Tristan
October 18, 1786, Realm Timeline, New Castle near Blansko, The Bohemian Protectorate
"Next!" Tristan yelled.
A thin man rushed inside, trying to appear relaxed, but visibly shaking. He was dark-haired and looked like he spent half his day grooming. The buttons on his uniform were gilded, and his boots were clearly expensive.
"I prefer to use my pseudonym, if you don't mind," the man said. "Same as the class: Dorian Gray! Level zero for now. My background is well known." He paused and took a theatrical posture.
"Am I supposed to be impressed?" Tristan asked.
"He's a bleeping celebrity and a Freemason," Aldric said, pulling a carpet in front of the hearth and starting to arrange the bricks on it, in an order that appeared random to Tristan. "And he's also invulnerable, which makes him smug."
"Can he help you?" Tristan asked.
"Not that kind of mason," Dorian creased his nose. "It's a secret society that aims to control the world. Many of your nobles are also in it. Mozart's in it. That's the reason I was recruited for."
A conspirator... Tricky. And I thought the usurer was the worst of them...
"How does this gift of invulnerability of yours work?"
"I prefer to keep it a secret," the man said.
"He has a painting of himself, hidden somewhere, and the painting takes the damage instead of him," Aldric said. "If he sees the painting, the damage is returned to him, and he dies."
Fuck! Tristan gasped. Totally overpowered. "And where is this painting exactly, Dorian?"
"It's a digital photo, kept on the cloud," the man smirked, with the air of someone explaining basic things to a simpleton.
"Aldric, pinch him," Tristan asked.
"Don't you dare!" Dorian screamed when the solid man approached him, flailing his arms. "I warn you, I know Taekwan— Ouch!"
"So, you still feel pain," Tristan said. "Aldric, do we have a well?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Throw him in it and seal it. I want to see if he loses the attitude by tomorrow."
"Yes, Sir."
"Mercy!" Dorian pleaded, falling on his knees. "What attitude? I have no attitude!"
"Fine, second and last chance," Tristan said, crossing his arms. "Name, age, class, level, and background. And everything interesting about your class. At attention, by the way," he flickered his fingers upward.
"Real name: Corwin Gray, thirty. Class: Dorian Gray, level zero. I'm Irish, but my parents worked in Korea, and I grew up there. I adapted very well to their culture, so well I even was the lead vocalist in a K-pop band."
"It's a sort of singing stuff," Aldric said. "They look... never mind."
"Like what?" Tristan inquired.
"Ageless," Dorian said. "They're fifty and look twenty."
"They have a paste they put on their face and burns wrinkles," Aldric interjected. "My wife bought it all the time. It's expensive."
Dorian opened his mouth to say something, but closed it back, and took a deep breath before continuing. "When I got too old to fit in, they..." the man paused, sighing, "let me go."
"Translation: they fired him. Since then, he was obsessed with eternal youth. That's why he chose to become a Dorian Gray," Aldric said. "He told us all last night, when he was drunk."
This one likes to rat a lot, Tristan thought. Typical prison habit.
"Then, I became a teacher in elementary school. I also learned coding. I can hack, but not like a pro," Dorian said.
"What's that?"
"Hackers are criminals who can remotely take control of artificial machines," Aldric said.
Interesting...
"Anything else of interest?"
"I'm not harmed seeing the photo if it doesn't have too much damage on it, and there's a way to restore it."
"Go on."
"As long as the damage is taken by doing good, like protecting others, and in self-defense, I can discharge the stored damage back at my enemies. I need Humanity in the positive to do it."
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"You have the Humanity stats? What's the value?"
"Plus eighty."
"What?" Tristan gasped.
"I did a lot of charitable work. Concerts for orphans, stuff."
He has it so high, and I'm a nice guy, and he's an arsehole... This is outrageous...
"All somebody needs to do is lock him up and throw the key," Aldric said, grabbing Dorian by the arm. "May I still throw him in the well, just for fun? He's a prick. He stole my cigarettes!"
"I'll buy you two packs instead. I'm sorry. Please!" Dorian kneaded his hands. "I'm really useful. Think about it, my lord. I can be your health bank. You need blood, you could just take mine, and—"
"That's an interesting suggestion," Tristan nodded, raising his hand to stop the stonemage. "For now, you must raise your physical stats and pain tolerance. And learn useful skills, of course. Do you know how to ride a horse?"
"Sorry. No."
"We'll start with that. Your uniform, it's bespoke, right?"
"The best tailor in Brno made it."
"So... you have a bespoke uniform, while I am dressed in rags?" Which is because I spent most of last week fighting...Not that Eliza showed any acknowledgment of my feats of valor.
Dorian seemed to get the hint and started to undress. "It's all yours, Sir."
"Fine. Leave it on the... that chair," Tristan pointed to a piece of furniture that looked less dirty. I'll have to take a bath first. "Now, Dorian. I want you to go to the closest village and buy food. We need provisions, right?"
"Yeah, we have only some chocolate left," Aldric said, returning to his previous task with the chimney.
"Well, go to the closest village and bring enough food for a week. Take one of the Tatar horses. They're gaited. Tell Isolde I said so. Ask Max for money."
"Err..."
"Don't worry, it'll be Oh, kay. You just sit on the horse, and it'll do most of the job. Dismissed!"
Dorian saluted and rushed out. If the man felt embarrassed being in his boxers and a sleeveless shirt, Tristan didn't care. The army wasn't for the faint of heart. Feeling in control, the boss, was a good feeling. He could get used to that. I'll show that ugly bitch... Sorry, mistress... You're not reading my mind, are you? I'll show Eliza how well I can do at her cursed task. I'll make these misfits into warriors.
"Looks like we're finished," Tristan said, going to the door, looking outside.
"Sorry, Sir, Legolas and I haven't reported yet," a slightly plump man with brown skin and very dark hair yelled. In a display of common sense, he had taken cover under the eaves. "Emilios Panaiotis, from Greece, thirty. Cook both by trade and class, level ten."
"Level ten so fast?"
"I cooked a lot in the short time since I got the System. Invested everything in Dexterity and Speed, and it helped. Pseudonym: Captain Cook. Because I used to cook on private yachts."
"It means he was hired by very rich people," Aldric said in a muffled voice, his body half into the chimney, evidently trying not to get stuck. Then, there was a burst of Mana, and the chimney got larger where he was, molding around his shape. "So that's how Santa does it! Sorry, boss, don't mind me."
"Emilios, I think I already like you," Tristan said. "I've sent Dorian for provisions—"
"You want me to go too?" the man asked, a shiver passing through his body.
"Of course not. I'm appointing you my third-in-command. Find the kitchen, or set one up, see what we need, and if Dorian doesn't bring it, we'll send him back."
"Yes, Sir, yes!" the cook saluted, shouting louder, as the rain had become stronger.
"And that Lego Lass, where is he?" Tristan asked.
"Hahaha..." Both Emilios and the mason burst into laughter.
"What's so funny?"
"Lego Lass fits him perfectly, sir," the cook continued to giggle. "May I go set the kitchen?"
"Dismissed," Tristan said, and the Greek darted away to one of the annexes that had a long chimney.
"So... Where's the bleeping Lego Lass?" Tristan asked, looking around.
"I'm here," a deep baritonal voice said.
There was a tall yew in the courtyard, and a shape emerged beside it. A man almost seven feet tall, wrapped in a long dark brown-reddish cloak, the same color as the tree's bark. He had a giant wooden bow in his hand and a quiver on his back. Advancing to the middle of the space, he took off his hood with a short gesture.
"Whoa!" Tristan yelped, taking a step back and tripping on the step behind, his derrière hitting the floor hard. The man had the palest skin he had ever seen, and bulbous green eyes shining with an eerie inner light. Hanging around his cheeks, his long hair looked slick and had a filthy whitish color that Tristan couldn't describe in words. The man's most striking features, though, were his shapes. He was square. His temples were square, his prominent jaw as well; his shoulders had right angles; his chest was flat as a board; his fingers were the same length and lacked any roundness. Tristan's hand was twitching, yearning to make the cross sign.
"Even Vampires are disgusted with me," the man said under his breath, lowering his head in sadness. His teeth were sharp and pointy and spaced far apart, all of them. "I'm Cedric Beville, Scottish, eighteen years old. Elf as a species, Druid as a class, level zero. I came here with my parents. They died."
"Sorry," Tristan said, and Cedric frowned. Maybe he's happy they died... He looks spooky... Did he kill them? Eeeew.... "I mean, go on, soldier."
"Please assign me to the most dangerous duty. I'm willing to die for the team."
"C'mon, tell the boss the whole story." Aldric appeared from the chimney, his face, hands, and uniform full of soot. "He was a Scout."
"In what army?"
"Not that kind of scout. Our scouts are kids who enjoy camping in the forest. Survivalists. He likes fantasy, was offered the species evolution, and thought he'd get rid of his pimples and get a girl—he's a virgin," the man whispered apart.
"I can hear you, and I want to die," Cedric said in a monotonous voice.
"But this was the result," the stonemage gestured at the tall boy. "Need a hand, boss?"
"You c-chose Elf willingly?" Tristan stuttered, rising up with Aldric's help. "Are you insane? Elves are what nightmares are made of. Their legends begin where horror stories end. They eat children, they poison wells, they're the sworn enemies of humankind. Vampires are teddy bears compared to them."
"It's not the same on Earth," Cedric whispered. "Please, just kill me."
"He's some sort of Protestant cultist," Aldric said. "He won't commit suicide by himself."
Maybe if I convince him to come to the Catholic faith, the curse will be lifted... "If you search to die, it's as bad as suicide; you'll burn in hell," Tristan said. "I promise I'll try to find a cure for your... err... condition. What can your class do?"
"Hunting, foraging, making medicine and poisons, cursing and lifting curses, speaking with the trees," the boy said. "I can't use anything with iron in it, or I get rashes. My arrowheads are made of plastic. They suck. Life sucks."
Aldric shrugged. "Color me unimpressed. Just the average teenager. Trust me, it's just a phase."
Cedric's eyes started shining brighter, and Tristan had a suspicion that the Druid was about to curse Aldric. "Can you find dead but dry wood, perchance?" he asked in a hurry.
"Easily," the elf said. "I can't cut wood with iron tools, but I can make a dead tree break into smaller parts using spells."
"We don't have any firewood," the stonemage said. "That could be useful."
Tristan jumped at the occasion. "Then everyone has their task. Dismissed."