Non-Player Character (Doors of the Dreamer, Chapter 11)
Trust is a two-way street
Author’s note: For the month of July I am challenging myself to write and post one chapter a day every two days with minimal planning and outlining. You can read the first chapter of Doors of the Dreamer here.
David limped out of the tent and was greeted with a sight that momentarily distracted him from the issue at hand. The vagabonds were dancing. Men and women of various ages circled a pyre of stacked logs with an impressive flame roaring within, which struck him as strange, given this world’s constant pseudo-daylight and lukewarm temperature. Performers sang and played stringed and percussive instruments. It was a wild and eclectic song that had the dancers laughing and singing along.
David spotted the shaman woman standing off to the side, smiling at Lance. He felt his phone vibrate in his hand and hurried over to them. He held out the screen so Lance could see it.
“Don’t answer,” Lance said immediately, a shadow passing over his face.
“He could be in trouble.”
“I don’t know who Oliver is, but calls to—and presumably from—our world don’t work.”
“He plays Doors of the Dreamer. He could be here, on this side.”
“That doesn’t explain it either. Calls and texts don’t work here, period. Whoever or whatever is calling you is not Oliver.”
The vibrating stopped. David checked his call history, but the last entry was weeks old.
“When something like this happens, I need you to trust my judgment. Otherwise, we’re going to have a repeat of the dullahan situation,” Lance said.
“I’m sorry about the dullahan, that’s on me. But trust is a two-way street.”
Lance took a sip from the wooden mug he was holding.
“Alcohol?”
“Probably.”
As if on cue, a girl, no older than ten, ran up to David and handed him a mug.
“Uh, thanks.” David smiled.
The girl smiled back, then darted away without saying anything. David took a cautious sip of the amber-colored liquid. It was not as flavorless as the potions, but it was close. It had a bitterness to it that suggested it was alcoholic, despite its watery taste.
“How are you feeling?” Lance asked.
David noticed that the shaman had slipped away at some point. “Fine. Good, even. Do you know what she did to me?”
“Not specifically. Something with herbs. In the game, you could get some pretty useful buffs from vagabond healers.”
“Not for free, I imagine. Though, I haven’t seen any kind of currency here.”
“Don’t worry about that, I took care of it.”
His tone made David curious, but also discouraged further questioning.
“What’s your plan?” he asked instead.
“Why do you assume I have a plan?”
“Come on, you always have a plan.”
Lance smiled slightly. “I have two plans. One if you decide to come with me, and one if you don’t.”
“It’s not like I have a choice.”
“Of course you do.” Lance watched the dancers twirl and laugh. “I know I’m not the best at communication, but you were right about me needing you. Taking on a raid with two people is already treacherous—solo would be nothing short of insanity. But you have to make the decision. If you don’t think you can work with me, I can’t force you.”
“Quite the guilt trip,” David said with a chuckle.
“How so?”
“You really think I would abandon you to walk into a raid by yourself?”
The music stopped and the vagabonds clapped and cheered. Lance was quiet.
“I happen to pride myself on being able to get along with just about anyone,” David continued. “I’m going with you, but I have one condition.”
“Which is?”
David weighed his words. “Full transparency. If you want me to do something, explain it. If something scares you, tell me why. If something bothers you, speak up.”
“I told you I’m bad at communication.”
“Is being bad at something a reason to stop trying? I realized earlier that I know basically nothing about you.”
“Okay. What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with something simple, like… your name.”
“Lance.”
David shot him a look. “Your full name.”
“Lancelot Kingsley.”
“Good—Wait, your name is Lancelot?”
Lance nodded almost sheepishly. “Nobody calls me that.”
David burst into laughter. “That’s so cool, though! Why wouldn’t you want to be called Lancelot?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“Is one of your parents a history nerd or something?”
“My father loves mythology. Legendary tales of heroics, and all that. I never enjoyed that kind of thing personally.”
The music started up again with a song even more energetic than the last.
“Are you an only child?” David asked.
“I have a brother.”
“Let me guess, his name is… Beowulf? Roland?”
“Percy.”
David blinked.
“As in Percival.” Lance said.
“I love it. Is your dad’s name Arthur or something?”
“No. Bob.”
He spat out his drink. “You’re kidding. This is a bit, right?”
“No. Oh, we also had a dog named Excalibur.”
David doubled over, howling with laughter.
“Sorry,” he said eventually, catching his breath, “I’m just imagining you saying ‘Good boy, Excalibur!’”
He started laughing again.
Lance smirked. “He was a good boy, but we called him Cal.”
The shaman appeared beside Lance again, touching his arm. “Dance?” she asked.
Lance drained the rest of his drink. “The plan is to lay low for a few days and take advantage of the lack of monsters near the camp,” he said to David. “Enjoy the peace while it lasts. We’ll talk dungeons tomorrow.”
Then the shaman woman pulled him away, and they joined the crowd around the pyre. David, sipping his drink, noticed that the vagabonds’ camp was set up in a park he had been to a few times as a kid. Homesickness crept up on him. He watched the dancing for a while, amused by how awkward Lance looked. At some point, the shaman pulled him away and they ducked into a tent. David felt like he had seen enough, and returned to his own.
When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of the manticore’s black eye fixed on him and the sound of the dullahan laughing.
He awoke a few hours later. His head was pounding, though he had not even felt a buzz drinking the vagabonds’ booze last night. He stepped outside. The camp was quiet. David sat on the dead grass and looked up at the black disc. He had never seen it move from its high noon position.
“Can you help me?”
The voice startled him. A girl—he recognized her as the one who had brought him the mug last night—was peeking at him from behind his tent.
“What do you need help with?”
She came around the tent. She had olive skin and long dark hair and was slightly taller than his sitting height.
“I dropped something and can’t get it back.”
“Where?”
She grabbed his hand and started walking. David clambered to his feet and let her guide him.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“I am the chieftain’s daughter.”
He wondered if vagabonds did not have names.
“Does he know you’re leaving the camp?”
“It’s okay. You’ll protect me from the monsters, right?”
David smiled. “Of course.”
He didn’t know how far the girl was taking him, or how big the “safe zone” around vagabond camps was. He decided to equip a weapon just in case. The dullahan had destroyed his staff, but thankfully he had a lower level backup.
They ended up walking to a parking lot maybe 500 feet from the camp. The further they got, the more David felt like he had been infected by Lance’s paranoia. He was scanning the area nonstop and his heart beat a little faster every time he thought he saw something move. When the girl stopped, he noticed how sweaty he had become.
The chieftain’s daughter pointed to a storm drain at their feet. David knelt down and peered between the bars.
“I see a white stone, is that what you lost?”
She nodded. David considered how he was going to get the thing out. If he had a fire spell of some kind, he could melt through the grate, but he was a cleric, not a wizard. Perhaps smite would have a similar effect. He thought about it and realized divine lights might be a better idea, as it offered more precision. But he had never tried to cut through metal with either spell, and he was left scratching his head. He scrolled through his inventory looking for something he could use as a lever to push the cover off. He found himself wondering what Lance would do in this situation, and that made him pause.
An image of the knight killing a huntsman with one punch came to him, and he realized he was overthinking it.
“Blessing of strength.”
David motioned for the girl to stand back and gripped the bars. Bracing his legs, he lifted with all of his might. The grate did not budge. He tried again. After straining for a few more seconds, it gave. It was even heavier than he expected. Grunting, he tossed it aside and it hit the pavement with a deafening clang. He glanced around, making sure he hadn’t attracted any unwanted attention, then climbed the ladder into the storm drain. There was a thin layer of dark water at the bottom, even though he was pretty sure it never rained here. David picked up the stone—more of a crystal, now that he looked at it—which was the size of a quarter. He brushed it off on his shirt and climbed back up.
He handed it to the girl, who took it and smiled. Then she handed it back.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” David asked.
She nodded. “I’m giving it to you.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll take good care of it, then.”
They hurried back to the camp.