Stumbling Up: A Loser's Guide to Progression - Chapter 3: Ducking and Dodging

The mallard was the size of a goose. Green, shimmering head feathers surrounded two beady, red, glowing eyes. Its bright yellow bill opened, revealing a line of serrated teeth.

Richard mentally shrieked, ducking behind my neck. A lot of good, he's going to be in a fight.

The bogquacker took a deep inhale. Instinctively, I thrust the pan between us, as the air rippled in front of the duck as it unleashed a [Quack Attack]. Au gratin went flying, as the sonic boom ricocheted off the pan, reflecting most of the attack back at the duck. It took all my strength to keep the pan steady as it shook violently.

The attack stopped suddenly with an abrupt cough. I wasn’t sure if the spell rebounding or a stray chunk of potato caused the bogquacker to pause. Either way, it wasn’t going to last long. I had to act.

Lowering my shield, I got a good view of the monster. The demonic duck elongated its neck, letting loose a distressed honk. Something was violently ejected from its throat, flying through the air. The duck’s head shook as its red eyes focused on me.

The bogquacker grinned, showing gruesome serrated teeth. It inhaled, preparing to unleash another [Quack Attack]. I knew what to do.

Stepping forward, I locked my leg as I kicked. The laces of my boot hit the feathered menace squarely in the chest. The air whooshed out of its lungs with an oof. The follow-through of my kick punted the bogquacker into the night.

A shower of downy fluff filled the air as the surprised bogquacker rocketed through the air. Glowing red eyes wide, I watched as the duck smacked into a tree. Some birds weren’t meant to fly.

[Bogquacker defeated. You have earned experience. Further details and rewards will be aggregated and awarded upon [Trial Dungeon] completion.]

The system was a cheap, reward-hoarding weasel. I needed the loot to survive the [Trial Dungeon]. Mother-ducker.

I took a breath, trying to invoke my mundane meditation skills, which I no longer possessed. System be damned.

Richard was shaking, glued to the back of my neck. He’d scrunched up as small as possible. I shivered, an ooze of fear-induced slime dripping down my back.

"Hey buddy, it's alright." This was awkward. Bogquackers were no joke, but most in Woodsten had dealt with one of the feathered grumps in their lifetime. I put down the now perfectly clean pan. Even some of the years-old baked-on crud had been cleaned off. Mentally, I made a note to think about a bogquacker-based cleaning service.

I'm sure it looked ridiculous when Marta poked her head out the back door. I had one arm over my back and another under, trying to reach Richard, who, beyond logic, was glued to the one part of my back I couldn't quite reach. As I twisted to get a better angle, I saw the door quietly shut. It was the middle of the dinner rush. I understood the practicality of letting quivering slugs lie.

"Richard! The duck is gone. You're fine." Nothing got through to the creature, and my twisting and turning only made it worse. So I did the only thing left to me: I went back to work.

Scrap, dip, scrub, rinse, dry, and repeat. Over and over, the monotony soothed my frayed nerves in ways only provided by my meditation skills.

Leo teased me for being jumpy our entire childhood. I had never wanted to follow him into the woods on his many attempts to pick up a [Class]. The wilderness along the frontier was a dangerous place. Bogquackers are the least of the worries. Growing up, my parents had told endless stories of their struggle to secure their farmstead.

Eventually, the warm yellow glow of Richard's cleaning magic reached out and enveloped a particularly gooey plate in my hands.

"Back among the living?" I asked, trying to keep my voice nonchalant. I didn’t want to scare him back into hiding. My slug was sensitive.

Richard didn't answer, so I kept going. I could tell he'd started to unwind his body, adopting a more relaxed position. His magic continued to reach out and assist. The station grew darker as time passed, and the ebb and flow of the evening traffic changed from dinner plates to tiny sticky dessert plates. Ale mugs gave way to tea cups.

I reached for the next dish, only to find the stack empty.

Marta stood, her stern arms crossed, her eyes narrowed in appraisal.

"Are we really done?" I'd lost track of time. Had it already been eight hours?

"Aye lad, we're done for the night. I'll take care of the compost. You did well." She hesitated. Her voice softened, "I heard a rumor. I'm thinking this is your last day here?"

My throat closed up as I nodded. Marta ran a strict kitchen, and most thought her a cold Easterner, but she cared about us. She cared about me. I'd belonged here.

"Well, do yourself proud. You're always welcome back," she gave me a sad little smile. We both knew I wasn't coming back. One way or another, this was it. Before either of us broke, she saved us both. "Only you could get a pan this clean." Marta held up a shiny, new-looking mid-sized cast iron pan. My bogquacker shield.

We laughed, and she handed me my last week's wages as we shook hands.

My back to the Ram’s Horn, slug on my shoulder, I hesitated before walking away. I waited as Marta swung the back door open one last time. For a moment, I heard the familiar clanks and shouts of the kitchen staff. Marta started calling out the end-of-night orders to the closers. Then the door swung shut, cutting Marta off with a finality I felt in my heart.

Someday you'll return.

As unlikely as his words were, I smiled. It was a nice sentiment.

Woodsten was a fairly robust [Outpost] built on wool, lumber, and trade. It sported a minor trade route that led to one of the larger mountain passes. As such, it had a few taverns and shops. I'd recommend one tavern, The Ram’s Horn, over all the others. Its kitchen was well run, and the food was tasty, no matter what the food critics say.

To be classified as an [Outpost], Woodsten sported a half-finished palisade and an Adventurer’s Guild hall. We also had Team Abs, the local band of [Adventurers], and a well-run militia. The town held almost a thousand souls and thus had a decent residential footprint.

I lived in one of the old boarding houses. The building dated back to the origin of the town, and was as drafty as a person might suspect. It was cheap enough that both Leo and I could afford our own rooms. Ours sat across the hall from each other, unlike Tandy, who lived above her family's wool store.

This is why I was so surprised to find Tandy, not Leo, sitting cross-legged, leaning against my door, napping. She rarely visited our humble quarters.

Her well-groomed auburn braids were back, not the chaotic mess she'd had in my last memory. A green wool cloak wrapped protectively around her slouched form.

I reached down to wake her and was stung by a hornet. My yelp of surprise woke her up.

"Took you long enough," she muttered sleepily as I looked for a stinger in my hand. A whole swath of my fingers was reddening with a line of blisters.

"Be careful, do you see the hornet that got me?"

"Sorry, that was me. I haven't attuned the cloak to recognize you as a friend yet," she punctuated her explanation with a yawn.

I backed away, realizing my mistake. Tandy was far and away the smartest of our trio. She'd been the darling of her family, a [Sage] potential genius who wove with skill and magic. She stretched and stood, reaching down to pull up a heavy backpack.

Tandy ran her fingers down the lining of her cloak, finding a stitched-in fabric tab with a sewn-in activation rune. She frowned as she gripped the tab with the tips of her fingers.

"It's not going to work, remember, we're not [Mundane] anymore." The words came out more bitter than I’d intended.

Tandy stepped aside, frowning, as I edged towards the door lock, key in hand. Her magical cloaks could be keyed to specific owners who controlled the cloak’s magic through an activation rune.

Tandy’s skillset allowed her to [Override Ownership], a rare skill in polite company that could reset garment ownership keys even in the absence of the original owner. While she’d undoubtedly made the magic cloak, and was thus immune to its defensive properties, she probably wasn’t keyed as an owner. It looked brand new, and Tandy’s grandmother wouldn’t have willingly let something that expensive out of her shop.

"Well, I dyed this one with nettle and kept the sting, so be careful."

I nodded, carefully keeping distance from her as I unlocked the door with a click. The pain from the sting was already subsiding, but I wasn't going to get near her anytime soon. Nettle-infused garments were used as chastity belts and low-grade [Adventurer] gear. It wouldn't cause lasting physical damage, but the sharp pain would make anyone hesitate.

I ducked my head into my room, taking a quick glance in. It looked like the same pig sty I’d left this morning. I closed the door, turning to face Tandy.

"Uh, why don't we meet up after I have a moment to change?" I still wore my damp, stained apron from work. I avoided her gaze by plucking an errant bogquacker feather from my sleeve.

"Oh please, it can't be that bad," she moved forward, causing me to jump back for fear of the nettle. The door swung wide, revealing all of my sins. My bed was covered in dirty laundry, underwear on full display. The room was small, holding two tables covered in crusty dishes and bits of junk I'd pulled out of the trash. A lone, ratty towel with moth holes hung next to a shelf containing my three books. Everything was lit in soft light from the cheap glow moss I’d carefully kept alive.

Tandy and I had never been in the same socio-economic class. Leo and I often wondered why she’d chosen us as friends. We both tried hard over the years to keep her in the dark on how different our lives were.

I didn't want my friends to take pity on me. Leo knew, but he was only a hair better off than I. He was only paid more because he was willing to take more dangerous jobs.

Face burning, I slid past her, just barely avoiding a sting. Quickly, I threw a blanket over the laundry and collected the dishes, quickly putting them in a bin under my desk. The treasures I'd pulled out of the trash stayed, most of which I hadn't fixed or figured out exactly how they worked, but I would someday. My hands slowed. Or maybe I wouldn’t.

I turned back to Tandy, embarrassment forgotten, "My memory is fuzzy, but is this your fault or Leo's?"

"Does it matter? Whoever's fault it is, this is our reality." She said it in the matter-of-fact way I'd always appreciated. Unlike the other girls in town, I never had to guess where I stood with Tandy.

"It was Leo, wasn't it?"

"Of course. Who else?” Tandy sounded as tired as I felt. “He's always the one getting us in trouble. Do you even own a backpack?" She looked at my hopeless mess with an air of judgment. "We're going to need to get out of here before monsters attack the town." Ever practical, she was already trying to take the next step.

I like this one.

I mentally waved Richard's comment away.

"I do, it's just under the bed. Richard, can you sit on the table?" I extended my arm, making a ramp for the mollusk. "This is Richard, by the way. He's my newly bonded animal companion."

Richard obliged, gliding slowly to take his place. His tentacle waved at Tandy. She raised her eyebrows in a classic expression that meant a slug, really?

I nodded guiltily, as though Richard had been a choice. As though I'd contemplated a dire wolf and chosen the slug life.

"We've already been attacked." I shoved an arm under the bed, reaching for my pack. "A bogquacker came at us while I was working at the dish station. Found it!" I pulled the pack out, holding it up triumphantly.

Tandy leaned against my desk, lightly petting Richard. One look at my pack, and she covered her mouth. I could tell by the creases around her eyes that she was laughing at me.

"What'd I do?"

Richard sent me a mental image of cobwebs in my eyebrows and my old, crusty, stained pack in hand.

Tandy grinned, "I couldn’t replicate your style if I tried.” Her voice softened, “You know, if we die in the trial, that could be the last backpack you’ll ever own.”

Before I could think of a reply, the city bells broke our revelry, chiming in a disharmonious alarm.

Woodsten was under attack.