was more stew than could fill their bellies but with no form of refrigeration or storage, they just brought the pot indoors and covered it with its heavy, iron lid. With nothing else to do, they all crawled into their assigned cots and beds. Cliff squeezed into his loft, lay on his back against the hard wood that was barely softened by the itchy straw.

He wasn't sure how he could sleep so he spent a bit more time scrawling through his menu, trying to read skill descriptions, ability limitations and even exploring what it meant for the Archetype to have its 'Font' set to 'Typewriter'.

Eventually, exhaustion took over and he drifted off to sleep.

Grimscar Fjord

Little wonder the Marvellian Kingdom was so prosperous. The Grimscar Fjord marked the official borders between the kingdom province ruled by Baron Arthur Grim and what was known as the Iceburned Wastes. The two sides of the water-filled valley were such stark opposites. On the southern banks, green pastures, lush forests and rolling verdant hills. On the northern side, harsher plants took root, snow kissed the land and the distant icy mountains loomed like ominous guardians. Along the Fjord there were a few bridges that marked the barriers between the wild tribes of the north and the Kingdom.

A sleepy guard by the name of Cadfael was just one of the few border guards under the watch of Knight Elias Vaughan, the current commander of Stormy Crossing, one of the biggest bridges to cross the Fjord. Given that the Fjord was over three hundred feet from the plains to the water, it was an incredible feat of engineering to build a solid, stone bridge nearly half a mile from one station to the other.

But the novelty of Stormy Crossing faded quickly as it became evident to anyone who came to the border station that this was a dead assignment. All Cadfael did was walk back and forth across the admittedly large gatehouse over the northern side of the Crossing. There was a similar gatehouse midway down the bridge and at the far end was a much larger version where their commander stayed.

Every day, it was mostly the same. Wake up from his bunk in one of the gatehouses, depending on where he was currently stationed, eat breakfast, get dressed and then stand guard waiting for something to happen. The northern gatehouse - where he was currently posted - sometimes saw some activity from northerner merchants seeking to cross. Then it was his job to vet them and make sure they were not secretly hiding any weapons or illegal substances with them. The southern gatehouse was usually more comfortable and saw most of the action because that was where merchants from the Kingdom would petition for crossing or to drop off supplies. It was also there where the baths were stored.

Cadfael could smell himself. Being only in the middle of his rotation, he was dreading tomorrow as it would be when he would make the march to the middle gatehouse. That was colloquially called the 'Sleepy Gate' because nothing ever happened there. Those stationed there would not be required to search travelers because the other extreme gates had already done the work. Really, the Sleepy Gate was only there in case an invading force from the north somehow breached the northern gate and they needed to fortify the second gate.

But that never happened.

In the long history of Stormy Crossing, no one had ever dared to attack it. None of the barbarian tribes were organized enough or had the numbers to truly invade.

Hence why being assigned to Stormy Crossing was a dead assignment.

Cadfael sighed to himself as he peered out one of the towers of the gateway, the cool winds from the north blowing through his dirty-blond hair mostly hidden beneath the iron helmet emblazoned with the mighty three-headed snarling bear of the Marvellian Kingdom. He wore the colors of the Kingdom; yellow, burgundy and blue but at the moment, he was not feeling quite patriotic. The lean lad was just incredibly bored.

His boredom was momentarily alleviated, however, when he saw the caravan making its way towards them. At least there would be someone today. Then he could spend an hour or so examining and questioning them, probably denying them entry and then spending another hour writing down that he did something today in the logs.

“I'll get this one!" he shouted down to his fellow guardsmen. The gatehouse really only needed five men to keep it functioning. Two to man the sole ballista above the gate, two to protect the two stairways leading up from the twin towers that formed the frame for the gate and one to run to the Sleepy Gate to alert them of an emergency.

His fellow guardsmen either yawned or dismissed his eagerness. His metal boots made loud clambering noises as he rushed down the steps and parked himself in front of the large iron and wood gates in front of the gatehouse. The heavy plate armor he wore would have been heavy but given that he was mostly sedentary for the day, he practically flew down the steps.

The approaching caravan had three large wagons. One of the larger companies. Accompanying them were enormous men which was typical of the northern barbarians. What struck him as odd was that instead of the draft horses that were common in the north pulling the wagons, there were just groups of these very same men. Odd but given the wide variety of tribes and cultures beyond the Crossing, he wouldn't be surprised if some of them recruited slaves or refused to use horses. All the approaching men also had thick, heavy hoods over their faces. This was what got him on alert. It was not so cold that hoods were necessary. Apart from the perpetual overcast on this side of the Crossing, the wind was still.

“Hold there!" Cadfael shouted, holding out his armored hand towards the approaching caravan. “State your business."

The caravan approached the gates and stopped just a few feet away from Cadfael. A strange smell emanated from them that made the young man wrinkle his nose. It was woodsy and musky at the same time. He imagined it was what real men of the forest smelled like.

Striding up to the man who seemed to be leader of the group, he repeated again. “State your… ah… business." The smell was causing him to feel a little dizzy. His mind latched onto the idea that these sexy men were truly from the forest. Strong, powerful men that camped out under the stars, bathed together naked, rubbed their muscular bodies against one another and passionately sucked one another's cocks in heated brotherhood.

“We seek to pass."

The words of the titanic beast of a man in front of him was the roll of thunder that peeled through the haze of his bored and weakened mind and woke him to a new truth.

“Oh," was all Cadfael managed, a dopey smile crossing his lips.

The stranger in front of him reached down towards the coat that covered him and peeled open the fabric. Like dark curtains pulling back on a stage, Cadfael found himself staring at the actor that would take his breath away - a huge, throbbing cock dripping with a silvery-gray ichor from the tip.

It did not take much for the weak-willed guard to fall to his knees in front of the enormous cock and reach out, cupping the barely hidden balls beneath and opening his mouth.

“We will pay the toll," rumbled the barbarian.

From where he knelt Cadfael could see the ursine features hidden beneath that heavy hood. No fear struck his heart. No sense of curiosity or revulsion. In fact, he willingly accepted this enormous beast's features easily while immediately rejecting his own flesh. His mouth was wrapped around the cock pulsating in front of him, his features already stretching out into his own ursine visage before his lips even touched the member in front of him.

Muscles all over his body pulsated at the same tempo as the dick in his mouth. He suckled and greedily devoured the salty-sweet fluids that poured down his throat. A huge, powerful paw snaked out from beneath the cloak and gripped the back of his head, pushing him to swallow more and more of the organ. With every inch that he devoured, more and more of his humanity was consumed to feed the emerging beast. Leather straps and metal strained across his body. The iron pauldrons on his shoulders clattered to the ground as thick, black fur sprang out of his tunic. His belt snapped off, the armor around his waist tumbling off his ballooning legs as his cock was finally able to break free.

Behind him, other barbarians - his soon-to-be-brothers - quietly made their way up the towers. The two guards who were playing a game of knuckle bones closest to the left tower were ironically caught off-guard. The one closest to the stairs detected the musky, woodsy smell first and even managed to lift his head. He didn't get a second to ask if his comrade smelled anything before a huge, brown paw suddenly seized his face from behind and pulling him underneath a mysterious cloak. That very same man's face was pushed into the bare armpit of the ursine barbarian barely hidden beneath the coat. Interestingly, it was his surprise and shock that provided the only hurdle before the Unwritten infection spread into his mind. The instant he thought that the musky smell of the armpit was divine, he was lost.

The other guard managed to get up from his chair and let out a short cry before another bear was suddenly surging out from the stairwell and tackling him to the ground. A fat cock was pushed into his mouth, stifling whatever warning he was going to emit. His cries of panic transformed into muffled moans as his body erupted out his armor. In just a few minutes, he was suckling on the cock, drinking in the corruptive fluids that he was offered.

Two guards were positioned at the ballista as was their station. Their eyes, however, were not on the scene right beneath them but on the further wagons. Had they but looked down, they would have seen Cadfael's back erupt from his armor, ridges of hard, plate-like muscles covered in black fur, glistening with sweat.

To the credit of one the guards, his eyes were wandering and he caught movement from the corner of his eyes. As he turned, he caught sight of the cloaked ursine emerging from the tower to the level of the ballista.

“Who -?" was all he managed. The bear thrust a paw in his direction and a long, black spear of blackish-purple goo shot from the outstretched fingers. The projectile slammed into his face, covering the lower half of his face in a warmth-draining substance and forced its way down his throat. He fell to his back, stumbling back and squirming as his cock suddenly became unbearably hard. Three words immediately entered his mind.

Change. Corrupt. Cum.

The last remaining human guard of the northern gatehouse turned and stared, slack-jawed at his transforming comrade, watching with wide-eyed fascination as his fellow guard's fingers erupted from his gauntlets, wicked claws shedding right through the steel. Those same claws dug into the man's cuirass, shredding it clear off to reveal huge, juicy pectorals covered in dense, brown fur.

This minute of hesitation, this instant of fascination, doomed him. The barbarian behind him grabbed the side of his head and turned him around. The man's nose was suddenly buried between two, enormous, furry pectorals dripping with sweat and masculinity from marching from the north nonstop. Before the man's helmet even dropped to the floor, he was already suckling on a perky nipple and shredding his own armor with his own mass.

Back on the ground floor, Cadfael drank the last drop of black cum that Skurrald gave him. He pulled away from the dick mechanically, his eyes a milky, pearly white for an instant before his irises pierced through the white, burning with a shifting amber glow.

“Change," he intoned, already rising to his feet. He moved to the lever that would enable the gate to lift and let the caravan through. “Corrupt." He thrust his fist right through the wooden gates, shattering the six-inch thick wooden gates reinforced with iron and reached through the gap to seize the lever.

A hungry grin crossed his features.

“Cum."

He pulled the lever and the gates creaked as they rose, providing access for the caravan. He joined his brothers happily, cock dripping excitedly with the same black muck as his brothers.

At the Sleepy Gate, Howel was laying down on his cot. Most people would dread being assigned to the Sleepy Gate because it was the most boring assignment in the world. However, to him, he didn't mind it at all. The less work he had to do, the better. Ordinarily, he would have been chastised for not wearing his armor and just being in his tunic and trousers but no one here cared.

Nothing ever happened at the Sleepy Gate.

He was so lost in his own world that he never noticed when the northern gate rose and a caravan made its way to the gatehouse. None of the guardsmen were remotely prepared. The two men that were slightly attentive were already perched at their posts ready to raise the gates. If the northern gates let these men through, there was no reason they shouldn't.

Right?

Not that Howel really cared. He was only slightly annoyed that his drifting thoughts were interrupted by the rumbling of the Sleepy Gate. Had he been paying attention or even looked out the window of his perch, he might have seen the approaching caravan unleash a few of their Unwritten into the ground. These serpentine entities stuck to the shadows of the bridge's stone railings and slithered all the way past the gates around the two guards posted there without a care. That rumbling hid the surprised, strangled cries of the two men at the gate when thick, black, serpentine Unwritten shot up from behind them, worming up their armor and inserted themselves into their asses. Neither man was shocked for long because they were suddenly mashing lips with one another.

By the time the caravan arrived at the gates, two, newly made bears were there to greet them, cocks dripping with corruptive cum. These two took a tower each and cornered the two men manning the ballista.

And Howel still didn't notice any of it as he quietly hummed to himself.

“Howel!" came a thunderous roar.

Only then did he spring to his feet because that deep, thunderous baritone sounded like Knight Elias Vaughan. It wouldn't surprise him if that pretentious asshole sprang a surprise inspection. He scrambled down the steps, barely slipping on his armor while he was huffing and puffing, completely ignoring the strong smell of bear musk and sex that drifting up the poorly ventilated tower stairwells. He barely made it out of the tower when he saw the huge, black bear wearing torn and shredded armor with a huge dick in his paws staring expectantly him while the caravan rolled by them.

“Come on, Howel," rumbled the bear which he recognized as one of his fellow guardsmen. “The caravan is going to leave without us."

For a second, he was too shocked to make sense of what he was seeing in front of him. In the confusion, the essence of the Unwritten that was infused into the bears' musk and their mere presence took advantage of his scrambled brain and started making new connections, rewriting his thoughts and erasing any semblance of revulsion or rejection of this new ursine order.

“Change," Howel greeted, a lewd grin crossing his features. He dropped the armor he was barely holding onto, knowing full well that he would have no need for it. “Corrupt. Cum."

At the southern gate, Knight Elias Vaughan sat at his desk. The gatehouse was much larger than the other gatehouses and had enough quarters to house everyone posted at the Crossing. Escape plans generally stated that if someone breached the gates, they could retreat to the southern gatehouse where they could all hole up and hold off the invaders for as long as reinforcements arrived.

Elias sighed softly as he ran his armored hands over the little silver rose that he his wife had given him before he had departed on this assignment. It had been so long since he had seen her that he had completely forgotten what she looked like. But he remained faithful. No matter what temptation may come his way, he refused to sleep with anyone else. He even refused to touch himself. That was just how devoted he was to his wife.

Celibacy made him irritable.

Shouting suddenly erupted from somewhere within his guardhouse. His short fuse was immediately triggered and he was on his feet, angrily slamming his armored hands into the cheap, wooden desk.

“What the fuck is happening out there?" he growled, stomping over to the window that gave him a view of Stormy Crossing.

His rage was momentarily washed away by shock and confusion. There were three wagons that sat mostly empty as those escorting it seemed to abandon their supplies and charged like madmen straight at the guards posted at the gateway. These men looked to be barbarians by their sheer size and build but… were they wearing bear-skin armor of some sort? And were they naked?

He backed away from the window, trying to process what he was seeing. The good majority of him was sure that he had seen huge, erect bear cocks between those men's legs but that couldn't be possible. The malign presence of the Unwritten in these ursine barbarian was already affecting him, however, because a pervasive thought already wormed its way into his brain.

What would it feel like to have one of those dicks up his ass?

Thoughts of his wife immediately attempted to eject the thought from his mind but his efforts were interrupted by a loud banging on the door.

“Sir Vaughan!"

That was his squire. Dureth.

“Dureth!" he bellowed, charging over to the door of his office and tearing it wide open. “What the fuck -"

His voice got caught in his throat. Dureth was barely twenty-two summers and was significantly shorter than him so his eyes were immediately directed downwards. Instead, of seeing the chubby face of a man who was devoted to him, he found himself staring at a raging cock dripping with black cum. A wave of musk immediately hit him and his vision glazed over. The strength in his neck slackened and this causing him to inadvertently look up at the titanic, eight-foot tall bear-man that was grinning down at him with hunger and desire in his flaming, amber eyes.

“I want to fuck you, sir," growled Dureth.

Without missing a beat, Elias backed away from the door, turned his back to the bear and stuck out his armored ass to the male.

“Then don't stand there talking about it!" he demanded in his most commanding voice. “Do it, squire!"

Dureth wasted no time ripping off his armor with those steel-shredding claws. Elias' ass was left bare for all to see and the moment when the cool air of the north hit his sensitive pucker, he had a moment of clarity. A brief instant where he wondered what his wife would think of him offering himself like a common whore to another man - a beastman no less. Then Dureth's wet nose pushed into his crack and a hot, slippery tongue pushed into his hole and all those thoughts vanished.

Elias lost interest in his wife. Lost interest in women. His brain even justified that he couldn't even remember when the last time he saw a woman was. All he wanted right now was the huge, throbbing cock shoved in him and filling him with black seed. A desire that Dureth was only happy to oblige.

His squire serviced him well, fucking the humanity right out of him. They both tumbled through the office, crashing against the table at the end of the room. Dureth plowed him with a vigor that could not be matched by any other human male. The wood beneath them cracked and snapped. When Elias' entire form exploded into its new, ursine shape, the table shattered completely and they both crumpled into the pile of broken wood and splinters, black cum spraying out of Elias' cock and oozing out of his ass which was still plugged by Dureth's cock.

Dureth held him tightly, still thrusting into him even after already orgasming. He could feel his squire's next climax already coming along and he was more than happy to greet it with his own. His squire nuzzled his neck and their lips gravitated towards one another. A moment of sweetness before the overpowering need to fuck consumed them again.

“Change. Corrupt. Cum, sir," rumbled Dureth.

“Yes, Dureth," he growled back, grinning savagely, squeezing his ass around his squire's dick to let him know he was ready for another round. “Change. Corrupt. Cum."

As the two fucked in the guardhouse, Skurrald and his caravan took their first offical steps into the Grimvalle territory.

Stormy Crossing had fallen.

Grimvalle

Now that Cliff had control of his mental faculties, he woke up alongside the rest of his family. Just to keep up appearances of the son that slept in, he stayed in his loft for a little while longer while his father and brother set about their morning routine. The two were already starting the forge, stoking the fires for the day's work. When he started hearing the grinding of metal against the grindstone, he roused and made his way down.

It felt strange not to take a shower or wash the grime off his body in some way after a full day's work. There was a bowl of water on the table with a musty towel beside it. A quick wash of his face was enough to wake him. His father expressed surprise that he was up so early but he brushed it off saying that he was just excited to meet the dawn.

He cooked breakfast for them - a simple meal of oats with some water and fruits - and served it to his family. That added a few points to his cooking skill and gave him a nice little food buff. A ping only he heard announced that he had obtained a new ability point. As his father and brother went to working the forge and he was afforded some free time, he wandered and explore Grimvalle while pondering what he should spend his new ability point on.

I really should spend some points on my physical abilities. Maybe put it in my MOM Stance. That counterstrike ability sounds really good.

He scratched his neck, feeling his greasy skin against his nails.

Then again, what I wouldn't do for a shower right now. The Water spell might be better?

After running across the tall, wooden walls of the town, he spied the fort. Images of his battle with the Baron and Ansell's gang flooded back into his mind. While he may have seemed so professional and in control at the time, he knew that he had won only because of sheer luck and these characters had never seen anything like the Archetype or expected him to be capable of fighting. Against something that was ready for him - like Oaks' Unwritten - he was likely not to be so lucky.

Better put my point into my Stance for now and then start practicing with the Archetype.

So he invested his lone ability point into his MOM Stance, activating the counterstrike ability. Then, far away from anyone else's view and in the shadow of the walls, he drew the Archetype and began slashing at imaginary foes. With each swing, his swordsmanship skill went up. While the Archetype was very light, he was still unused to its weight and unusual shape. Different from an epee or rapier that he used when fencing. It was definitely made for slashing with a good amount of thrusting power too. Very balanced.

He took up his usual MOM Stance, imagining himself surrounded by Ansell and his gang. Each of his strikes thus far had been single blows. Decisive and effective because he knew where to strike. Against tougher enemies or even groups of them, he would need to be able to string his attacks together. If this was anything like a videogame, combos would be critical.

Then a notification popped up in front of his eyes.

New Objective: Perform a three-strike combo [0/10]

Funny how as he thought he needed to master a combo attack, that notification appeared.

I wonder if Realism is guiding me or this is just me…?

Dismissing the thought for the moment, Cliff swung his sword upwards. Even as the blade crossed his body, he kept his free hand - his left hand - in front of him with fingers splayed out ready to catch any attack or counter as he needed. Remembering how the bolt of fire shot from his hand, he realized this would be a perfect position to fire off a bit of magic if the situation warranted.

That thought distracted him from his combo so he restarted.

One!

He swung the sword upwards then brought it down, taking a step forward and pulling his left hand back but still with his palm facing his opponent.

Two!

Then he paused. The two-strike combo was good but it left him vulnerable. The blade was pointed towards the ground and crossing his body. His profile was quite wide and his back partially exposed to an enemy in front of him. Bringing the sword up for a trust was possible but he'd have to twist his wrist and that was too much time and effort in a situation where every second counted.

Going on a whim, he spun on the foot that was placed forward, using the momentum to push his sword out and thrust forward, one leg in the air.

No… that's stupid. I look like a goddamn ballerina.

He reset and imagined his positioning.

This stance means I can really only bring my sword up. I made it for an uppercut because that's the least likely place an opponent would be guarding…

When the sword is in the air, I can only bring it back down… so maybe…?

Cliff swung the sword upwards with all his might, leaping up into the air with it. He then gripped his blade with both hands and brought it back crashing to the ground. A little bit of dust kicked up from the impact.

No, damnit! That's not it.

He was now crouched on the ground, vulnerable again and with no follow-up strike. What he needed was an easy transition from the second strike into a third that would bring him back to his starting position so he could kick off another combo immediately.

Eying the imaginary foes surrounding him, he just knew that if he didn't do something to deal with a situation where he was surrounded, he'd be overwhelmed. Being encircled would be the weakness of the MOM Stance at the moment because it was focused on a single target.

Hmmm… Encricled…I don't suppose…?

Rising to his feet, Cliff again returning to his starting position.

One!

He swung the Archetype into the air, this time refusing to jump up with it.

Two!

He brought the blade back down.

Three!

Then, he took another advancing step forward, using the momentum to carry him spinning around, sword outstretched into a wide, horizontal swing. With is left foot once again in front, he easily transitioning back into the starting position.

Objective Updated: Perform a three-strike combo [1/10]

Grinning brightly to himself and pumping a fist into the air, he quietly cried, “Yes!"

Over and over again, he practiced the combination, tweaking and adjusting his footing and balance with each iteration just to make sure he perfected it. As he fought his imaginary foes, he tested out switching targets in mid-swing and was glad to note that the MOM Stance was versatile enough to counteract enemies coming from all sides if he was aware. With his hand outstretched as well, he imagined he could fire off a fireball at his current target to distract them while he switched targets. He didn't shoot any fireballs yet, however. Magic seemed to be a rare occurrence in this world if it was even conceivable.

Objective Completed: Perform a three-strike combo [10/10]

A soft chime rang in his ears.

Obtained Level 2 Mastery over the Archetype - Font: Typewriter.

Unlocked Edit for Typewriter - Courage Form

Cliff tilted his head to the side in confusion. What did that mean?

He glanced at the Archetype. “Uhm… Edit…?" he asked the weapon. The silvery, pen-shaped sword remained quite. “Courage?"

The weapon suddenly let out a short hum as streaks of light erupted from its form. These thread-like beams of glowing strings wrapped around his left forearm, transforming into a large, rounded shield. The aegis had the same silvery color as the blade but had a golden trim and on its face was the eight-pointed star made out of fountain-pen heads. In his other hand, the Archetype's edge grew longer, turning from about as long as his forearm to as long as his entire arm. It lost its pen-shaped tip and looked more like a traditional blade. Both weapons remained light as a feather.

“Whoa…!" he laughed softly, swinging the sword. “Okay. This will take some getting used to."

New Objective: Perform a three-strike combo with Courage Form [0/10]

Giving the imaginary quest giver a salute, he said, “You got it, boss."

Never having fought with a shield before - no one in modern times actually used a shield except for riot police and cosplayers - he had to quickly get used to his new armaments. It took the better part of two hours to get used to blocking and integrating the shield into his moveset. With the longer reach of the Archetype, his balance was also slightly off and even though both weapons were still as light as ever, his swings were a little slower.

A shield bash seemed the most appropriate. He swung his sword, followed with a shield bash and then finished with a thrust. A completely different moveset from his MOM Stance but he was satisfied with it. Once the objective was completed, he relaxed his stance. The Archetype seemed to sense his need to revert and it flashed in a burst of lights. Little wisps of light shaped like that eight-pointed star that Realism said represented all possibilities being for his writing danced from the disappearing shield and shrinking sword.

His stomach began to rumble at him, warning him that he was running low on stamina. The food buff he had obtained from the morning meal was gone. He noticed that his health bar had actually depleted a little.

Makes sense. In real life, your health does sort of degrade when you're hungry and tired.

It was about noon. Thoughts of food permeated his mind but also the chance of meeting Verik Stormleaf again. His stomach churned for a totally different reason. With a flick of his wrist, he 'sheathed' the Archetype and hurried back home.

Damn… I can't wait to see that hot, red-haired lumberjack again.

He shook the lewd thoughts from his head.

Only because he's the Protagonist of this Story and my most likely key to get out of here.

Writers put the most of themselves into the Protagonist, right? So if I'm supposed to find the part of Oaks that he put in this story and kick him out, that means I need to get to know Verik more.

Cliff nodded to himself, confirming the little lie he told himself.

Yeah. That's totally why I'm eager to see him.

His deception skill went up a point.

Percy greeted him at their hut and announced that he was heating up the stew from the previous night. His father joined them in front of the hut and around the fire. Once the meal was ready, Percy handed out bowls with the stew. Still as bland and one-note as last night. Cliff noted that he buff he received from the meal was significantly less than the previous night. Without any way to store the meal overnight, its benefits clearly diminished.

“There will be no deliveries to be made today," rumbled Reeve, his mood significantly more dour. “Tomorrow, though, I will need both of you boys to be at your best."

“Is something wrong, father?" Percy asked, chipper and curious as always.

For a moment, Reeve stroked his magnificent, dark beard. “I received a message from the Baron."

Again, Cliff's stomach did somersaults.

Shit! Is this were the Baron calls me to his fort so I can escort him to the capital!?

I thought that wasn't for weeks?

Unless Oaks rewrote the Story to accelerate the timeline because I skipped a few beats?

“He needs some new equipment for his troops," rumbled Reeve. His dark eyes fell upon Cliff. “It seems that the Baron is indeed going to make a trip to the north towards the capital. Rumors has it that there have been many attacks on the roads recently. He wants his men armed and prepared. Not only those going with him but those stationed here."

“Do we have enough materials?" Percy asked.

“Plenty," answered Reeve. “If we do not have steel, I can use the Steelwood from the Forest. It's just as good and will do." He against scratched his chin. “Might even be better to use it as armor and save the steel for the weaponry." The blacksmith waved a big, hairy, soot-covered hand dismissively. “But leave that to me." He beamed at Percy. “Well, us. I'll teach you how to craft armor using Steelwood."

Percy was immediately excited. His big brother really was like an overgrown puppy.

Then Reeve turned back towards Cliff. “In exchange, I've asked the Baron to give you proper swordsmanship lessons, Cliff."

“Me?" Cliff squeaked.

His father nodded, pride and a little bit of worry shining in his eyes. “Yes. If you are to escort the Baron, you need to be in top shape. What lucky blow you made against him won't save you if you are being beset by bandits or barbarians. You'll also need to know how to ride a horse!"

“Ah!" Percy cried in frustration. “I am so jealous!" Even as he said this, he was grinning brightly. “Oh, you'll be a squire soon, brother! Think of it! We will soon be the Noble House of Gale!" He grabbed Cliff's shoulder and gave it a light shake. “And you will be the father of our lineage!"

Another carrot dangling in front of me, Oaks? Nobility? Wealth? Power?

A prophecy that I will think back on many books and years later?

“Let's survive this these challenges first," he said with a light smile. “Is there anything I can help with today, father?"

Reeve grunted softly as he swallowed a mouthful of stew. “Just think about what we will have for supper tonight. And keep an eye out for Stormleaf. He said he'd pick up his axe today. I finished sharpening it but I have yet to see hide or tail of that man and he is hard to miss with his fiery red hair."

Wait… He hasn't come by yet?

A different kind of knot formed in Cliff's stomach. Possibilities and scenarios played around in his mind. What could have kept a lumberjack from retrieving his axe? Why would a Protagonist in one of Oaks' stories be late?

Running through everything he knew about Oaks and his previous works, there were far too many plots to find a decisive answer. The simplest answer was that Verik was just genuinely late and he would arrive soon to share a meal with them. Maybe he was having steaming hot sex with his wife which would cement her importance in his life? Or perhaps this was a chance to establish the character of the daughter as he played with her? They were still in the early stages of the Story so they should still be establishing characters… right?

No, Cliff thought to himself harshly. Don't make assumptions.

In all those scenarios, what is the one thing that will cut through the problem of him not being here?

The one thing that the deuteragonist should be doing?

As much as it killed him to dance to Oaks' tune, he set down his bowl and got up.

“I'll take the axe to him."

Reeve waved him down. “Sit down, boy. As long as I've known Verik, he's a man of his word. He will come."

“It's okay," Cliff insisted, throwing a quick glance at Percy for support. “There are no deliveries today, anyway and I'm feeling a need to move my legs. Besides, if he runs any later, it will be dark by the time he gets home to his wife and child. The forest is dangerous at dark."

That was a total guess but if he knew his fantasy settings, it would not be a total lie.

His persuasion skill got a little boost.

“You might as well," Percy chimed in, smiling brightly though his eyes were tinged with a little bit of worry. “Not like you've done anything else today except cook breakfast!"

Reeve sighed heavily and waved him towards the forge. “The axe is on the workbench. If you're lucky, you'll meet him on the road. Would save both of you the trip and I'm sure he'd be grateful regardless. Go and be quick about it." Then the blacksmith reached into his apron and fished out a few copper coins. “Maybe stop by Duggin's farm. Fetch us some more vegetables."

Cliff took the coins and slipped it into the pouch by his him. Grinning gratefully and bidding his father and brother a farewell, he dashed towards the forge and snatched Verik's axe from the workbench. He slipped it into the cloth strap that served as his belt and bolted for the city gates.

An increasing sense of worry and desperation built in his chest as he charged down the streets of Grimvalle. He couldn't imagine Oaks killing off the Protagonist so early but at the same time, he feared that his deviation from the Plot might have made the mad author do something drastic. While Verik was just some fictional character that Oaks made up to seduce him, the man was very real to Cliff. Not to mention he was the likely candidate to have that part of Oaks that formed the core of this Story.

Would Oaks really kill off the part of himself that makes the Story personal to him just to trap me here forever?

Does he even know what I'm after?

He charged past the city gates, waving at Brienus and Foulk as he did so. They threw a warning his way to get back before dark or he'd be trapped outside and he assured them he would as he ran. With each step, his athletics skill grew with more and more experience. Since he had been traveling and making deliveries all of yesterday and was now running today, it finally gave him a soft 'ding' announcing that he had reached Level 2 in athletics and he had a new ability point to spend.

There was no time to hesitate. After perusing the skills the previous night, he already knew what he wanted to spend the point on. In the Mobility ability tree, he placed a point in ability called 'Dash'.

“Alright," he panted to himself. “Dash!"

His feet immediately launched off the ground and carried him several yards forward. Though his toes were just an inch off the ground, it almost looked like he flew. There were combat applications to the Dash move but for now, it was a great mobility skill. Annoying that he had to consciously activate it every time but it saved him precious seconds.

“Dash! Dash! Dash!"

After ten minutes of calling out the action, he realized he just had to think it and it would activate. There was about half-a-second between usages of Dash where he landed on the ground and ran a few steps before initiating it again. It was still faster than actively running. The drain on his stamina was also comparable. He kept an eye on his health bar. That food buff was already paying dividends.

As he approached the Charcoal Brothers, he stopped using Dash. Neither of them would know what to make of him zooming across the dirt path like he was Super Sonic.

“Afternoon, Gyrard!" he greeted, waving a hand towards the two. “Nycolas!"

“Ho there, Cliff!" exclaimed Gyrard, wiping soot from his face. “What brings you this far from town?"

“Did you need firewood?" asked Nycolas. “Your father's forge run out already?"

Cliff forced a nervous laugh. “No. We're good." He lifted the axe from his belt. “Actually, have you seen Verik today? Did he pass by? He was meant to pick this up by noon today and he hadn't come by."

The brothers stared at him with a mixture of shock and worry for a moment before they exchanged glances.

“No…" Nycolas began. “He hasn't been by all day…"

“And he is a man of his word," Gyrard chimed in. “If he said that he'll be by at noon then…" The two brothers nodded. “Douse the fires."

The two men immediately grabbed some buckets and doused the fires in their burners. Taking their meaning, Cliff waited for them both to get ready before all three of them crossed the small, rickety bridge over the little river that marked the entrance to the Grimwalker Forest.

They ran at a steady pace. But with them as company, Cliff couldn't make use of Dash. Not that he really could. The forest was dense and even with a rough road made of packed dirt, trees, low-hanging branches and underbrush made it difficult to maneuver. The last thing he wanted on his rescue mission was to comically slam into a tree like he was from a cartoon.

Only a short half-hour later, they came to a wooden cabin, larger than Reeve's hut, surrounded by tree stumps. This was clearly the Stormleaf household. Everything was oddly quiet. A glance of his surroundings and Cliff noticed the telltale signs of tragedy in one of Oaks' stories.

No wind rustled. The sun was oddly muted. No birds chirped. Colors seemed dimmed. Nothing moved. With all this stillness, there was a terrifying chill that seeped into his bones.

When they got to the cabin, he immediately stopped.

Right there, in front of him, was a door. The door.

The door made out of roughly cut twigs sewn together by flimsy rope with no handle. Ragged claw marks slashed across its surface exposing the white wood beneath the gray-brown bark. Blood was splattered across the surface.

The door he used to enter this Story from where Realism sat.

Oh no…

He really was the Protagonist.

Gyrard barged past him, charging into the room. “Check the back!" ordered the brother and Nycolas rushed around the corner of the cabin.

Cliff's heart was frozen.

Did Oaks really kill his own Protagonist? Had the author just promoted him to Protagonist and trapping him in this world forever? Was he doomed?

“Gods!" cried Nycolas from the back. “Whatever beast did this got Daisy!"

Daisy the donkey.

“I need help!" Gyrard suddenly shouted. “He's still alive!"

Those three, magical words restarted Cliff's heart like he had just been shocked by a defibrillator. He was moving before he had a chance to fully comprehend what that meant.

He _…_ He is alive. There's only one guy in this house!

That means that Verik is alive!

The smell of blood immediately assaulted him the moment he charged into the cabin. Furniture was tossed in all directions and blood splattered the wall. His hand immediately shot to his mouth, stifling a cry of terror. Oaks was known to be extremely descriptive in many ways but nothing the man ever wrote could have compared to the gore that he saw before him.

Tears welled up in his eyes at the sight of the woman - possibly the only woman in this entire world - crouched protectively over her daughter. Both of them were slumped against the wall, blood sprayed behind them like crimson wings symbolizing their ascent into Heaven. Neither were moving and he didn't need to approach them to know they were long dead. Not when the little girl's lower half was completely missing and the woman's throat was slashed to the point that he could see bone.

Verik!

Cliff's eyes darted around the room and he spied Gyrard kneeling on the floor next to the hulking, bloodied form of Verik Stormleaf. The titanic lumberjack was heavily wounded, blood seeping from ragged slashes across his chest and arms. However, he seemed to be alive. The ragged breaths he drew were injected with tearful sobs.

“Stay with me, Verik!" pleaded Gyrard, the tall charcoal burner looking up to Cliff for assistance. “We need to get him back to town!"

Cliff thought fast.

“The cart!" he exclaimed. “Daisy's cart!" He began backing towards the door. “Nycolas and I will bring it out front. Bring him out as far as you can. We can load him on the cart and then drag him the rest of the way with the three of us."

Gyrard approved of the plan and Cliff bolted out of the cabin, shouting for Nycolas and relaying the plan. He caught sight of Daisy as he did so. The poor animal had been mauled to death. It was clear, however, that whatever attacked her did so for food. She was half-eaten.

What could have done this?

That question would have to be answered later. With Nycolas, they hauled Daisy's cart usually made to haul logs to town out to the front of the house. Gyrard was only able to drag Verik halfway towards the door. It broke Cliff's heart when he saw the red-haired man weakly reach for his dead wife and child as the three of them dragged him the rest of the way out and onto the cart.

Once Verik was secured, Cliff hurried to the front of the cart, grabbed the restraints that would normally have been made for Daisy, slung it over his shoulders and began to pull. Nycolas and Gyrard were right beside him, pushing.

Come on, Verik! Don't die on me!

The Synposis

Oaks cackled madly.

“What do you think of that, Cliff Bolt!?" he shouted at the shimmering pages, grinning madly. “Even with your defiance, your power and that sword, you are still forced to follow the Plot!"

He leaned back, pleased with himself. “Admittedly, things have progressed faster than I would have expected. You were meant to meet Ceria and Faelea. Get to know them. Develop an attachment to them. Understand what Verik is missing."

The author and Holder of the Magnum Opus shrugged absently. “Ah well, it doesn't matter. You'll just have to stumble blindly into finding some way to comfort a grieving husband and father. Will make for a juicier romance story."

Grinning to himself, Oaks rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Ooooh! And better yet, with the supernatural aspect you injected into my realistic medieval romance, there is another angle we can look at!"

He waggled a finger in the air as his eyes glowed with inspiration. The sound of scribbling intensified around him and the dancing letters seemed to twitch and crawl all over the Synopsis more excitedly.

“Ah yes! Yes! He will develop an attachment to you. See you as his own son! Then, as you charge off into battle headfirst against these supernatural forces that Skurrald will unleash upon the kingdom, he will feel the compulsion to protect you, his surrogate son! Yes! That's brilliant!"

Oaks plucked the crystal quill from the air but hesitated just as he was about to puncture the Synopsis for the precious Ink he needed to start writing.

“But wait… what of your real father and brother…?" A wicked grin crossed his face. “Let's see… Should I have them killed? Perhaps you travel with the Baron to the King's council accompanied by Verik who is left without purpose? Then, as you are off playing court and finding yourself in the lap of luxury, enjoying yourself in the capital with the burgeoning romance of both Verik and Arthur Grim, your village is attacked by Skurrald! Your father and brother die leaving you unattached, heartbroken and feeling the burning need for vengeance that Verik feels against the bear that slaughtered his family!"

He threw his head back, cackling at the ceiling filled with crawling scrawls. “It's brilliant! Yes! Oh yes!"

The crazed and yet passionate author made claws with his hands. “Oh you turned out to be such a rich fountain of inspiration after all, Cliff Bolt! Oh yes! You and I will have so much fun together!"

Smiling to himself, Oaks flicked the crystal quill away, dismissing it into the ether of the Synopsis. There was no need for edits or the Unwritten. Not yet. His will was already within Skurrald and his barbarians. The Baron was already summoned to the capital and Cliff had already made his case to join them. The initial plan was for Verik to be convinced by the Baron - a longtime friend - to accompany the ruler to the capital as a means to set aside his grief. Cliff would have gone with him thanks to their blossoming relationship.

But that was no longer needed.

The events may have been shuffled around a little but they were all playing out exactly as Oaks wanted.

The Plot was intact.

In fact, it was better than ever.

“Oh yes," rumbled Oaks, his eyes glinting beneath his thick eyebrows. “Let the tree fall unheard."

Grimwalker Forest

The march through the Grimwalker Forest was arduous but with their new powerful, virile bodies, Skurrald and his bears made the trek an hour or so after sunset. Naturally, they were forced to stop every now and then to fuck one another. It was inescapable.

The lust.

The desire.

The ecstasy.

The high from orgasming in the embrace of another man never diminished with each iteration. Pride from birthing the strange, black, slithering creatures from their cum only built, feeding their sense of power as more of them grew and gathered around the traveling horde like a crawling, dark miasma.

Skurrald never felt so satisfied and so hungry at the same time. Bottom, top or in-between other men, it didn't matter. He needed a cock in him or his cock needed to be in someone at all times. It was only through sheer force of will that he drove his horde forward. Apart from the sex, this trek was the only thing that gave them more and more satisfaction. Their bodies itched with need to go south, drawn by an unknowable force. None of them questioned this. The chains of desire were wrapped tightly around their necks and they willingly followed its lead. In fact, the closer they got to the forest, the greater their orgasms and pleasure.

More barbarian strike groups - each part of his old leadership under the Circle of Kings - eventually stumbled upon them or they actively sought them out. Few fought. The cloud of Unwritten overwhelmed most of them before they could even draw their blades. Erect, bear cocks would join Skurrald and the Bandit King would be sure to initiate each of them into his new tribe.

There were a few other patrols and caravans from the Kingdom and he thoroughly enjoyed dragging them into the depths of lustful barbarism. Watching the supposed 'civilization' drain from their eyes and the amber glow of insatiable desire consume their gaze was enough to send his balls churning more and more of his black-and-purple corruptive cum.

Then the sun set and they had to stop.

For the first time in hours, the guidance they had felt ebbed. Skurrald ordered camp be made and his now two-hundred strong army huddled into the forest. No fire was necessary. They heated one another with their bodies. Food was hungrily devoured and some hunters charged into the woods to find some game. Not even the most agile of deers could outrun their monstrous forms.

Skurrald sat amongst his fellow barbarians, a fat cock buried deep into his ass, pulsating and oozing with black cum. His muzzle was occupied by another dick while a bear was latched onto his right nipple. Similar scenes were playing out around camp.

Then his pleasure was interrupted when he sensed a non-bear stride into his camp. His glowing eyes opened from his source of pleasure and he regretfully pulled his lips away from the juicy dick that had been feeding him raw corruption. With one, enormous paw, the coffee-colored bear with a golden blond Mowhawk pushed the bear that he had been sucking aside. He kept the bear nursing on his nipple there and remained squatted over the one fucking him, however.

His bears dragged a man towards him. The individual with a ridiculously twirly mustache stumbled in front of him. Already, the heady musk of bear sex was addling the man's mind but he was not changed. Not yet.

No, Skurrald had information to take from him.

“Who are you?" he growled, squeezing his ass tightly and milking the cock inside of him for more juices.

“I'm… ah… I'm…" began the man, his voice slurring. Skurrald reached out with a mighty paw, seizing the man's cheeks and lifting him up into the air. The mighty Barbarian Bandit King rose, eliciting a moan of pleasure from the bear he had been topping moments ago. With that one paw, he lifted this interloper a full two feet off the air.

“Speak!" he bellowed.

The man's cock twitched in his trousers. “A messenger! I come bearing word from the Kingdom of Uveldald."

Uveldald. That slimy monarchy that had first recruited the northern barbarians and united them under a single banner with their silvery words and golden gifts. With the clarity provided by the Unwritten, Skurrald understood that this was all part of a grand manipulation.

If the Circle of Kings followed through and managed to rampage across the Marvellian Kingdom, they would indeed be granted their own lands. The Kingdom of Uveldald would act as their official ally on the world stage and any other monarchies looking to invade the weakened barbarian nation would face Uveldald's wrath.

However, should Marvellian prove too much for the barbarians, Uveldald would turn their swords on the Circle, claiming to their neighbor that they had always been an ally and denying any involvement in the barbarian's cohesion.

It was brilliant. In either case, Uveldald would ultimately gain a vassal or at least an ally for their greater machinations.

“And what is this message?" growled Skurrald.

“His Highness demands to know what you are doing and what dark power you have conspired with," said the messenger, his eyes rolling into the back of head. “He… he wants to parley… Wants to meet on even grounds and… and… oh gods!"

The man's body convulsed and his erect cock spasmed in his trousers. Still a human though. No corruption save for the musk in the air had entered him. His change was mostly mental for now.

Skurrald's flesh suddenly began to tingle. The guidance had returned. It did not want him to entertain this request for a concession. Relieved to feel it once more, he lowered the man so that his muzzle was hovering right over the messenger's ear.

“We want nothing to do with that manipulative spider. We make our own path."

Then, he swung the messenger around and shoved the man's face between the cracks of his hairy butt. He finally unclenched his ass, allowing the corruptive, black seed he had milked from his comrade and brother-in-arms to ooze out of his pucker and right into the messenger's face. The addled man hungrily ate it all. His tongue danced and lapped around Skurrald's sensitive hole. All sense of humanity vanished and the messenger plunged right into his ass, his features jutting out into a ursine muzzle.

Skurrald roared in orgasm. A roar mirrored by his brothers.

All around them, wildlife turned and fled from the growing horde.

Grimvalle

Even with the three of them pulling the cart, the trek back to Grimvalle would take hours. Cliff had started his search for Verik past noon and found him deep into the afternoon with the advantage of Dash to increase his speed. Now with the heavy Verik in a cart that was probably as heavy as the man, their progress was much slower. By the time they had reached about the halfway mark to Grimvalle, the sun was just on the cusp of disappearing beneath the horizon.

We'll never make it inside in time!

I don't know if there are any healers in town. Definitely don't have any pharmacies or doctors with modern medicine either.

Despair gripped his heart, forming iron shackles onto the ground which pinned him to the ground. Their forward momentum slowed as all three men slumped forward in exhaustion. He glanced over his shoulder. Verik's wounds seemed superficial at most but he was losing a lot of blood. There was a risk of infection as well. The worst thing to happen to a lumberjack is to lose their arms.

No… Not quite. The worst thing is if they lost their life.

It would be ironic if they lost their arms.

He wished he had unlocked some sort of medicine or healing skill and any associated spells or abilities that could heal others or himself. Any videogame needed some sort of recovery mechanic and he wasn't sure stuffing his face full of food or sleeping would cure all injuries. His own health bar had depleted a little past halfway and his food augment was long gone.

At this rate, we'll never make it.

“Old man Duggin!" Nycolas suddenly shouted. “We can't make it tonight but if we can get to Duggin's place, we can at least give Verik a place to rest."

“He's bound to have some poultices or herbs around for his livestock too!" Gyrard added. “Not sure if they'll work on a man but it's better than nothing!"

I'll take it!

“Alright," Cliff grunted, pulling at the cart with renewed vigor. “Let's go!"

Dash!

He threw aside all pretenses of remaining incognito about his powers for the moment and bolted forward. With the extra weight of the cart, he was only able to surge forward a few feet or so but it was enough to get the momentum going again.

Relief washed over him when he saw that there were still lights on at Duggin's farmhouse. As they closed in, he instructed Nycolas and Gyrard to keep pulling while he bolted to Duggin and made sure he didn't shut their doors. Freed of the cart, he activated Dash as soon as he was far enough from the Charcoal Brothers so that his abilities would not be noticed. Within a few minutes he was at the doorstep of the farmer and banging on the door.

“Mr. Duggin!" he shouted. “It's me! Cliff B -" He gut himself off before giving his true name. “Gale! Cliff Gale! Please! We need your help! It's Verik!"

There was a hurried shuffling sound from the other side of the door and Duggin's head popped out from the window right beside the door. Duggin was possibly the oldest person in all of Grimvalle. What hairs remained on his head was a wispy, white halo that jutted from the sides of his head. His features were leathery from all the time spent out in the sun with spots from multiple sunburns throughout the years. Despite this, he had a broad set of shoulders and instead of loose skin, his light-brown, weather worn skin was stretched taught against firm muscles. The fact that this man was able to tend to his farm and output just as much produce as his rivals, the Raynoldus family, meant that this elderly man was superhuman.

“Cliff?" asked Duggin, crooked teeth showing in the dim light of his farmhouse. “What are you doing out so late? And what's this about Verik?"

“Something attacked him and his family," Cliff said desperately. He turned and pointed down the road where Nycolas and Gyrard were still pulling the cart along. “When he didn't come to get his axe at noon today, I felt something was wrong. I ran as fast as I could and recruited the Charcoal Brothers. We found him on the floor of his cabin." Cliff's throat closed up as he choked out, “His wife and daughter were dead."

Images of those two dead against the wall haunted him.

Is that a warning, Oaks? Is that what you can do the people of this world if you wanted?

They may be just words on a page to you but I'm living in this world!

“Gods…" breathed Duggin, immediately ducking back into his house. The latch on the wooden door sprang open and the tall, white-haired man who towered over Cliff at past six feet tall. “Let's go," demanded the farmer and, together, they charged down the road.

It was on their run did Cliff notice that Duggin was completely barefoot. His trousers were brown though it was hard to tell if that was from mud or the natural color of the garment. A muddy tunic that looked more like two sheets of gray fabric crossed his torso to leave his thick arms free and tied by a cloth belt around his waist.

Nycolas and Gyrard both looked relieved when they arrived. With Duggin's added strength, they barreled down the road and up to the farmhouse. Since Duggin was refreshed, he was able to carry the injured Verik into the house all by himself and rest him gently on the sole cot in the farmhouse.

“I've got some herbs and poultices in the trunk by the fireplace," Duggin instructed. “Bring them here."

“Which ones?" Cliff asked, heading over to the heavy, wooden trunk. When he opened it, there were was a mess of dried leaves, flowers and cloth pouches tied together with pieces of string.

“There should be a plant with purple leaves and yellow flowers. That's good for pain." Duggin rested the back of his hand against Verik's head. “He's resilient. He doesn't have a fever. Yet. So no infection. One of those poultices should feel a little more wet and liquid than the others. That's a healing salve."

As Duggin mentioned these, an objective appeared in front of Cliff.

New Objective: Bring healing materials to Duggin.

Sprigs of pain relief flowers [0/5]

Healing Poultice [0/3]

Again, he was left wondering where these objectives were coming from. Was it Realism guiding him? Oaks? The Magnum Opus?

Setting those thoughts aside, he grabbed the necessary materials and brought them to the farmer. Duggin regarded him for a second, one silvery eyebrow raised.

“Just what I needed," the old man beamed a little, showing off his craggy teeth. “You have a good eye."

Ding!

Objective Complete: Bring healing materials to Duggin.

New Skill unlocked: Medicine

Cliff resisted the urge to pump a fist into the air.

Yes! Just what I needed.

“Thanks," answered Cliff, turning back to Verik. “Will he be okay?"

“We shall see." The farmer turned back towards the unconscious lumberjack. “I am no healer but I'll do what I can. Best case, we can make him comfortable until tomorrow when we can bring him directly to the fort's physician."

Cliff watched Duggin work and assisted where he could. The farmer brewed the dry leaves with some hot water and let them stew for a few minutes. When they were ready, he asked Cliff to prop up Verik's head while he gently tilted the cup of tea into the lumberjack's lips. Verik drank slowly and his features visibly began to relax a few moments later. Then Duggin opened the pouch he was given. It contained a dark green paste which he gathered on his fingers and began lathering on the open wounds across Verik's body.

“Help me here," instructed the farmer. “His wounds have stopped bleeding but one wrong move and they could open and become infected."

Oh shit… I get to lay my hands on this huge red-head's body.

Mentally slapping himself, he reminded himself that there was an injured man in front of him. That didn't stop some lewd thoughts from entering his mind as he gathered some of the poultice and gently applied it onto the man's wounds. Nycolas and Gyrard mentioned that they would head back to their homes and asked to be informed if anything changed. Cliff thanked them as he continued to work.

Then Duggin reached for Verik's pants and pulled them down.

“Whoa!" Cliff cried, reeling back.

“What?" asked the farmer, lifting an eyebrow at him. “He has cuts over his legs. We need to treat them as well."

Yeah but his dick is right there!

“Right," he squeaked. “Of course. Proceed."

Duggin shrugged and pulled down the lumberjack's trousers. Out from a thick bush of crimson red hair sprang Verik's own 'redwood'. Even flaccid it was thick and long. Looking at it made Cliff's mouth water. This was exactly the kind of beautiful cock that led to his sexual awakening. Reading them off the pages of Oaks' works was entirely different to seeing one right in front of his face. The uncut member was perfect, alluring and invaded his thoughts with images of what it would look like erect… or what it would taste like.

Cliff resisted his urges and helped apply the poultice to Verik's muscular quads, distracting himself instead with the contours of this man's thighs and how they were perfectly outlined by the light fuzz of red hair. It was a little less shameful than popping a boner over seeing an unconscious man's cock.

Once they were done, Duggin straightened and grabbed a blanket made out of animal leather - looking like cow leather. He draped it over Verik who was now quietly snoring away.

“You might as well stay here," sighed the farmer. “It's too late for you to get past the gates and Foulk has a pike up his ass about the laws." His milky blue eyes gazed around the farmhouse. “I don't have any room for you to sleep unless you prefer the floor or the barn?"

Recalling how hard wood was on his back and how straw offered some relief against the oppressive stiffness, Cliff decided to take the barn. Before he left, he thanked Farmer Duggin one more time. The old man nodded at him and grasped his shoulder tightly.

“You did good today, son," rumbled the man with an exhausted smile. “I don't think Verik could have made it without your help. Only the Gods know how he will feel about that, though."

Right… Would a man of his caliber and honor even want to be alive after his wife and daughter died?

He left the farmhouse and made his way to the barn nearby. Stacks of hay were packed into the small, single-floor shed. The vague smell of wet straw, mud and manure hung in the air but he was far too exhausted to think mind it. He dropped into one of the piles of hay, grateful that it supported his weight somewhat.

“I wonder if Percy and Reeve are worried about me?" he mused aloud. No doubt they were especially concerned after he had run off so abruptly. In any other scenario, he imagined this would have been the basis of a romantic affair with Verik. Maybe he caught the lumberjack working in the woods, they started a casual conversation, they bathed in the river together and they would suddenly tumble and tussle with cocks erect. It would be too late to return home so he would stay at the cabin, the irony of having had sex with the incredibly sexy man while sleeping under the same roof as that same man's wife and child not lost on him or the audience. Then he would return home the next day, purposefully being evasive to his brother and father's probing questions.

“A different kind of walk of shame."

Cliff closed his eyes, leaving one arm draped over his eyes in exhaustion.

What is Oaks planning…? Is this part of the Plot? What does this all mean? How does it relate to me?

As his other arm dropped to his side, he was suddenly met with a sharp burst of pain. With a soft yelp, he pulled his arm back and noticed the light scratch against his tunic. Glancing down, he noticed the freshly sharpened axe that had been the catalyst for his adventure.

Right… My magic clothes protect me from the Unwritten to some degree but they won't protect me from everything else…

Need to be careful.

Cliff pulled the axe from his hip and held it up in the faint starlight streaming in from the open barn doors.

“Can't help but think this was fate," he said aloud. “If I hadn't made my deliveries yesterday and if Percy hadn't been with me to stall me along the way, I would never have met Verik at exactly that same moment to get this axe. If I had been earlier or later, I probably would never had met him, put a face to the name, and Reeve would have just mentioned that I was to wait for some stranger to pick up his axe. A stranger that would never have come."

He lowered the weapon, pressing it against his chest.

“Fuck you, Oaks…"

As his eyelids grew heavy, he could not help but wonder about Oaks' other works and any patterns or parallels he could draw from this current Story. Trying to predict where things would go was next to impossible now that he knew that each of Oaks' stories were made from other people being drawn into the Magnum Opus and those people writing the story for him as they lived out their tales. Their actions were their own even if they were under constant threat of Oaks rewriting everything and everyone if he didn't like it.

I wonder if people would have willingly put themselves in danger like that if they were given that opportunity.

Then his eyes snapped open.

Danger…

Sitting up suddenly, axe in hand, he came to a chilling realization.

Verik is a man of honor. He is devoted to his wife and child. He even tried to reach for them as we dragged him away from the scene.

The red-haired lumberjack did not appear like the kind of man to bear a grudge. Jovial, friendly and happy, the impression he had left with Cliff was that he was a family man through and through. His purpose rested with his family. Without that purpose, where would he go?

“Revenge," he breathed. The word hung in the air, seemingly causing the temperature to drop.

Suddenly very awake, Cliff jumped to his feet and marched out of the barn. The lights in Duggin's farmhouse were out but that did not mean everyone inside was asleep. With the axe in his hand, he headed over. Within, he heard loud snoring. That did not belong to Verik. Over the noise, however, he couldn't tell if the lumberjack was asleep. Leaning against the side of the door away from where the door would swing open, he crossed his arms and waited.

True to his suspicions and the trope, that same door swung open and out hobbled a fiery-eyed Verik Stormleaf.

Cliff let the man make it a few yards before speaking.

“The roads are dangerous this time of night."

The broad-shouldered man went rigid and turned. Somehow, he had managed to squeeze his frame back into his torn clothing. An ominous wind blew, whipping the braid in his crimson hair to the side. In the dim light of the stars, Verik never loomed more intimidating… or handsome. There was a passion in his eyes that was tempered by immense sorrow. Strong yet vulnerable. The kind of man many readers of Oaks' works would absolutely adore.

The tormented soul that can be saved.

Nice try, Oaks.

“What are you doing up?" asked Verik, concern in his voice. “You must be exhausted."

“Look who's talking." Cliff pushed off the wall and approached Verik, making sure to show the man the axe he held. The lumberjack's eyes flashed upon seeing the weapon. “What's the plan here, Verik? Going to charge back into the forest guided by nothing but the starlight, a prayer and your lust for vengeance?"

The man's big, meaty arms lashed out, seizing the axe and yanking it away. Cliff did not resist. “You know nothing!" Verik turned and stormed down the road, showing surprising strength despite being on the brink of death just a few hours ago.

Typical Protagonist. Plot armor right there.

… maybe…

“Go back to bed, boy!" snapped Verik. “You've done enough."

Cliff gave chase. With the towering man hobbling because of his injuries, it was a simple matter. “Funny way of thanking me for saving your life."

Verik threw him a sidelong glance. It was not hostile. Angry but that rage was more directed at himself. The look was almost pleading. “I won't discount your courage, intuition and tenacity in saving me. So I won't ask you to do more."

“'More' as in stop you from rushing headlong into what is likely a suicide mission?" Cliff easily stepped in front of the towering man and stood his ground. “Duggin spent his precious healing herbs and poultices on you. Nycolas and Gyrard both went out of their way to haul your ass miles here! Now you're going to go back to do what exactly? Throw yourself at whatever it is that killed your family? You can barely stand! You'll die!?"

“And so what if I do?" snarled the lumberjack. “I have nothing left to live for now that Ciera and Fealea are dead." His eyes looked past Cliff and towards the distant forest. “The least I can do is kill the bear that attacked my home."

A bear…?

Drawing on what he knew about them, he found it incredibly unlikely that any normal bear would go out of its way to maul a family. Sure there were videos and random one-offs of bears wandering into people's backyards and there was always that threat of one such beast entering a suburban area but it was highly unlikely. Especially when Verik's home wasn't really that far from civilization. Sure it was in the middle of the woods but it was still very far from the 'deep' woods.

Something else is going on here.

As he was deep in thought, Verik stormed past him.

“Wait!" he cried.

“Do not try to stop me, Cliff. My mind is set."

Shit! I can't let him charge off like that! He's going to get himself killed!

For a second, Cliff hesitated.

But… is that what Oaks wants me to do?

In this part of the Story, it would make sense for Cliff to stick by the Protagonist's side. It would be the bridge that would securely establish their relationship. The first adventure that they would always look back at fondly. Perhaps he was to be the voice or reason that would bring Verik from the brink of the abyss and then those words from Baron Arthur Grim would come back with deeper meaning.

'You are adorable and bring a light to my days.'

To defy Oaks would be just to leave Verik to wander to the woods and face off the bear that would likely be his demise. That was a double-edged sword, however. The Protagonist was the most likely candidate to host the part of Oaks that formed the cornerstone of this world; that spark of a personal touch that gave the world life. Even if all Oaks did was write a foundation and an outline, that was still a part of the author that he needed to exorcise so he could gain control of the Magnum Opus. But if Verik died, so too would that spark and maybe the Story would abruptly end, taking him with it.

And I just can't let him die.

Realism's words rang back in his head.

'What is realistic is subjective. Different people perceive reality differently, after all.'

To Oaks, this Story might just be his next bestseller but to Cliff, it was real. He felt pain; the sting from the axe under his arm was very real. His heartstrings were tugged at these people's plight. The wind was real. The chill of the night was real. Even the distant stars glimmering down upon him were real.

And if this is real for me, then I can't just let Verik die!

Cliff tightened his hands into fists, thinking hard.

But I'm going to do it my way.

“Let me come with you," he declared.

Verik stopped a few yards away from him. The injured man was at the edge of Duggin's property now; just on the cusp of crossing onto the road.

“You've done enough," rumbled the lumberjack, his hair still fiery in the scant starlight.

“No I haven't." Cliff charged forward, walking past Verik and turning towards the forest. “Bears don't just go attacking people's houses at random. It doesn't just maliciously strike down at a family either especially one that is defenseless." He glanced over to Verik. “Unless you attacked it first?"

The lumberjack shook his head in a negative. “No… We were just sitting down playing with Fealea when we heard Daisy cry out in panic. She was tied to the back so she had no escape. I went out to see what was happening and that's when I saw the bear dragging her towards the forest. It had eaten its fill and was pulling the carcass back to its lair."

Tears began to form in the man's eyes, casting a glimmering light into his blue eyes. “I heard Ceria behind me, holding our child. I shouted for both of them to get back in the house and the bear noticed me. Then it attacked. I fought it off as best as I could but it knocked me on my back and gave me these…" He gestured at the wounds on his arms and chest that were barely healed. “Ceria slammed the door and Fealea screamed in panic. The bear rushed off to them. I saw it tear down the door and barrel in. I was winded… weak…"

Verik lifted his fists, shaking. “I heard their screams. It took all my strength to get to my feet and charge in. By then, it was too late. The bear… it… it…" He pressed the heels of his fists against his eyes. “It killed them. I didn't need to check to see if they were still alive. They were dead. I knew it." Then, his lips peeled back into a snarl, fire entering his eyes again. “I fought that thing. Slammed it against the walls with all my might. I don't know why, but it fled after one of my blows. It left me dying on the floor… staring at my dead wife and daughter…"

Fuck… That's… terrifying.

… but it also confirms something.

“The bear came to your home and killed Daisy," Cliff concluded. “It ate part of her and was dragging it away. It was hungry. Desperate."

“That doesn't change what it did!" roared Verik.

Ping!

New Objective: Convince Verik to drop his immediate need for vengeance.

“No, it doesn't. But hear me out." Cliff held up his hands. Drawing from the hours he spent analyzing Moby Dick, he said “You can't change the nature of an animal and you can't let it change you either." Pressing a hand against his chest he said, “Humans have become a successful species because we form strong ties with one another and are able to cooperate with one another. Despite our most base instincts, we stand together to protect the weak and sometimes go against our very nature to do arguably stupid things. Animals are not so fortunate. Some have a level of primitive intelligence but they cannot understand the intricacies the society we have built around them. When we start blaming an animal, inserting malice into actions that could otherwise just be an act of survival, we become the animals."

The lumberjack reeled back at his verbal essay. “What?"

“Don't go thinking the bear did this out of particular hatred of you," Cliff surmised. “No deity ordered that bear to attack you. It didn't just decide one day that it'd be fun to fuck with Verik Stormleaf and kill his wife and child while leaving him with the unbearable weight of living while they died. It was acting out of instinct."

Cliff turned back towards the forest. “Which begs the question… what drove its instincts?"

“When did you become such a scholar?" huffed Verik.

When the hot sexy man who is both my warden and key to escaping this prison was about to throw himself into a hopeless situation.

Ignoring the question, Cliff said, “The bear is the symptom. Not the disease."

“What?" came the confused question.

“We need to ask ourselves, what drove the bear into your land? The forest is lush and bountiful with game and berries, right? Why would it go out of its way to go into a place clearly smelling of humans and kill a donkey for food?" Cliff narrowed his gaze. “Something drove it to you."

Verik stepped up beside him. “You think that it was just a coincidence that the bear attacked me? That it's an omen of something to come?"

I doubt there are coincidences. This is a fictional story crafted for a specific purpose by Desmond Eli Oaks, after all, the Poet of Pornography.

If there was even the faintest reason to drop our pants and fuck here and now, he would make it happen and somehow make it sound like destiny or fate.

Cliff pieced together what he had learned so far about this world, about the rumbling in the world. All roads pointed back to the Baron's trip to the capital to deal with the northern barbarians. It seemed unlikely but maybe the barbarians' actions were somehow driving the wildlife deeper into human territory. It could be a myriad of other things but that was the best guess he could come up with at the moment.

“I don't have enough information to go on," he responded. “But like I said, the bear is just a symptom. We need to cure the disease. To combat the illness, we need to find out what it is first." Raising a hand towards Verik again, he said, “So how about we go back to your home tonight. Give your wife and daughter a proper burial. And Daisy. Then let's go back to the fort. Report this to the Baron. He might have a better idea of what's coming."

At the mention of the Baron, Verik's fiery stare softened. “Arthur…"

The man's huge shoulder sagged and it seemed like all the rage and bloodlust that was holding him ebbed. A shaky but shadow of the easy smile he bore the first time they met appeared through his bushy, red beard.

“When did you grow such a silver tongue?"

Objective Completed: Convince Verik to drop his immediate need for vengeance.

Ding!

Cliff's persuasion skill went up a level. Another ability point to spend. There was also a new skill unlocked; Insight. The smile on his face only partially from meeting his objective. Relief over talking Verik away from his suicidal course of action contributed.

“I've had to do a lot of growing recently," he commented enigmatically. Offering his shoulder, he nodded towards the forest. “Now what do you say? Let's give Ceria and Fealea a proper farewell."

“Yes…" sighed Verik softly. “Yes. Let's."