Bones trotted over to Keldric, tiny sword held high. "We did it, Mr. Hero! The power of teamwork and well-timed dramatic entrances prevailed! Just like in 'The Unflinching Justice Brigade and the Conundrum of the Cranky Cyclops'!"
He looked around the clearing, which now resembled the aftermath of a particularly aggressive arts and crafts fair that had been attacked by a small, localised weather system. "Wow! That was a lot more bandits than I counted initially. Did they call reinforcements halfway through?"
Keldric sighed. Time for the cold, hard, fourth-wall-leaning truth. "Bones," Keldric stated, adopting a tone of weary resignation usually reserved for explaining internet memes to his grandma. "Look, the reality is, the Author, the one supposedly scripting this whole adventure? Clearly has no idea how to write a fight scene involving more than two people. They probably got halfway through, realised the bandit count made no sense with our group size, panicked about choreography, and just thought, 'Stuff it, more cannon fodder equals more drama, logic be damned!' It's a classic sign of an amateur storyteller getting out of their depth."
Bones tilted his skull, eye sockets somehow widening. "The Author! A powerful, unseen entity who controls the flow of battle and the number of our foes, even overriding logic itself! Is this Author a benevolent guide trying to test us with escalating, albeit poorly managed, threats? Or a chaotic trickster deity who finds amusement in our numerical confusion?! We must learn more of this Author's ways, Mr. Hero!"
Keldric just patted Bones vaguely on the skull. "Right. Sure, Bones. Let's... let's do that." He made a mental note to never, ever try to explain narrative theory to a cartoon skeleton again. "So. The… uh… gang."
"Ah, yes!" Bones perked up, mission recalled. "Mr. Hero, allow me to properly present my amazing siblings! My heroic support team!"
He gestured dramatically with his tiny sword. "This is Chad, Master of Gains, Motivator of Muscles, and Devourer of Protein!"
Chad finished a set of one-armed push-ups and bounded over. He offered Keldric a protein bar that glowed with a faint, slightly alarming green light. "Gotta refuel after that... uh... strategic posing, bro! You were a great, if slightly light, warm-up weight! We need to get you on a proper bulking cycle!"
Is that… skeleton whey protein? Hard pass. My current stats probably can't even digest normal food, let alone gym supplements from a skeleton.
Bones pointed towards Specs, who was attempting to catalogue the various types of displaced foliage. "And this is Specs, Purveyor of Pedantic Pronouncements and Knower of Many, Many things...!"
Specs adjusted his glasses, looking up from a particularly interesting fern. "Actually, 'pedantic' implies an excessive focus on minor, often irrelevant, details, whereas my pronouncements are meticulously accurate and contextually vital for a comprehensive understanding of—"
"Right!" Bones cut in smoothly, already moving on. He gestured to Linkin, who was now trying to tune his guitar to the precise frequency of existential ennui. "And this is Linkin, Bard of Broken Hearts, Black Eyeliner, and Bearer of Burdensome Ballads!"
Linkin strummed a single, profoundly melancholic chord that seemed to make the nearby flowers wilt slightly. "Existence is a fleeting shadow," he intoned, not looking up. "But the acoustics in this forest aren't half bad. For a dirge. Or a lament about the transient nature of banditry."
"And last, but certainly not least," Bones flourished, "the resplendent, the remarkable, the runway-ready Strut! With her indispensable aides, the amazing Snap and the sensational Serve! And of course, the darling Fifi!"
Strut, who had been instructing Serve on the optimal way to drape a piece of moss for a "post-conflict chic" backdrop, struck a pose. Fifi, her tiny skeletal poodle, yipped approvingly from under her arm. "An absolute pleasure, darling," Strut trilled, her voice like wind chimes in a very expensive graveyard. "Though, your current ensemble? A tragedy. We must schedule a consultation. A full diagnostic. Perhaps a colour palette overhaul."
Snap's camera flashed, capturing Keldric's slightly stunned expression. Serve presented him with a tiny, silk-lined card. It had 'StrutLyfe@ScrollNet - For All Your Fabulous Transformations' embossed in glittering silver.
At ScrollNet? Is that like... fantasy email?! Keldric's mind reeled for a second. Wait, if they have email, does that mean they have some kind of... magical internet? Oh gods, please let there be fantasy Wi-Fi! The thought of cat videos on demand, even magically delivered ones, was almost too much to hope for.
Keldric managed a weak smile. "Right. Good to... officially meet the... squad. You guys certainly made an entrance."
"Of course, Hero!" Bones chirped. "That's what heroes do! Now, onward! To the grand Castle Town of Brightcrest, in the noble Kingdom of Pedronis! For quests, glory, and perhaps a hero's welcome! And maybe some snacks!"
The journey to Brightcrest was… an experience. Chad, with his usual boundless energy, insisted on "tactical travel lunges" to "maximise lower body conditioning during transit." Keldric, remembering his Constitution (CON) score of five, tried to explain that his current 'stats' are low, but Chad just enthusiastically demonstrated how to use a rucksack (Keldric's rucksack, given by Chad, which was now feeling considerably heavier after Chad "optimised its load distribution") for "added resistance."
Specs, meanwhile, produced what he claimed was an "ancient and meticulously charted map of the Pedronis heartlands." It bore a striking resemblance to a pizza delivery menu with some extra, cryptic squiggles drawn on it in something Keldric really hoped wasn't actual blood. He kept trying to "optimise their trajectory based on prevailing leyline harmonics and migratory bird patterns."
Keldric watched him consult the "map" then point confidently towards a patch of suspiciously green, bubbling mud.
"Specs," Keldric interjected, his [Isekai Intuition] practically screaming at him, "my finely honed genre senses are telling me that 'shortcut' is a classic 'Bog of Eternal Stench' setup. Probably comes complete with giant leeches that sing off-key sea shanties. Or worse, a moral dilemma."
Specs peered at the indicated path over the rim of his glasses. "Nonsense! 'The Grand Cartographical Compendium of Eldritch Excursions, Volume Three, Appendix Beta' clearly indicates a 78.4% probability of encountering a serendipitous cache of forgotten lore or, at the very least, a remarkably well-preserved example of pre-Cataclysmic cobblestone. The cartographic integrity of 'Luigi's Discount Pizza and Portal Emporium' takeaway menus is often underestimated."
Chad squinted at Specs. "Lore? Is that, like, a new type of core exercise? Sounds intense, bro! I'm down to get some lore gains!"
Keldric just sighed and rubbed his temples.
Linkin provided the soundtrack to their questionable navigation choices. A series of laments, and one surprisingly catchy tune about the existential angst of a misplaced sock that got stuck in Keldric's head for an unfortunate length of time. He kept trying to find the "tragic beauty" in things like dead leaves and oddly shaped rocks. "Behold," he'd sighed, pointing at a particularly gnarled tree stump, "a monument to decay's relentless artistry. It speaks to the soul, does it not? Of the inevitable return to nothingness..." Keldric just wanted it to speak to him about the nearest inn with a decent bed.
While the others walked, Strut did not. She was reclining gracefully upon a manifested, velvet-lined chaise lounge, carried like a palanquin by the comically straining Snap and Serve. Fifi, her tiny skeletal poodle, snoozed on a silk cushion at her feet, already wearing a tiny, jewel-encrusted sun-hat.
"Darlings, do try to be smoother," Strut complained, adjusting her sunglasses. "This bumpiness is an absolute affront to my posture. And the quality of this peasant air is simply wreaking havoc on my aura."
Finally. Through the trees. Towers. Walls. Actual, honest-to-goodness civilisation.
The gates of Brightcrest loomed. Tall, clean, white stone gleaming in the afternoon sun. Banners displaying a golden sun on a green field flapped merrily. It looked… nice. Hopeful even.
Okay, Brightcrest. Classic starting hub. Probably the standard setup. Adventurer's Guild. Overpriced inns. Quest board full of low-level fetch quests. Keldric's mind raced, ticking off the expected tropes. And, of course, the infamous 'capture the noblewoman's runaway cat' mission. The one that sounds like a D-Rank joke. Yeah, I see you, Tora.
As they neared the gate, a wave of relief washed over Keldric. They had made it.
"Alright, gang!" Bones chirped, puffing out his tiny ribcage heroically. "First things first, we must find the Guild Hall to register our party and seek out citizens in need of aid!"
"Correction," Specs interjected immediately, adjusting his glasses. "The primary logistical priority is the municipal library. I must acquire local historical texts to verify my cartographical assumptions and cross-reference regional folklore against my database of known mythological fallacies."
"I gotta find the local iron temple! The gym!" Chad declared, flexing both arms. "See what kind of gains these locals are making! Scope out the competition!"
"I suppose I'll find a tavern," Linkin murmured, not looking at anyone. "The darker the corner, the better. Misery loves company. And cheap ale often has a surprisingly complex character."
"Darlings, please," Strut sighed dramatically from her mobile throne, fanning herself with a skeletal hand. "Your priorities are so dreadfully... pedestrian. The first stop is obviously the high-end boutique district. This forest air has been simply brutal on my non-existent pores, and I must acquire a new seasonal wrap."
Just as Keldric was about to suggest maybe just finding an inn to sleep for a week straight, their chaotic debate was cut short. Standing before the gate, apparently having just arrived themselves, were three other adventurers. They turned as Keldric's group approached, their leader moving to block the path with an air of superiority. They were swaggering with the kind of polished confidence that only comes from being well-equipped and well-regarded.
The leader, a tall fellow with an annoyingly smug face and perfectly coiffed hair, caught sight of Keldric's eclectic entourage and stopped, an eyebrow arching in disdain. His insignia, a golden crow on a dark field, was prominent. The Gilded Crows.
"Well, well," the leader drawled, his voice dripping with condescension. He looked them over, a sneer forming. "The name's Lysander Thorne, of the Gilded Crows. Though I doubt you've heard of us. We handle the actual threats to this kingdom. Tell me, did the local crypt spring a leak and decide to hire a human tour guide?"
One of his companions, a hulking brute of a man with a massive, dented hammer slung over his shoulder, stepped forward and introduced himself with a grunt. "Grak Maulhand." He pointed a thick finger at Chad. "You call that muscle, little bone? My gauntlet is bigger than your arm."
The third, a wiry man with shifty eyes and too many knives tucked into his belt, flashed a mocking grin. "Corvin Quickstrike," he said, his gaze lingering on Strut's chaise lounge and Linkin's artfully ripped hoodie. "Quite the travelling circus you've got here. Is there a cover charge, or is the tragedy of your fashion sense the main event?"
Keldric sighed internally. Annnnd there it is. The 'Arrogant Rival Party Blocking the Entrance/Casting Aspersions' trope. Textbook. Lysander, Grak, and Corvin. So their names are as stereotypical as their attitudes. And their guild, 'The Gilded Crows,' sounds generic as well.
Bones, ever the optimist, stepped forward. "Salutations, fellow seekers of adventure! We are heroes on a grand quest for justice!" He even managed a tiny, heroic pose. Lysander Thorne just scoffed. "Save it, pipsqueak."
Before anyone else could speak, Grak took another heavy step toward Chad. "You want to be strong? Go home and drink some milk."
Chad, however, just beamed, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Milk? Bro, milk is for post-workout recovery, and your stance tells me you haven't had a proper workout in your life!" He pointed. "Look at that form! Your shoulders are rolled forward, your core is completely disengaged, and your lat spread is practically non-existent! Zero intimidation factor! You need to work on your scapular retraction!"
Grak just blinked, his brain clearly trying and failing to process words like 'scapular'. "I... I will crush you!" he finally managed.
"I could spot you!" Chad offered, completely missing the threat. "We could start with some basic compound lifts! Build that posterior chain!"
As Grak stared in utter confusion, Specs adjusted his glasses, turning his academic scorn towards Lysander. "Actually, your group's derogatory opening statements align with predictable 'Rival Party Superiority Complex', designated Trope 12-C in the 'Compendium of Narrative Clichés', typically indicative of—" "I will crush you BOTH!" Grak interrupted, gesturing vaguely between Chad and the still-lecturing Specs.
"The emptiness of their boasts," Linkin interjected, strumming a chord that sounded like a dying cat, "echoes the hollowness within their souls. A cacophony of arrogance, a soundtrack to eventual downfall." Corvin sneered at him. "Save the poetry for the tavern bards, sad sack."
Strut, from her chaise lounge, finally gasped, hand flying to her forehead in perfectly choreographed horror. "Darling," she said, pointing a dramatic finger at Lysander's belt. "That… that buckle! It's an absolute atrocity! It's at least two seasons out of date! And is that... standard-issue leather polish? Tragic. Utterly tragic! Snap, darling, get a close-up of this fashion faux pas for my 'What Not to Slay In' segment! The public must be warned!"
Lysander Thorne's smirk completely vanished, his eyes darting down to his own belt buckle for a fraction of a second. He flinched. Confronted by the sheer, multi-pronged assault of weirdness, he quickly recovered his composure, his face flushing with anger. "Save your breath, freaks! Brightcrest has enough oddities without your... performance art. The Gilded Crows handle the real work around here. Try not to get in the way."
With a final, disdainful look, Lysander Thorne and his Gilded Crows pushed past Keldric's group, swaggering through the gates into Brightcrest with a haste that betrayed their feigned confidence.
Keldric watched them go. Fists clenched. Not in anger, exactly. More like… terminal exasperation with a side of grim determination.
The Gilded Crows, huh? Real work? We'll see about that. First order of business in Brightcrest: find the Guild Hall. Second order: show these 'Crows' what a real protagonist can do. Even one with a disastrous support cast.
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