Fell Champions

The swamp was grey, muddy, and choked with weedy-looking trees. The kind of trees so scrawny, starved of light, and twisted, Otter half-expected them to start telling her that she wasn’t a ‘real’ gamer while staring at her tits. There were bugs but thankfully no mosquitos. At least, nothing she recognized as a mosquito. 

 

None of the bugs looked familiar to her. The trees also weren’t of any type she recognized either, not that she was a … horticulturist? Or was it an agroforester? She’d read a term on it once, and promptly forgot it. Kind of like how she usually forgot to call her hookups back. 

 

Any attempt to have a casual conversation with the Mean Pretty Lady was met with silence. Still, Otter chattered on about anything that came to mind, from complaining about her crappy spawn point to wondering how the game mechanics worked to commenting on a particularly blue flower she saw.

 

“Hey, what’s your name?” she blurted.

 

“Finally. It’s Rua.” 

 

“Rua? Huh. I like that. It’s pretty, like your eyes.”

 

Rua whirled about, her expression a snarl of anger, and then immediately deflated. “What did you say?”

 

“Your name is pretty?”

 

“No, the other part.”

 

“Oh, that your eyes are pretty?”

 

Rua had gone still, like something inside of her had short-circuited or crashed. Maybe it had. This had been the most flawless performance from an NPC that Otter had ever seen, she was bound to have some bugs. But then, her cheeks turned pink. And then, after another beat, went fully red before Rua turned away and began stomping through the mud at a quicker pace than before.

“Ignorant Wayfarer,” she muttered, trailing off with what could only be a string of obscenities. “Do you recognize my name at all?”

 

“No. Should I?”

 

“You’re trapped here, you know. This is Asheborn’s marsh.”

 

Otter couldn’t help it. She leaned forward and flicked Rua in the back of the head, who whirled to face her, a little surprised and outraged.

 

“Deflection,” Otter said. “We’ll circle back to the marsh in a second. Why should I recognize your name?”

 

Rua went back to walking, pointedly ignoring the question.

 

“Oh, you’re gonna be one of those ‘when I ask questions I expect them to be answered, but when people ask basic facts about me, I’m gonna be quiet’ types, aren’t you? That’s cool. I can talk enough for the both of us.”

 

“I’ve noticed.”

 

“It’s fine, I can make up your backstory for you. Are you a witch? Some scary spellcaster, exiled away from civilization because you like to eat children? Feared throughout the islands because of your predilection of casting curses on your enemies via flicking them on the nose? Which, by the way, is very rude.”

 

“So I’ve been told.”

 

“Oh, so it’s not just me that gets the special treatment. Thank god.”

 

“Don’t say that word.” Her tone wasn’t angry. It was flat, but subdued. As if she were afraid.

 

“What? Thanks? Or, oh wait, the ‘g’ word? This a religious thing? I mean, I get it, because fuck ‘em, right?” She felt a little awkward. Otter didn’t like hearing that kind of emotion out of people. “So, Asheborn’s marsh? What was that about not being able to leave?”

 

“It’s territorial.”

 

“What is? Is Asheborne a thing? Like, an alive thing?”

 

“It’s a force. But yes, it is alive. It doesn’t like people being in its marsh.”

 

“So why do you get a pass?”

 

“Because I live in the Ebb, out of its sight.”

 

“And in its sight is the Flow, right?”

 

“So you’re not completely ignorant.”

 

“Wait, really? The zones are called the Ebb and the Flow? Fucking hell, Holt, get some originality.”

 

Rua gave her a funny look at that. “We stay in the Ebb, where the Dreamer’s power is weak, and we are fine. We move into the Flow, and we’re setting out fates to the wind. We’re here, by the way.”

 

“Here where?” 

 

Otter looked around, casting her gaze about, and saw in the distance, nestled between two trees, a small cottage. It had that look that could only be called ‘quaint’, with a thatched roof, walls made from logs, and a general homey atmosphere. 

 

Rua shifted her poncho, and pulled a hatchet that had been secured to her belt. “Time for you to get to work.”

 

“But–”

 

“No whingeing.” 

 

“Whingeing? Is that like whining? I don’t whinge.”

 

“You’re whingeing right now.”

 

She pouted, and snatched the hatchet from Rua’s hand. She didn’t bother to ask where the wood pile was. She’d figure it out. 

 

She found it by a small shack outside the cabin. The land around it was surprisingly sturdy, and not at all the gross mud that had been freezing her tootsies like no one’s business, which made her confront a new reality. 

 

She needed shoes. Badly.  She suspected any actual damage to her feet from the cold was being mitigated by her Tenacity stat, but how long would that last?

 

Would Rua have a spare pair? Would she even give them, if asked? Probably not. Otter sensed that line of goodwill was already being stretched a little thin. 

 

No, better to ingratiate herself to the Mean Pretty Lady by being the best wood chopper Rua had ever seen. She’d done this kind of thing a time or two in the past, while camping. Well, rather, she’d watched other people do it. But how hard could it be? All you had to do was whack a standing log with an axe.

 

To say Otter disliked physical labour would be underselling it. She had long since cultivated a hatred against physical effort, with only two exceptions; the gym, so she could stare at other hot women working out while she was preventing her own body from breaking down under the stress of one too many bowls of mac and cheese, and what she did with some of those hot women when she was done. There was a reason why she'd been a professional streamer, beyond the fact that she was good at it. And that she enjoyed drinking the salty tears of squeakers in Gallant Stand II. And that it paid really well, even without sinking to the level of hot tub streams. 

 

No, ‘dislike’ did not even begin to cover it. ‘Hate’ barely scratched the surface. No, as she chopped furiously into one log to the next, her shoulders and back aching from labour and poor technique, what she had was execratement for physical effort. She infini-loathed work. 

 

Why did Ingram Holt have to actually program sore muscles into his stupid video game? As soon as she logged into her Spasm account to stream, she was going to fully review this. Zero stars. Do not recommend, do not buy. No nerd would ever put up with this. 

 

But… dammit. She was incognito, under a new name. She couldn’t just log into her old Spasm account and start streaming and hope to maintain any anonymity. 

 

But she could make a new one. She opened her game menu, and after flipping through a few semi-transparent pages hovering in front of her, she managed to get to her streamer settings. It let her pull up the site, and thank Buddha no one had stolen the username ‘GrandTheftOtter’ yet. Bad enough she was going to be using a new handle, it’d be humiliating if she had to add a bunch of numbers to the end of it, or worse, do what Nightmare had done and add 'WasTaken.'

 

She was tempted to start a stream, but the odds of anyone watching it were abysmal. Because of the way the time dilation worked, the only way someone would be able to watch it was if they’d already been logged in and watching when she started. Eh, she’d figure it out later.

 

She was about to get back to chopping, when a red indicator blinked at her in her menu under a heading named ‘Messages.’ She tabbed over, and stopped when she saw who it was from.

 

Sediment.

 

Not as bad as Sami, but damn near enough. 

 

Still, there was no bad blood between her and Everett. He was the chillest person she’d ever met. He’d been hurt after the mess with Sami, but he’d also understood, without understanding why. 

 

He didn’t know it was her. Couldn’t. Unless Il-Su had sussed her out and then ratted. No, he wouldn’t have done that. He was even less on speaking terms with Sami and Everett than she was.

 

Taking a deep breath, Otter held her hand out, palm down in front of her. Nothing. No tremors. Good. She accepted the request. 

 

A window popped up, and it wasn’t Sediment staring back at her. At least, not the Everett she knew. Not even a glammed up version of him. No, what was staring back at her was a dragon. Shining black scales, brilliant purple eyes, and a grin that didn’t belong on something that reptilian.

 

“Hey,” the dragon person said. He even waved a hand at her that would’ve been human if not for the, well, scales. And claws tipping each finger.

 

“Sediment?” she asked.

 

“That’s me. And you’re the mystery girl.”

 

“Am I?”

 

“No one’s heard of you, and I just watched your Spasm profile get made in real time. So, yeah, you’re the mystery girl.”

 

She gave an innocent shrug. “Too much drama out there. Wanted a clean slate.”

 

A normal person might’ve been suspicious, but Sediment just shrugged, “True enough. Where’d you spawn?”

 

Should she lie? Nah, no point in burning that bridge. Sediment was a good guy.

 

“Silayan Islands, you?”

 

“Salass Wastes. We figured there’d be good loot here.”

 

“‘We?’”

 

“I’m with Sami. Or, I would be, if she’d spawned anywhere near me. We’re trying to find one another, but not much luck. Was hoping you were out here and could maybe point me out, but go figure, right?”

 

Which just confirmed to Otter that while Sediment was a great guy, he was clearly still not that bright. She almost asked if they were still together, but held back. Not many people knew the details about that whole situation, and an outsider like ‘GrandTheftOtter’ certainly wouldn’t know a thing about it. 

 

“So, you looking to clan?” she asked. “I have skills. I bet I could take you.”

 

Sediment gave a genuine laugh. “That upfront about it, huh? I’ll have to ask Sami, but right now, no idea if we’re doing anything like that, especially with newbies. I like your spunk, though.”

 

It wasn’t condescension, so much as just casual confidence. Sediment had been known as one of the better tanks in Gallant Stand II. Just too bad ‘one of the better tanks’ didn’t equate to actually being able to beat ‘the best mage.’ 

 

“Better luck next time then?”

 

“Better luck next time, little Otter,” he said, and the call ended. 

 

Which thank goodness for that. Sediment was a lot of things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. If he’d recognized her, he wouldn’t have been able to hide it. 

 

She closed her menu, then looked down at the pile, her shoulders feeling a little better than they had a few minutes ago, but still not great. She was about to start chopping again when she noticed Rua, now cleaned up and not sporting all that mud, was approaching.

 

Hot damn, Rua had been pretty before, but she cleaned up nice.

 

“Here to check me out while I work?” Otter asked, giving a quick wiggle of her ass.

 

“More like watch you massacre my wood stores. Food’s almost ready, come inside and clean up.”

“I’m getting fed? I mean, thank you. Wait. Did you cook?”

 

“Yep,” Rua said, looking faintly amused.

 

“And you’d need firewood for that.” She vaguely gestured at the chunks of wood she’d conquered.

 

Rua’s smile brightened even further. “Yep.”

 

“And you already started.”

 

“Yep!”

 

“You made me chop wood for an hour for no reason, didn’t you?”

 

“Not ‘no reason,’” she said in a mocking consoling tone. “For my own amusement. And look, you even learned how not to chop wood in the future.”

 

Otter snorted. “If there’s one thing you need to know about me, it’s that I never learn.”

 

“You think I’m keeping you around long enough to find out? I’m just fattening you up to sate the Cuttings, and then make a run for it while they’re busy taking bites out of your fat ass.”

 

Oh, so Rua had noticed her ass. She made a note of that. 

 

“Come on,” Rua said. “My cooking’s not great, but it’s better than nothing.”