Mage Tank

This was a moment that we had put a lot of thought into, and no small portion of Riona’s lessons were focused on how to greet a royal. As the king walked into the Closet, all Hiwardians present dropped to one knee, heads bowed to the ground. No matter their individual rank or station, each Hiwardian showed the king the highest level of deference.

As for the non-Hiwardians, there were options, but those options still revolved around relative social standing. Obviously, the king had the highest social influence by a wide margin. The theatrics of introductions weren’t a popularity contest, however, but a signaling behavior.

Did you regard the King of Hiward to be above yourself in station? If so, by how much? Does that match what you want to communicate to the king? What do you want to convey to your own people? Are there any individuals around you’re snippy with? Maybe you’d like to subtly challenge them by suggesting your station relative to the king was higher than their own. How would that decision interact with how you greeted your other guests?

An entire conversation was held in the few seconds it took to bow, salute, hold a moment of silence, or whatever else was culturally relevant for your nationality. The Xor’Drel tribe wasn’t very exact in how they approached these matters when interacting with First Layer residents. If I’d really wanted to show the king some Third Layer-style respect, I’d have constructed an elaborate ritual circle, hunted the most powerful manifestation I could wrangle down on my own, and then used its flesh to empower a state of shared lucid dreaming. That way my respect could be felt on a tangible, sensory level. You’d even be able to taste it!

We’d decided against that. First, I wasn’t in charge of the tribe, so that would have been a bit too much. However, beyond knowing that I wasn’t the Xor’Drel head of state, my position in the tribe was a bit nebulous. I had no official titles or responsibilities. I’d hardly spent much time there at all. I was just an ordinary, everyday citizen, albeit one who’d begun to generate some level of international fame through careful application of my various superpowers.

Realizing that, Varrin and Riona had argued that there was an obvious answer. Kneeling was right out because I didn’t owe fealty to the king, but a low bow would be appropriate, to signal that–as an ordinary citizen–my station was significantly below a king.

HOWEVER!

Grotto made that more complicated with his whole presentation to the servants, where I became ‘Master’ Xor’Drel, the esteemed owner of some fine, independent territories. Zura doubled down on that complexity when she’d shown willingness to support me if I were to claim that I was leading some sort of micro-state, headquartered in the Closet.

If I wanted to let everyone in the Hiwardian nobility know that I was setting myself up to lead a fledgling nation, then a shallow bow would be more appropriate, especially since we were on the very lands that I would be claiming. If I were to bow any lower, it would directly conflict with that claim, and reestablishing myself at a higher station would become an uphill battle. The shallow bow had a high risk of offending just about everyone who was here to visit, but it was a power play with the highest potential reward, as well.

It wasn’t that I froze up. The king was setting one foot into the Closet, and then we were suddenly pumpin’ paws right there in front of everyone. I had to assume it was some sort of movement technique, but there was no storm of wind or thunderclap like I was used to experiencing when Delvers went at supersonic speeds. It also hadn’t been a teleport spell, since my Magical Thinker ability didn’t trigger.

I smiled and went with it, desperately searching my memory banks for what the hell a handshake signified in this situation. Images of countless worksheets flitted by in my head, but none of them had shit to say about handshakes. It wasn’t an official greeting of any kind.

The king’s opening salvo was forced neutrality!

He’d taken the expectation of posturing and eliminated it in one fell swoop. There was no chance for a misunderstanding, no opportunity to establish any relative roles between us. It was friendly in that it excused me from inadvertently presenting an overly submissive stance, while simultaneously being aggressive in that it gave me no opportunity to put up a strong front.

The king clapped me on the shoulder, then let the handshake drop. It had gone on for precisely one-good-handshake’s length of time. It didn’t overstay its welcome, but it was sturdy enough to create some familiarity. The man’s smile widened and he straightened up.

“Master Xor’Drel!” he said cheerily. “It’s wonderful to meet you, really, especially on such short notice.”

The Hiwardians around us were still kneeling, and I caught Varrin looking up, slightly confused. The nonverbal signal to stop kneeling hadn’t happened, since I hadn’t officially paid my respects to the king.

“It’s an honor to have you here, King Celeritia,” I said. “If I couldn’t make time for the King of Hiward, who could I make time for?”

“Still,” he said, “I know you and your party are busy as a Chovali fruit hall, so I appreciate it.” He looked around at everyone still kneeling. “Please rise,” he said, then leaned in toward me and added under his breath, “Hope your floors are clean. If somebody ends up with a dusty knee, the entire nobility will know about it in under 48 hours.”

“I’ve seen no less than a dozen brooms in the last day,” I said.

“Then you’re probably in good shape.” King Celeritia turned and looked at the crowd of waiting nobles outside the Checkpoint portal, then eyed a trio of servants standing nearby.

“We’ve prepared some refreshments in the parlor,” I said. “If you’d like to settle in while everyone else is announced.”

“You know, refreshments sound good,” he said. “But if I went off without giving another round of attention to everyone who’s about to walk through that portal, it might come off as rude.” He made the slightest grimace. “Of course, if my generous host were to have some time-sensitive business we needed to discuss, I could be forgiven for being led away.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” I said. “I believe there are some very time-sensitive matters… in the lounge.”

The king’s smile widened, and one of the servants was already rushing away to reorganize the hospitality troops according to the king’s whims. Another bowed and gestured in the direction of the lounge, while a third walked ahead, guiding the way and opening doors.

Varrin’s expression was unreadable as he watched us leave, but Riona looked stressed. She met my eyes as I followed after the king, expressing her deep wish that I behave myself while away from adult supervision. I returned her look, conveying that I was an adult and that the king seemed like a chill enough dude so try not to worry so much. She squinted in a ‘please be serious about this’ kind of way, and I pursed my lips to let her know I’d use my best judgment, but if the situation called for being serious, I would be super duper serious. The absolute serious-est. ᚱаŊỌβĚṢ

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The king and I made it to the lounge at a casual stride, and by the time we arrived, tea was already being poured. It was a bit early for harder drinks, but the bar was set with tasteful displays of nuts and cheeses.

A squad of the King's Guard shadowed us, but a subtle gesture from the king left them taking up positions outside of the lounge. The servant ensured we had everything we needed, then excused herself.

“This is nice,” said the king, turning to take in the decor.

After a quick spin, he sat down on the couch, then reached up and took off his crown, setting it on the cushion beside himself. He tousled his hair a bit, then picked up a bowl of dried fruit and sat back with it in his lap.

I took a seat in an armchair across from him, ignoring the snacks since I hated having messy fingers. Overall, I wasn’t a big finger-foods kind of guy, to be honest. Not unless I had a good wet wipe on me. I’d see if I could get a moist towelette the next time a servant swung by.

“So,” said the king. “Is it true that you killed a Grade Four c’thon with your bare hands at Level Zero?”

“I stabbed it first,” I said. “And if mana-shaping a touch-based spell to fire in a line counts as bare-handed, then yes.”

“Okay, clear this up for me,” he said, scooching forward. “Was the name of the c’thon Ihbriobrixilas, or Ihxiobrixilas?”

I paused, thinking over both names.

“Huh,” I said. “You know, the System called it Ihbrio, but my summon Shog always called it Ihxio. Maybe it’s a translation thing?”

“Maybe you killed two c’thons and just forgot,” Celeritia said with a grin, then popped a fruit into his mouth. “Or maybe your summon got confused.”

“Shog is a c’thon, so I would be inclined to use his preferred spelling.”

“Did they know each other?”

“Ihxiobrixilas ate one of Shog’s brothers. That's why he agreed to become my summon.”

“Are you sure he’s crediting you for killing the right c’thon?” asked the king.

“As in, I actually killed Ihbriobrixilas, but Shog’s brother was killed by a different c’thon named Ihxiobrixilas? Both c’thons died at near the same time, and Shog misattributed me with the kill due to the phonetic similarity?”

“Yeah,” said the king. “Or maybe changing ‘Ihbrio’ to ‘Ihxio’ is some sort of c’thonic insult.”

“Like turning Tucker into Fucker?”

“Exactly,” he said, shaking a fruit at me. “You know what else they say?”

“About Tucker? I didn’t know the guy very well.” The king snorted.

“About how you killed that c’thon.”

“I didn’t know anyone was saying anything about it.”

“Oh, it’s all over the place.”

“Really?”

“There’s a song.”

“No.”

“Yes,” the king said, nodding insistently. “It claims that you did a triple-backflip before killing the thing.”

“I’ve never done a triple backflip in my life,” I said, then considered some of the times I’d been launched after a giant monster gave me a good wallop. “Not intentionally, anyway.”

“Ah, well,” the king said. “Reality seldom lives up to the legend.”

“Hopefully it’s not too disappointing for you.”

“No, no,” he said. “You may not be a c’thon-slaying martial arts prodigy with a penchant for acrobatics, but you do have an entire mansion in a dimensional space, which I think is more interesting.”

“Is it really that unusual?” I asked.

He put the bowl of fruit back onto the coffee table and sat back. He looked thoughtful as he produced a napkin from nowhere and wiped off his hands. If I wasn’t mistaken, the napkin was damp. I added that to the list of easy-bake items to add to my own inventory. It’s not like the napkin would ever dry out. I could have a cloth of appropriate dampness whenever I so chose.

“I think it is,” said the king. “For Level 12, having this much control over a pocket realm is somewhat extraordinary, I’d say. I wouldn’t blink an eye if you had this at Level 30, though. Things get really strange at the higher end.”

“I’m sure they do.”

The king folded his napkin neatly and placed it down on the table.

“Was that an appropriate amount of small talk?” he asked. I failed to suppress a chuckle.

“You’re the king,” I said. “I think the appropriate amount is however much you say it is.”

“I think it was, then.” He let his hands fall onto his thighs with a light clap. “First, let me say that I appreciate what you and your party have done. System Phases? Dungeons? Labyrinths? Raids? That is a lot of new territory for Delvers to cover. A lot of opportunities.” He pointed at me. “But you five also kicked the hells out of a duck’s nest.”

“I– Why would someone kick a duck’s nest?”

“No idea,” said Celeritia. “They’re horrible creatures. We lost a lot of good people rooting them out of the southeastern part of the island.”

“That’s where the Duckgriens have their thundry?” He nodded. “Are they connected to ducks, somehow?”

Celeritia gave a wistful sigh. “Do you know much about the origin of Hiwardian surnames?”

“I know the Ravvenblaqs adopted their call sign from the Foundation War,” I said. “Not much else.”

“Correct. Black Raven isn’t just a moody and ‘creative’ title. We all had birds of some kind to indicate a specific group, and a color to indicate individual roles. Duckgrien, Green Duck. They were the most aggressive group–that’s why they got Duck–while Patriarch Bobret and Matriarch Cerra were damage-focused, which was green.

“Of course, the meanings of each bird and color were always changing,” he continued. “So different houses may have different interpretations of what their name translates to. We’d swap it around to keep the Littans guessing, and each cell had its own sub-codes. Slaves weren’t given surnames, the call signs were how people in the resistance had come to refer to one another, and they decided it made enough sense to keep.”

“How come Celeritia breaks that trend?”

“Privileges of being the king,” he said with an acerbic smile. “When the houses forced the crown onto my head, they decided the king should have a distinctive surname, to set me apart. My nickname during the war was ‘God-Step’, and my build is Speed focused, which led them to ‘Celeritia’.”

“Oh,” I said. I tried to word my next statement carefully. “Godstep is pretty good, I think.”

“I argued for it, but they insisted ‘God-Step’ should only apply to myself,” he said. “Can you guess who came up with Celeritia?”

“Would it be someone from a family that’s well known for its long history of naming? The experts at striking balance between creativity and tradition?”

“You’re practically quoting Ealdric right now,” he said, shaking his head. “But yes, it was the Ravvenblaq Patriarch. I think he scared everyone else into voting for it.”

“This is a fascinating bit of lore, here,” I said. “Aside from Duckgrien and Ravvenblaq, there’s Heronwyte, Bluewren, and… Thrushmahogany. Is mahogany really a color, though?”

“They’re a strange family,” said Celeritia, by way of explanation. “Nice enough, though. It’s the Heronwytes you have to watch out for.”

“Are they bad-tempered?”

“Yes, but that’s not what I mean. You need to watch out for them, as in you, specifically. Your party as well. They are distressed that Hiward no longer controls access to Creation Delves.”

“Ah. How do you feel about that, your highness?”

“Well, I haven’t signed any of the petitions the Heronwytes have submitted. Several of them call for extradition, followed by execution.”

“I suddenly feel like my life is in danger.”

Celeritia leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and giving me a long, appraising look.

“If it feels sudden, then you’re much too relaxed,” he said. “From the moment the whole world saw your party’s names in their notifications, all of your lives have been in danger. Hells kid, you just stood up and took a piss on the entire game board for every nation in the world. From now on, I don’t know that there will ever be a time when your lives won’t be in danger.”

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