Anyone who’d been a longstanding denizen had probably seen many dark lords come and go, and knew to hide while things sorted themselves out. Normally a group of adventurers would come to fix the problem, but what could these people do when the adventurers were the problem?
“How are we going to find Bert’s trail?” Kit directed the question to Nutpuncher, but when she turned there was no sign of her companion. She spun and frantically scanned the crowd.
There he was!
The gnome spoke to a pair of children in ragged clothing…street urchin NPCs huddled under a porch. Kit hurried over to join him, but by the time she arrived the children were gone and the gnome stood alone.
“I found him.” Nutpuncher smiled happily up at her. He seemed much less phased by the carnage, though at least he’d been appalled enough to leave with her. “Bert passed by here on a cart with a big two-headed dog. The dog poops on the regular so we should have no problem locating the trail, and following it. They went west, toward the Moist Mountains.”
“How did you learn all that so quickly?” Kit could only blink down at her companion. Monks didn’t have any special powers or skills that she knew of, not that would allow them to investigate.
“I used a gather information check.” The gnome shrugged as if it were no big deal, but his faint smile said he enjoyed the attention. “I maxed it out, because it’s a wisdom based skill. There’s also a feat that makes a check instant. I can canvas a crowd by just walking up to the first person I see. Kind of nice. Cuts out all the idle chitchat.”
The idle chitchat Kit knew as roleplay.
“Excellent work.” Kit quickened her step, and headed for the bridge leading out of town. Even the customs ratlings were gone, and a steady stream of villagers, merchants, and even skeletal guards were fleeing the city.
Kit waited her turn, then pressed into the rear of the crowd and worked her way across the stone bridge.
“Did I mention,” Nutpuncher called idly, his deep voice just barely audible over the din of the panicked crowd, “that Bert was chasing a flaming sky rock? Apparently some sort of magical artifact fell in the middle of Keeble Forest and he’s gone to locate it.”
“You didn’t.” Kit tried not to be cross with him. Nutpuncher never treated problems with urgency, and she should be grateful he’d told her at all. “That means he’s gone to the high elves. They should be easy to locate, if we can get them to focus for thirty seconds.”
“I’ve never met high elves.” Nutpuncher pushed aside his hair and peered up at her. “Don’t you have family there?”
“Yes.” Kit folded her mouth into a tight line and refused to say more. She’d written Kit’s background before she’d understood exactly who and what the high elves were.
Having read a lot of Tolkien she’d been enamored with them…with his version of them. This world’s version? Not quite in the same league. But since she hadn’t known, she’d selected high elf as her human form. Ah, well.
The crowd finally thinned on the other side of the bridge as screaming villagers bolted down the road in both directions. One led toward Paradise, and the other up to the Moist Mountains. How unpleasant. Of course they had to go that way.
No one bothered them as they took the right fork, and by the time they’d gone a few hundred meters she could barely make out the panicked cries behind them.
“I feel bad.” Nutpuncher glanced behind them and sighed, then turned back to the trail. “We’re a part of that. We brought White there. You know I can’t remember anything about the real world, but…I gotta wonder why we keep playing with White.”
“I don’t know.” Kit bit her lip, and forced herself not to look back. She focused on the mountains ahead of them, which were wreathed in mist that obscured the pass they’d need to cross to reach the forest beyond. “I do know that it isn’t fun. When we first started playing it was about adventure and immersion. It was about solving problems and righting wrongs. We killed dark lords. We didn’t take their places.”
“I guess we all play for different reasons.” The gnome scuffed the dirt with one sandal, which made him resemble a toddler, and made the deep voice all the more incongruous. “I like to win…in fights I mean. I like to be strong. At first I didn’t really care what we were fighting. I just cared how tough it was, and if I could beat it.”
“You’re a min-maxer.” Kit shrugged as there was no heat to the accusation. “I think most gamers start out that way. The best ones go on to be game masters.”
“You think so?” The gnome perked up, and quickened his step as they marched along the trail.
“I do.” Kit leaned on her staff, and began to enjoy the walk. “Most game masters are either really good at telling stories, or really good at understanding rules. The narrative GMs are at the mercy of players like White. The rules GMs can hold their own, but can’t seem to tell a good story, and usually need to rely on modules. The best GMs, in my opinion, can tell their own stories, but still understand how all the rules work. You’ll be like that if you ever get interested in telling your own stories.”
They lapsed into silence and the gnome seemed to consider her words. That pleased her. It showed that people could change and grow over time. Maybe even White could change, though thus far she hadn’t seen a single indication that such a thing might be possible.
Hours passed as they climbed up into the
