"Bracing, isn't it?" Earnest asked, grinning.
The last few races had gone poorly, and now it was time for the next round of events, after some cooling off—hence the bucket. His friend was talking, but Dalliance was having trouble listening. Earnest's next event was the rope climb. His friend was very excited about it, having grown up climbing everything in reach and considering himself proficient. Truth be told, Dalliance agreed with him; climbing the rope was something his friend did on a nightly basis to get to his loft to read in peace, away from his trio of little siblings. They had that in common, the two of them: they understood the need to retreat from the world with a good book.
But the rope would be a bad fit for Dalliance. Walking along, he considered the other potential options:
Some of the bigger boys had been at the strongman events for a while already. Dalliance saw the mason’s son, Steadfastly, hefting an oblong stone the size of a landscape brick. It probably weighed as much as Whimsy. He hurled it, both hands overhead, over four body lengths, but nobody clapped. Greybeards gave grim nods of satisfaction, a man who was probably Senior Pants gesticulated about posture, and Dalliance decided that if that level of performance was expected, it would be better to stick to his strengths. He wasn't going to be heaving boulders anytime soon.
Archery, though. That could be fun.
The mists were no longer blowing in so forcefully as to make bow-work impossible; the air was nearly still now, the edges of the fog banks dissolving into thin, cold curls of vapor. He could see his breath. Evening was falling, and when it had fully fallen, they would go into the black—the newest conscripts of the village, responsible for the first deployment of the year. Usually, that meant pest control. Target practice would probably be a good idea.
He accepted a bow from an older gentleman, his hands pale from the cold and uncomfortable on the unfamiliar implement, and turned to the lists. The archery butts were perhaps a hundred feet away—not exactly a heroic shot's distance from a fairytale, but more than difficult enough for an amateur. Lined up at the stakes and ribbons were the archers: Effluvia Early, Charity Troubles . . . others, but these eyes were the ones he felt on him. Piercing, weighing? He couldn’t read Effluvia at all, and Charity’s eyes, usually alight with good humor, were serious.
Earnest waved him on, signifying his own lack of interest, whether in the activity or in the company, but clapped him on the shoulder as he went. "I’m still hungry," he said. “You can find me at the stalls!”
"What makes you think I’ll go looking?" Dalliance tried.
His friend laughed before disappearing into the milling press of people.
There wasn't a lot of room before the butts. "Excuse me, Miss Early," Dalliance said, trying to shoulder through sideways without touching the taller girl.
She turned to him and sighed. "That's just awkward. We're both awakened now . . . Call me Effie."
"Dalliance." He offered his hand like a gentleman, and she twirled him past her into the next archer’s position.
"Perhaps another time," she said with a smirk.
He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to return the expression or shuffle off with his tail between his legs, so he settled for an awkward moment of eye contact before walking to the first unoccupied spot and figuring out which side of the bow was right-side-up.
"I didn't know you could shoot," Charity said, watching him with interest.
She’d shortly know otherwise. The shape in his hand was nothing like what he was used to.
He looked down at the bow in his hands, his blanched fingers aching already. "Wouldn't say it's my go-to weapon," he acknowledged, "but if you’ll demonstrate, I’ll try not to embarrass myself." He motioned for her not to wait on his account.
Charity gave him what read to be a genuine smile, then took a deep breath and assumed what looked to be a very uncomfortable stance: one shoulder back, one shoulder that would otherwise have been forward arched back, arm out to the side, back bent. Her drawing arm wasn't quite straight as she pulled back the string, and her torso was twisted at an odd angle.
Ah, Dalliance thought, a sudden realization cutting through the awkward moment.
It's a problem of topography.
He suspected his own would allow him to shoot with much less awkwardness of posture. Hopefully.
The question arose: was she actually likely to hit something, like that? He knew with a sudden rush of excitement that he could find out. Before she'd even shot! Maybe.
"Wait a moment, please," he said.
She relaxed the bow, arrow still on the string, and looked at him quizzically. Effluvia, who'd been about to draw, relaxed her own as well, but looked displeased with him.
"I'm trying to figure something out about the way you're angling it," he said. This was a lie. What he was actually doing was trying to cast [Prediction].
He failed twice. This was becoming so draining that he was dangerously close to exhausting his Acuity before the night had even truly begun.
But the skill took hold.
"Okay," he said finally. "I'd like to try alongside you, please."
"Why are you humoring him?" asked Effie, who was still waiting. The taller girl’s lips were pursed in disapproval.
"He's fighting beside me in a few hours," Charity replied simply. "I thought if he wanted to learn . . . ."
"Oh. Good thinking. My apologies, Dalliance," Effie murmured, "That was wrong of me."
She didn’t look taken aback or remorseful, but he’d seldom had less desire to press the point, either. Plus, she’d been perfectly kind about him beating her in a foot race, that first time (It hadn’t happened twice).
He turned back to the butts, holding his own bow and keeping an eye on Charity, glancing sideways. She drew once more, and he engaged his skill: Effluvia’s manners were once again the least of his worries.
He was focused elsewhere.
He could see it now: the ghostly lines of Charity's future shots arching through the air, scattered lightly, but with the most likely ones converging in a tight, brilliant cloud right on the bullseye. She was good.
He drew the string himself and focused inward, seeing his own predictive cloud. To his dismay, it was much more evenly scattered across the hemisphere in front of him. But, as he adjusted his posture, his grip, and where his elbow went, he could see the cloud tighten, the ghostly arrows drawing closer and closer to the center as he emulated Charity's stance. The bow became heavier and heavier in his hands, muscles straining from the unfamiliar exercise. He released the string when he couldn't hold it any longer.
They both hit their bullseyes at the same time.
"You're a quick study," Charity said, her voice tinged with genuine admiration.
"That's true," Effie conceded, a sharp, competitive glint in her eyes. "However, since I can't let you beat me:"
In a single, fluid motion, she nocked, drew, and launched two arrows with one motion. One struck the top of the bullseye, the other the bottom.
The bell was struck. The winner was decided.
Third place still counts, Dalliance thought, a grim respect replacing his momentary triumph.
[A Fair Shot: You have been awarded one (1) experience point for your showing at the butts. Practice diligently to attain your potential.]
He needed more points, but his options were dwindling. He looked around the festival grounds, past the cheering crowds and food stalls. What was left? Whittling, he thought, or the frog-catching contest. The problem before him was that they were both embarrassing options. He weighed his options as he leaned over the wooden railing at the sparring pit, and watched as Earnest ducked and weaved around a grinning older man who was swinging a training dummy made of sackcloth and sand. This was the practice bout, a chance for the newly awakened to learn, in theory, how not to get hit.
He saw his friend get knocked out of the ring for the third time. A burly foreman clapped Earnest on the back. "Better luck next time, champ."
Earnest was glowing. "Won the rope climb," he bragged. "Shoulda seen Knot, poor fella fell off sideways, hit his head on a table. Think he'll be missing the Hunt."
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Dalliance winced. Sensibly was a kindly enough sort: hopefully, he'd be alright.
He wasn’t the only one, either: though the victor of the eating contest, Fallowfield was reduced to a quivering, vomitous heap afterwards, and would not be joining them, or indeed continuing to compete. The Scorn family's youngest had looked pitiful. And green.
Dalliance shied away from the whittling contest in the end. It would be boring, and with his luck, he'd cut off his thumb for real.
Not that he was satisfied with his earnings thus far: He had so few points to show for half a dozen races plus the archery.
Instead, he stood by the sparring pit, watching thoughtfully as Sterling, lacking the reach with his sword to strike a staff-fighter, snatched hold of his opponent's quarterstaff instead. Pinning it to the ground with his full body weight, he began steadily, almost casually, stabbing the man's exposed side and legs with his training sword.
"Remind me of this," Dalliance murmured to his friend, "if I ever seem to be trying to pick a fight with him."
"Yeah," Earnest agreed, his usual cheerful demeanor gone, replaced by a quiet, serious nod.
Dalliance pulled up his sheet, pleased with his showing so far despite himself.
Scamp (Wit)
Adept at minor mischiefs and clean escapes. Earn bonus experience via misdirection and petty villainy.
Allows advancement to any Wit class with prerequisites. ? Class Bonus: Wit +1
Skills & Spells
[F, Wit]
Introspection: 23%
(Acuity 1, 10m)
[F, Wit]
Prediction: 22%
(Acuity 2, 10m)
[F, Wit]
Deflection: 27%
(Composure 2, 10m)
Legend (terms & definitions)
Tiers: F → S, where F is least.
Limit: maximum unspent points held. Intake: maximum points absorbed at once.
Attributes:
Grit = fortitude of body and will to endure. Constitution = resistance to death.
Wit = quickness of thought, depth of knowledge. Acuity = ability to focus.
Might = speed and power to act. Stamina = resistance to weariness.
Charm = slyness of tongue and public perception. Composure = deliberate social control.
Agility = speed, attention, and reaction processing. Balance = facility to react quickly.
Spirit = depth of passion, wellspring of magic. Mana = fuel for skills and spells.
Skills:
Bracket tag like [F, Wit] = tier and primary attribute.
% = likelihood/efficiency of use. Parentheses = cost + duration.
Experience:
Banked XP = unspent points available for stat increases.
Tier-up = When lowest stat reaches 2, all stats -2 and tier increases (better multiplier).
Overflow XP beyond Limit is randomly allocated to stats.
Earnest's glance behind him with widening eyes was the only warning Dalliance got.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
"Son, a word."
Dalliance was guided by that heavy hand, which never left his shoulder, all the way into the blackboarded, whitewashed immensity of the colony granary, abandoned at this hour. The door closed with an echoing clangor of latch and chains, soon swallowed by the vast silence.
He was stopped and turned about.
Dalliance looked up into the silver-haired, craggy face of his father.
"You've received at least two experience points," Cadence stated. There would be no dissembling here. "You have chosen a class, and you didn't come and tell me what it was. A lot of people have tried this with their parents: we're wise to the tricks. You've chosen something you didn't want me to know about. What is it? A [Thief]? Are you a [Thief]? Tell me it isn't [Poet]."
"[Pupil]," Dalliance said. "I'm a [Pupil]."
It was the best lie Topaz could come up with. It couldn’t be retrained, being a Wit class that required you to make the academy, or else cripple your future, as the class's most desirable progression was to the various Wit classes it unlocked, all of which required secondary education. [Sage]. [Wizard]. Things of that sort. It came with one memory skill, which could be faked; you could turn mental acuity into raw mana if you became a wizard later, or you could select another skill. A gamble of a class, in a small village, and merely a [Common] class, but it would disqualify him from his father’s chosen path.
He had no such restrictions as a [Scamp], of course, but it would be a good bluff.
His father swore under his breath. "I told your mother," he said, his voice a low rumble of vindication. "I told her you would attach yourself to that Best man and his teachings, forgetting the natural affections of your heart to your father and family, to those dependent on you. She said I had mischaracterized you, but I knew I’d have trouble from you. So I put a lot of thought into this, and you’ll not be surprised to find I've come to a solution."
Dalliance’s heart sank.
"The [Pupil] class cannot be retrained," his father continued, his tone clinical. "So you will be a failed [Pupil]. You will become our [Scribe], our vendor, and you will put all of your points into Grit and Might, as you were meant to from the beginning, or else you will be a [Soldier] and make your contribution on the Wall, as a Rather should. After each of your hunts, I will beat you as if you had invested your points appropriately, whether or not you did."
I’m going to die, Dalliance realized.
“For the time being, if you don't put any points in Grit, nearly anything I do will kill you. A weird sort of defiance, hiding behind your own fragility. A twisted form of bravery, almost."
He paused, letting the analysis hang in the air. "I once asked your grandfather how he handled your mother. And what do you know . . . there is one thing I can do that doesn't risk your death."
The granary rafters creaked. Dalliance hoped for someone to come along, but no one did.
“Not that it’s often necessary,” Cadence mused. “So . . . how many points are you holding? Be honest."
Dalliance looked at him, fear turning his blood to ice. "I'm not saying. I'll . . . I'll put it somewhere else then," he managed to say, still dissembling. “Spirit. I’ll be useless.”
"No," his father said. He grabbed Dalliance by the shirt, a broad, calloused hand sealing over the boy's mouth and nose. He pulled him in, back pressed against his chest, and held him. “You won’t do that.”
Dalliance’s lungs began to burn. He hadn't been prepared, hadn't even taken a deep breath. It didn't take long for him to feel dizzy, for his throat to begin producing phlegm as he coughed and choked against the unyielding pressure. Then, his father's hand was gone for an instant—a single, desperate gasp's breadth—and then it was back.
"Invest your points," his father commanded, and shook him. “Grit.” Pain bloomed in his skull as his brain rattled. He heard a creaking noise from behind one of his eyes as a vein popped, flooding his vision with red, and still, he couldn't breathe. He thrashed and he struggled, his heels drumming on the floor. He was allowed one more ragged breath, and then the torment returned.
He relented, in the end. There was nothing for it.
He felt the difference instantly. He invested the point in Grit. His lungs didn't burn immediately. In fact, he wouldn't need to breathe for several minutes. Smart, a terrified part of his mind thought. He can actually measure it. A calculating part of his mind wanted to continue to thrash, to hide this new development. But it was too late. His father was smirking.
But he didn’t let go.
Dalliance thrashed again by the end. His father held it longer and longer before finally releasing him, throwing him to the floor. "Perhaps that's all you had," Cadence said. "So fine. That's it for today. Next time I see you, one more rank in Grit."
"I’ll spend them first," Dalliance said defiantly, the words a choked whisper.
"You may be thinking," his father said, ignoring him, "that you're going to get strong enough that I don't get to tell you what to do. That it's not going to hurt. And that's true, you might." He paused, letting the faintest glimmer of hope appear before extinguishing it completely. "Which is why, the next time you do not do what you are told for the good of the family—the family, where we all rise and fall together, where if you hurt one of us you hurt all of us, right?—your sister will pay the price for your stubborn foolishness."
She’ll never believe me that he’d do that, Dalliance thought, his mind reeling as he lay on the dusty floor. Not until I let it happen. And I couldn't do that. I could never do that.
“Folks care about their family,” Da noted. “Their blood.”
His face was scornful.
Neither of them thought the term applied here.
And Daliance’s Da left him there on the granary’s sawdust-covered floor, coughing up a lung full of mucus. Alone.