Chapter 25

“Why are you smiling?” Blade asked.

He and Fey were sitting in a coach making its bumpy way over to Newtown. The setting did nothing to explain Fey’s unfocused and somewhat goofy smile.

Fey blinked, re-focusing on her surroundings after her conversation with Leandriel. “Mm, what? Oh I was talking to my friend through private messaging.”

“Your mermaid friend?”

“Uh, no, another one.” Fey shifted her jaw slightly in an attempt to stop smiling. The attempt failed. That conversation was not even that humorous. My mind is clearly turning to mush.

Blade waited expectantly for further explanation, but none was forthcoming. In her focus on trying to regain control over her facial expression, Fey failed to even notice the gaping hole in the conversation (*socially awkward*).

Blade let the matter rest. He was displaying a necessary quality for anyone who chose to be friends with Fey: a very high level of tolerance. Fey’s unmodulated personality (i.e. when she wasn’t pretending to be normal) was like a force of nature in both its difficulty to predict and tendency to go where it would. Her friends chose to go along with the randomness (with varying levels of amusement). In return, Fey offered deep and steadfast friendship, readily helping with any difficulty, providing a sympathetic ear for rants and complaints about the unfairness of life, and verbally castrating anyone who dared to bother the few people in the world she liked. (Is the author allowed to use the word “castrate” if she’s trying to keep things PG?)

The corners of Fey’s mouth were still slightly higher than usual, but she had mostly schooled her face into a neutral expression. To distract herself, she pulled out Kallara’s map.

“It looks like one of the herbs is available right outside Newtown.”

Blade nodded. “What’s it called?”

“Tear grass.” In the legend was an illustration of grass that appeared blue in hue.

“I bet it cries when it’s under attack,” Blade joked.

“More like it makes us cry,” Fey said half-seriously.

***

(Okayokay, leaving. No need to push.)

Leandriel knew he was close to the dragon’s lair when he heard the slow, deep breathing of an immense creature. Walking as quietly as he could, he went around a bend in the tunnel and came upon the bronze dragon’s sleeping form.

Everything about the dragon suggested lethal beauty. Its body and limbs were huge, but perfectly proportioned and delicately formed in a way that suggested sleekness and speed. Its scales had the metallic lustre of polished bronze, though Leandriel knew they were far harder than the metal the dragon was named after. The scales varied in size, the largest and thickest on the most rigid parts of its body, which gradually shifted to smaller, thinner ones at places that required flexibility.

Despite its reptilian body and bat-like wings, the dragon reminded Leandriel of a cat in the way it was sleeping. Forelimbs with scimitar-like claws were tucked neatly under a head the size of a horse. Its membranous wings were folded neatly against its back, its long, flexible tail curled compactly around its body.

Piled around the dragon was its glittering hoard. Dragons in Fantasia were like magpies in their love of shiny, glittering objects. The bronze dragon had collected an assortment of light-reflecting items, ranging from worthless to valuable by human standards. There were ore-rich chunks of rock and uncut gems gouged out of the nearby mountains, piled together with bits of iron pyrite and quartz scavenged from nearby rivers.

Leandriel carefully avoided the scattered minerals, making his way to the dragon’s head with a minimum of noise.

He paused and centred himself. It would take speed, strategy, and a good deal of luck to come out of the impending battle without major injury.

From his pouch, Leandriel pulled out a handful of dragonsbane. The dried plant was brittle and crumbled easily in his grasp. He blew the resulting powder towards a draconian nostril.

The dragon sneezed, a thunderous burst of air that boomed like cannon-fire and forced Leandriel to stumble back a few steps. The dragon sneezed again and again, so distracted that Leandriel was able to retreat behind a pile of rocks to conceal himself.

It became clear that the dragon was having a human-style allergic reaction, sneezing and dripping tears out of its huge eyes. Well, Leandriel supposed that was a logical way to stop a dragon from using its breath attack. Fey would love it.

As the sneezing fit died down, Leandriel drew his sword and prepared to launch his first attack.

“Holy Lance!”

A beam of physical force shot out of the tip of his sword, straight at the dragon. The skill was especially suited for large, boss-type monsters; unlike slashing skills, where the attack power spread out and dissipated in an expanding arc, the piercing attack stayed concentrated at a single point while extending the reach of his weapon to over 10 metres.

The downside of the lance attack was the precision required in aiming. Leandriel had meant to pierce the joint where the dragon’s foreleg met its body, but was a handsbreadth off, glancing off the great scales of its ribs. The dragon roared, the sound deafening despite a certain muffled quality from its state of nasal congestion.

Leandriel leaped backwards in a wing-assisted jump as the dragon snapped its great jaws closed where he had been standing a split second earlier. He passed close enough to hit the dragon directly with his sword, though his strike connected with the bony ridge above its eye, barely leaving a scratch. As soon as the dragon oriented on his new position, it struck again, and again.

Leandriel dodged in every direction, moving at a speed that denied conscious thought. He was aware of nothing but the dragon, the cavern’s potential tripping hazards, and the sword in his hands. Whenever he had the opportunity, he loosed Holy Lance, managing to inflict wounds on the dragon’s neck and joints that bled sluggishly.

Though the bronze dragon lacked the true intelligence of the greater dragons, it was not without its own cunning. As Leandriel became accustomed to dodging and more adept at inflicting wounds, it abruptly switched tactics. Leandriel was struck from behind by a great lashing tail. It felt as if a tree had fallen on him.

Stunned and knocked off his feet, Leandriel was unable to dodge as jaws equipped with teeth the size of short swords closed around his torso. He felt a searing pain in his left wing, but his armour, made of a blessed titanium-mithril alloy, held against the crushing power of dragon jaws. There was a sizzling sound as the dragon’s corrosive saliva went to work on feathers and metal alike.

Grimly, Leandriel used his free right arm and thrust his sword into the only vulnerable spot he could reach: the dragon’s right nostril. The dragon roared in displeasure, and Leandriel was released to tumble to the ground. He forced himself to his feet, casting Cleanse to stop his armour from further degradation and dropping into a fighting stance.

The dragon was still roaring in pain, large amounts of blood flowing from the dense network of capillaries in its nose. A dragon with allergies and a nosebleed, Leandriel thought as he took the opportunity to cast Healing Light on himself. Fey would love it. The spell repaired most of the damage to his wing, but at least one broken bone had shifted out of place and was unable to fuse back together. It flared in pain every time Leandriel moved the limb, but it would have to do; the dragon was attacking again, angrier than ever.

Leandriel dodged as the dragon stalked towards him and swiped at him with its great claws. It appeared that the beast was now wary of allowing its head within reach of his sword. Leandriel used that knowledge to his advantage, shifting his aim of Holy Lance towards the dragon’s head. The strikes missed, or merely glanced off the dragon’s bony jaw, but they caused it to flinch and lose its offensive momentum, watching warily for the next lance of light rather than attacking continuously.

Leandriel circled around to the dragon’s side, aiming to stay in a position where it would be awkward for its forelegs to swipe at him. The dragon began to shift to face him head-on, then abruptly changed direction and spun the other way, sweeping out its massive tail. Leandriel successfully jumped over the first attack, but was unable to jump quickly enough to avoid being caught as the tail reversed its motion and crashed into his shins, knocking him onto his front.

In a feat of strength he could not accomplish in real life, Leandriel caught himself with the arm not holding his sword, then pushed off the ground hard enough to return to a standing position. By this time, the tail was hurtling forward for a third pass, and he barely managed to turn around before it struck him full in the torso, whipping him into the air in involuntary flight.

Leandriel instinctively beat his wings despite the broken bone, and managed to slow his backwards momentum enough that when he crashed into the cavern wall, no new bones were broken.

It was clear that Leandriel would have to disable the dragon’s tail before he could win the fight. He scanned the appendage for weakness, zeroing in on the extra-flexible area where tail met body.

Leandriel recalled Fey’s earlier encouragement: “Go kick that dragon’s scaly butt!” Perhaps there was some unintended wisdom in the words.

Leandriel charged. He angled his progress in a zig-zag pattern that kept the dragon’s sweeping tail attacks in view. As he ran, he cast Holy Lance completely randomly, releasing light-bolts in whichever direction his sword happened to be pointing when the skill was activated. As sometimes occurred with random attacks, he managed to pierce the dragon’s most vulnerable spot: a reddish, slit-pupiled eye.

The dragon roared and thrashed in pain, its movements becoming erratic and unpredictable. Leandriel was caught by the spasming tail, but closer to the base than the tip, the tail did not have enough speed to do more than stagger him for a few steps.

Leandriel was now within striking distance. Wasting no time, he activated every ability and buff he had to increase his attack power, reversed his grip on his sword, and plunged it down in a two-handed grip. As the blade penetrated the weak scales at the base of the dragon’s tail, he launched a skill:

“Holy Impact!”

While warriors gradually increased the range of their attacks as they increased in level, their most devastating skills still required their weapons to make physical contact with their opponent.

When Holy Impact was launched in the ground, it released a shockwave that stunned and damaged monsters within a 30-metre radius. Used directly on a monster, the shockwave was concentrated within its body, devastating it from the inside out as it reverberated back and forth. With a huge boom and burst of light, Leandriel’s attack shattered the dragon’s vertebra and paralyzed its tail. The dragon’s sheer size prevented it from dying from the attack, but it spasmed and shook, too dazed and disoriented to even roar.

The dragon was injured, but not dying. Leandriel repeated the attack, this time aiming for the joint where its left hind leg connected to its body. With another boom, he destroyed muscle and hit an artery, the leg collapsing and gouts of blood spurting out.

Leandriel jumped back from the corrosive fluid, hearing the cavern floor sizzle as the rock was eaten away. Backing up, he watched the dragon’s death throes from a safe distance.

After several minutes, the dragon collapsed with a splash as it landed in a pool of its own blood; the impact shook the cavern.

Leandriel leaned against the wall, surveying the cavern as his breathing returned to normal. Apart from the hoard of minerals, now scattered and trampled all over the ground, the most valuable loot from a dragon was its body. Its nearly-indestructible scales were priceless ingredients for armour, as strong as adamantium and with innate magic resistance. Its magical, corrosive blood, which was even now etching its own pool in the cavern floor, could be mixed into war potions that could devastate armies. Even its flesh could be eaten for permanent stat boosts in strength, magic resistance, and earth/metal affinity.

Leandriel eyed the hulk before him. Even with his belt pouch that shrank and lightened its contents by a factor of 10 000, he was doubtful of his ability to fly while carrying an entire dragon.

Oh well. His wing was broken anyway. Leandriel committed himself to a long but victorious walk to the nearest settlement.

***

(*ahem* Let it be known that it is the opinion of this narrator that the previous scene could have been amusingly improved with the addition of snarky comments, and that this opinion was put forth to the author and summarily rejected without cause. And now on to our regular programming.)

Fey was bored sitting in the carriage. Really bored. One might call it ‘dangerously bored’[i]. Unable to feel sleepy in the game, her mind was on high alert while having nothing to do. She sat slumped in a corner of the carriage, discontentedly poking Amethyst with a finger (the slime didn’t appear to mind).

…What? It appeared that the slime could improve the strength of its membrane by means other than cannibalism.

Fey was immensely cheered by the thought that she could train skills other than Immunity while cooped up in the carriage.

“Here.” Fey passed Amethyst to Blade. “Poke Amethyst for me.”

“Huh, what?” Blade confusedly accepted the slime.

“It’s for training her membrane strength.”

“Oh. Well, in that case…” Blade extended his index finger and poked Amethyst. Poking the squishy slime was actually rather fun; combined with his slight dislike for Amethyst’s tendency to cause him injury and poison, he began to poke harder and faster (*pokepokepoke*).

Amethyst was not harmed by the rougher treatment, but when she sensed that Blade was enjoying himself too much, she retaliated by secreting thornweed poison.

Fey looked up from where she was busy poking and prodding the glooms, looking for some skill to train. “If she poisoned you, just poke her harder,” she goaded, not above manipulating Blade to train her slime efficiently.

Blade snatched Amethyst up and poked her as if he wanted to punch the slime. After Fey winked at Amethyst, the slime good-naturedly tolerated the treatment. (She did, however, continue to secrete thornweed poison whenever the effect wore off.)

In this manner, both Blade and Amethyst trained their abilities. When Blade’s index finger became tired, he resorted to chopping Amethyst with the edge of his hand. The slime bounced back from each impact completely unharmed.

In the meantime, Fey had settled upon rolling the glooms up (*tumble*) in her holy-element cape to increase their elemental resistance, and had moved on to finding something for Boris to do.

“Hmm, I feel like you should learn a new skill.” Boris only had the skill Charge and the ability Rage, both relating to close-range physical combat. Fey preferred the boar have a fighting style that kept him out of harm’s way as much as possible.

“Hmm, maybe some kind of intimidation skill. Okay Boris, stare at Blade like you want to kill him.” (Too wimpy to be glared at by a miniature boar, that’s our Fey.)

Boris turned his head in the direction of the human and gave his best glare. The boar’s eyes briefly flashed red.

The Glare skill was similar to Fey’s Terrify (minus the weird screeching noise), but was limited to affecting one opponent at a time. To compensate for a small area of effect, it had stronger debuffing powers at the same level.

“Good job,” Fey praised, “Now just keep Glaring.”

Blade shivered, feeling creeped out by the flashes of demonic red eyes and being affected by the debuff. “Does he have to glare at me?”

“Who else would he glare at?”

“You.”

Fey snorted. “Boris wuvs me,” she said in a baby voice, giving the boar a hug. He snuggled briefly in Fey’s arms, then went back to practicing Glare at Blade.

In his state of discomfiture, Blade neglected to continue poking (chopping) Amethyst. The slime smacked him with her bubble to get his attention.

“Why you little-!” (Simpson’s reference). Blade chopped Amethyst as hard as he could. The slime bounced back to her regular shape with ease. After a few chops, Boris’ Glare again affected him, and Amethyst smacked him again. In this manner, the cycle of fear and anger continued until finally,

(Apparently, being a punching bag has its benefits. What doesn’t kill you really does make you stronger in Fantasia.)

Now Magic was the only pet not in training. Fey picked up the mushroom. “Well, you’re already pretty badass.” Between Spore and Drain, Magic was fairly OP. “Hmm, what to do, what to do.” Fey contemplatively bounced the mushroom up and down in her hand (he enjoyed the ride).

“I guess you could cast Spore out the window.” (Approximately 999/1000 people would advise against this course of action. No comment on who the last person is.)

Not wanting to have a horde of monsters chasing after the travel coach, Fey commanded Magic to cast only sleep and paralyze Spore. She figured that by the time the status effect wore off, the coach would be far out of the monsters’ range (this is her way of being ‘careful’).

Now Fey was the only one not in training (apparently she was now so used to being constantly poisoned that training Immunity didn’t count). She rummaged in her backpack and pulled out the extra-large flask of water. Since Amethyst was busy, she figured she could take Kallara’s suggestion (from Chapter 17) and train Enchant. The spell itself could not be improved, but Fey had a small chance of increasing her intelligence attribute with each cast, and enchanted water seemed like a good thing to have.

“Water.”

Fey’s maximum mana was now over 200 and she could do a proper iteration of the spell, but her Enchant still had a reduced effect compared to what Kallara had accomplished:

Whazzat? Fey looked up her equipment menu, which displayed her the physical and magical attack and defence of each piece of armour she wore. Next to every single piece that contained metal, a penalty to magic was displayed.

In Fantasia, it was possible to belong to multiple classes, so it was very plausible that mages could have sufficient strength to wear heavy armour. Therefore, in order to ensure that while casting magic, mages would have the correct vulnerability to physical attacks, the game designers introduced an extra property to materials not seen in the real world: magic conductivity.

Almost completely opposite to electrical conductivity, organic materials conducted magic the most efficiently, while minerals like the metals used in armour were magic insulators. Therefore, to ensure their spells had maximum attack power, mages were relegated to their silk and cotton robes. Leather, being animal hide treated with chemicals, was somewhere in between, causing neither a penalty nor bonus to magic attack.

Fey’s earlier armour had consisted of hard leather, but now she had attached metal in several places, and her leg armour was made completely of steel. Sighing, she began the tedious process of unbuckling and unsnapping all the metal pieces, leaving behind the original leather armour and the leggings she wore under the kicking blades.

“Uh, what are you doing?” asked Blade.

“Magic,” Fey answered in a put-upon voice.

Magic the mushroom looked up expectantly.

“Not you, Magic,” Fey said, patting the mushroom. He went back to casting Spore out the window.

“Ah.” (Blade understood because he had read the entire game manual like a responsible gamer.)

After divesting herself of metals, Fey cast Enchant again, despite her mana not having recovered sufficiently. She guessed that constantly overdrawing her mana would be the best way to encourage her intelligence attribute to grow.

Thus Fey’s dangerous levels of boredom led her party (well, currently Blade’s the leader, but let’s not get bogged down with technicalities) to becoming more dangerous as a whole.

Footnotes:

[i] This concept of “dangerous levels of boredom” was taken from one of the books in Michelle Sagara’s Chronicles of Elantra series.

[ii] This ability name is taken from Legendary Moonlight Sculptor, but the details are different and the Fantasia version adds no attack power to the player