You lie in bed, eyes screwed shut, breathing deep, as your mother wishes you good night. The door closes. Your lids flick open. Anticipation tingles in your core, scratching at the base of your spine and pit of your stomach. Your limbs twitch and tense under the blanket. But you stay still, holding your eagerness in check. It's like wrestling a calf at the harvest festival. Raindrops patter on the window. They splat and slither across glass, disappearing into the lattice of lead. The world drowns behind little diamond panes. One. Two. Three... Counting droplets isn't much of a distraction. Your storybook beckons from across the room. It nestles in the gathering gloom, tantalising you with knights and dragons, wizards and wonders. You tear your gaze away. There are better adventures waiting tonight, and you won't lose them because a lit candle betrayed you. One hundred and thirty-seven. One-hundred and thirty-eight... The sky darkens. Iron grey deepens into black. Two thousand, six hundred and forty-nine. Two thousand six hundred and fifty... The moons rise up, monsters emerging from the sea. Both are big and bright tonight. Yaltir's green glow turns the rain to emeralds. Kelnach adds a scattering of sapphires. The window's a treasure chest, gems glistening in the darkness. Three thousand, four hundred and... The numbers float away. It must be dark enough, late enough. Mustn't it? You slide out of bed, wincing when the wood creaks, and tiptoe to the door. You press your ear against it. Is that the sound of snoring, faint in the downpour's din, or wishful imagination? You can't wait forever. Even adventurers sleep, and take their tales to bed. If you're late... You bite the edge of your tongue. Pain scatters phantoms of empty taprooms, dying hearth fires, and disappointment. It might be years before another one passes through your village. You have to go. Now. You pull your breeches and jerkin on. Tug boots onto your feet. You glance at the gem-encrusted window, then at the door to the hallway. Are your parents asleep? Could you creep past their bedroom door without a floorboard groaning and waking them? [[Leave by the door.]] [[Leave by the window.]]The window grates and grinds in its casement, like old bones. Vibrations tremble along your jaw and forearms. Cold, bracing air whips water into your face, bathing you in riches. You clamber through and drop into the garden. "Fuck!" A voice howls through the rain. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" You dive for the nearest bushes. Twigs scratch your cheeks. One almost gouges your eye. You bite back a yelp. A hulking shape hops in a globe of lantern light. Sapphires and emeralds glisten on broad shoulders. "Fucking dog!" Your father tries to steady himself on one boot whilst bringing the lantern closer to its upturned twin. His bulk shifts and shakes, almost toppling him into the dirt. He blinks at the lump of shit mashed onto the sole. "Fucking dog!" He snorts, wipes his nose on his sleeve, and plods to the front door. You wait until it closes behind him. "Good boy," you murmur. Tomorrow, you'll find the neighbour's hound a bone. You jog down the dark, winding lane. Rain seeps into your clothes but you barely notice their chill weight. Up ahead, fire and candlelight spill through half-shuttered windows and spread golden pools. You push the tavern's door open. Step into the noise, the warmth, and the smell of roast pork. There he is. Sat by the hearth, with a hunk of meat in one hand and a tankard in the other. Dressed in fur, studded leather, and thick muscles. The traveller. The guest of honour. The adventurer. Villagers sit or stand around him, listening to his tales. His stories of dismembered foes and slaughtered monsters. You squeeze between them, eager for a good spot. "...so I cleaved him in half and shagged..." His gaze falls on you. A big grin splits the greasy shine of his beard. "Who brought the kid?" he says. "There're tales of debauchery going on!" "Oi!" Lucas, the barkeep, says. "Does your dad know you're here?" "No." You stare into his eyes. You won't lose face in front of the stranger! "I snuck out!" "Ha!" The adventurer takes a big bite of meat. Slivers fly from his lips as he speaks. "A rogue after my own heart! Tell you what, boy... You keep down a swig of this ale, and we'll let you stay." He holds out his tankard. Murky, half-smothered memories float through your brain. Familiar nausea catches at the back of your throat. The liquor stings your eyes and wrinkles your nose. Voices bombarded you from all sides. "Drink!" "Hurry up! I want to hear the rest of that fucking story!" "Drink or piss off back home!" You grab the tankard with both hands and pull it to your lips. Harsh, thick, briny liquid swamps your tongue and teeth. The burn... That terrible, familiar burn rips through your mouth. It's even worse than you remember... [[Spit it out.->Spit it out 6.]] [[Swallow it.->Swallow it 3.]]Rain dances on the roof, hiding the hinges' squeal. You ease your bedroom door closed behind you. Shutters blind the hall window and flood the passage with blackness. But your feet know their path. You step around the damaged floorboard, avoid brushing against the small round table and its vase of purple poppies. The flowers' briny scent tickles your nostrils. Past your parents' bedroom. Around the corner. You reach for the knob... ...and yelp when the front door flies open. Rain and multi-coloured light spill into the hallway and splash your brow. "Huh?" Your father blinks down at you, face shimmering in the lantern's glow. Moon-painted droplets glitter on his big shoulders, decorating his rough jerkin with blue and green sequins. But his nose is a red lump. Crimson lines crawl across narrowing eyes. "Fuck do you think you're doing?" "I..." "Sneaking off, you little bastard?" The lantern rattles. His free hand lashes out. You crash against the wall, face stinging, jaw bursting. Liquid sloshes over your tongue, sharp and salty. Red eyes glare. You stand on wobbling legs. You won't show weakness. When you show weakness, he hits you harder. Blood's filling your mouth. Can't show weakness... [[Spit it out.->Spit it out 1.]] [[Don't spit.]]*"Stand back! Give us some room!"* "Snivelling little twat!" His hand clamps on your shoulder. Fingers bore into muscle and bone. He swings you around, bashing you against the wall. Then his boot smashes into your arse. You fly down the passage. He grunts as you sprawl on hands and knees. "Fuck off to bed, or I'll give you another!" You clamber to your feet and stagger away. Heavy footfalls thud behind you, joining the sharp pattering of rain, drumming into your skull. You speed up before he makes good on his threat. You don't bother getting undressed. You just huddle beneath your blanket, body aching, mouth bloody. Staring at emeralds and sapphires until [[sleep takes you.->Sleep takes you 2.]]*"He's not breathing!"* You hold your father's gaze. He grunts. "Fuck off to bed, or I'll thump you." You turn on your heel. His heavy footfalls stalk you, thudding amidst the sharp chorus of raindrops. But you don't run. You shut your bedroom door and tug your clothes off. They fall on the floor in tangles. You kick them away. Beneath your blanket, you stare out into the emerald and sapphire night until [[sleep takes you.->Sleep takes you 1.]]You lounge in the grass, running your fingers amongst wet blades. A couple of sheep stare at you in ovine disapproval. But it's hard to take their opinion too seriously when you know they'll wind up on a spit or in a stew. The rest of your family's flock content themselves with chewing, crapping, or gazing at nothing in particular. If shepherding's dull, at least on days like this it's easy. A grey ewe starts to wander off. You lean forward, reach out with your crook, and tap her flank until she re-joins the woollen cloud. "Earning your pay, huh?" Melissa sits beside you. She tosses her own staff aside, and waves away her dog when he starts barking. "Shut up and watch the cows, boy." He barks once more, then turns and bounds back to their herd. You feel a twinge of envy. You wanted a sheep dog, but your father hates the animals for some reason. "Drink?" She pushes messy azure tresses away from her face and holds out a large skin. "Fresh from tit." You hazard a glance before you can stop yourself. Melissa rolls her eyes. "Not those ones. The cows. Idiot." She cuffs you around the ear. But she still presses the skin into your hands. You take it and rub the side of your skull. "Harvest festival's soon..." you say. Your tongue fishes around for more words. A myriad possibilities slip across it but elude its grasp. You should ask her to the dance. Who else are you going to ask? She's the only girl your age in the village. And she's offered you milk, for the first time. That means she likes you! She probably wants you to ask! Ask! Ask! Ask! Ask! Your brain insists, but your tongue curls in on itself. She raises her eyebrow. You pull the stopper out of the skin to mask the silence. Besides, she'll be offended if you refuse her gift. You put it to your lips and drink. Thick, cloying creaminess floods your mouth. Smothering teeth and tongue. Blocking your throat. Gods! Was that milk or a block of butter? [[Spit it out.->Spit it out 2.]] [[Force it down.]]The world's wobbling. Why's it wobbling? Oh, right. The pub. All that ale. You stumble down the path, plodding homeward through blue and green shafts of light that fall between bare branches. Leaves crunch underfoot. Drank too much. Again. Your father's going to yell. Again. Fuck him. You laugh. It's a mistake. Your stomach bubbles. Your throat convulses. Too much ale... You totter against a tree, brow pressed against cool, damp roughness. [[Throw up.]] [[Hold it in.]]*"Come on! Breathe!" "Keep going."* A white torrent gushes from your mouth, splatters your breeches. "Hey!" Melissa scrambles away, dress splashed, eyes wide. "S... Sorry..." The word tumbles out with the last of the milk. She yells, snatches the skin, and beats you around the head with it. Aches and shame spin around your skull. Melissa stomps back to her cows. Stupid. You're weak and stupid, just like your father [[always says...->Not weak...]]*"No output." "Give him another round. Anyone see what happened?" "He jumped!"* It's like swallowing an entire cream-flavoured cow. It batters your organs aside on its way to your stomach, squishing your lungs to paste. But you do it. You even force a smile. "About the festival..." Melissa says. [[You grin.]]You whirl around the pole, arm in arm. So fast, so lost in the music of pipes and strings, that you don't know who's leading. Melissa laughs. Her hair and wedding dress whip around her, blending into one long stream of blue and green. The guests are cheering, clapping. You catch snatches of their faces over her shoulders. Then they're gone, lost to the blur. You ate too much cake. It's bouncing around your innards, performing the same dance for its audience of blood, bile, and churning guts. Salty flavours claw at the back of your throat. The music reaches its crescendo, high and sharp. Melissa's laughter matches it. The sounds mingle around your skull. Droplets of wine splash on you both, sprinkled from merry fingers. At last it goes silent. The two of you spin in smaller circles, staggering to a stop. But the world doesn't. It keeps going, dancing without you. Swirling. Someone needs to stop the universe, before it hurts itself... The priest comes forward. He's got a glass in each hand. Oh, gods -- you'd forgotten about this part of the ceremony. Melissa takes one. She downs it in one go. The guests holler. You manage to grasp the other glass. Your hand shakes. Liquid sloshes from side to side. A little splashes on your fingers. "Go on!" someone says. "Drink!" "Drink!" "Drink!" The world's whirling. Your guts are churning. You throat's screaming. But you have to drink, to finish the ceremony. The goddess' test. It'll invoke her blessing or her curse. Fuck... You raise the glass and miss your mouth. Melissa's hand darts over and clasps yours. She puts it to your lips, tilts it back while everyone laughs. Harsh, briny liquor sears your tongue. Smoke. Smoke and salt and fire. Can't breathe. Can't... Can't... [[Keep drinking.]] [[Spew it out.]]Everyone cheers. Melissa pulls you towards her, sending the glass tumbling from your grip. There's another ovation when the priest fumbles the vessel twice, knocking it from hand to hand, before finally securing it. Her lips meet yours, and the liquor's foul taste [[melts away.->Ending 1.]]*"I've got something! Keep going!"* The sea breeze slashes your face with salty nails. You squint, blinking it away. Traces of moisture sting your face like old wounds. You brandish the marbled green urn at arm's length, and feel foolish. Performing rituals for an invisible audience of gods and spirits. If they didn't care enough to save your daughter, why would they float around watching now? Fluttering azure locks hide most of Melissa's face. But you can feel her eyes, boring into the side of your skull. "This is your doing," she said over the cooling corpse. "The goddess cursed us." Maybe she was right. Melissa stays silent, so you open the urn. The lid slips from your fingers, bounces off a rock, and flies over the edge of the cliff. Doesn't matter now. The ashes billow into the wind. A swirling grey djinn, swimming on ethereal currents. Was that a sob? You glance at Melissa, but her hair's a veil. And while you're turned away, the wind changes. A pinch of ash. A last lingering trace of your daughter. It skims your lips, passes your fence of teeth. Burns on your tongue like fresh embers. Her taste. Another curse. The goddess is laughing, making you eat your sin. You start to heave. But Melissa's watching. Behind an azure veil. Watching. Judging. [[Spit the ashes out.]] [[Don't spit the ashes out.]]*"That's enough," the first paramedic says. "But..." After a moment, the second paramedic nods. "Okay." "I'll get the stretcher." He trots away through the crowd of onlookers, all urgency gone. His partner looks out at the water, its surface jewelled by the ambulance's flashing emerald and sapphire lights, and sighs. She hates dealing with suicides. As she shifts, knees aching from the hard grit and stones, her hand touches something and pulls away out of instinct. An old paperback, yellowed pages sodden and thickened. A warrior stands on its cover -- heavy with muscles and light on clothing -- brandishing his sword beneath two moons. She picks it up and slips it back into your coat pocket.**"Come on, mate! Get it out!" "Anyone see what happened?" "He jumped!"* A stinking stew pours out of your mouth. A second heave, and twin streams follow from your nose. Warm, rancid, viscous. You vomit, groan, and vomit again. Then you slump to the ground. Hot squishy things ooze under your arse, but you don't even care. Sleep... Need sleep, so the world [[stops wobbling.]]*"He's not breathing!"* Images flood your skull. Your father, forcing your first drink into your hands. Shoving your mother away when she tries to stop him. Tilting it up to your face. Pouring it down your throat. His fist, smashing the side of your head when you throw up. Pummelling you for not holding your liquor like a man. You take a deep breath and choke the vomit back. You're not weak. [[Not weak...]]The house is smaller than you remember. Blurrier too, but that's probably the brandy. "You're late," Lucas says. He's leaning beside the front door, brandishing his pipe. Smoke crawls out of its bowl and disintegrates in the drizzle. If the village seems small after so long in the city, at least the barkeep doesn't. Lucas' gut dangles over his belt. He must've eaten a cow or two since you last saw him. "Took the wrong turning on the highway," you say. "Sodding pissed, you are!" He grunts. You shrug. "Had something to celebrate, didn't I?" "You little cunt!" You grin and head inside. Heads turn as you navigate the narrow hallway, sidling between men and women in dark clothes. You step on a few toes. Your elbow finds someone's nose. You don't bother apologising. Brandy means never having to say you're sorry. Someone's crying in the bedroom. Is it bad that you know your mum's sobs as well as her voice? You should go to her, but you don't. You're not in the mood to play prodigal son just yet. Besides, you have someone else to see first. He's in the kitchen. The village priest is there too, kneeling down and murmuring something whilst fingering his rosary. He looks up. You glance at the doorway behind you. He takes the hint, coughs, and scurries out before you have to kick him. You close the door and walk over to the coffin. Blue and green flowers frame your father's ruddy face. "You look fucking ridiculous." A salty, smoky tang cuts through the cloying floral haze. You glance over at a side table. Of course... Village custom. An open bottle of whisky. The dead's last drink. You grab the bottle and lift it high. "Cheers. Hope they serve good booze in hell." You glug. Burning liquid floods your mouth. [[Spit it in his face.]] [[Drink it down.]]A stream of whisky... *...water...* ...splashes on his face. *...onto your chest.* You stare down at him... *...up at the paramedic...* ...and grin. *...and groan as you [[remember.->Ending 2.]]**"He's not breathing!"* The door opens. You turn, and glare at the priest. He gawps at the bottle in your hand. "You can't drink that!" "Just did." "It's sacril-" You headbutt him. His nose crunches under your skull. He rolls on the floor, clutching his bloody face. You step over him and leave. "Get out of my way!" You push through the mourners, ignoring their gasps and shouts. In the midst of the chaos, you catch a glimpse of your mother's face. Neither of you [[speak.]]*The ambulance's flashing lights scatter emeralds and sapphires across the water. Treasure licks the bridge's struts, lapping around blackness. Something tumbles out of your coat pocket when they pop the stretcher and raise you up. The female paramedic crouches down and grabs it. Your paperback. Thick and soft now, like a bloated corpse. She glances at the barbarian on the cover. He's posing with his badly painted sword, under cheap paper moons. She starts to put it back in your pocket. "Leave it," you say. "The other worlds are shit too." The paramedics look at one another. She tosses the book aside and helps wheel you onto the ambulance. You get one last look at the water before the doors close. Water and failure. But it doesn't matter. You didn't find anything better in there anyway. "Other worlds are shit too," you whisper.*"Well? Speak, damn you!" "Huh?" You blink. Memories dissolve into haze, revealing a broad green face. The orc snorts. "I said, 'How much?'" "Oh..." The bottle in your hand's empty. You let it drop and smash on the cobbles. A full one will cost... You try to talk, and cough instead. Your throat shudders. Stale alcohol and salt scrape the roof of your mouth. You hold up three fingers. He snorts again. "Robbery!" He jabs a green finger towards the distant city walls. "Out in the wild, I'd rape you for free!" You think about asking if he usually rapes for pay. But he's big, and you need coin. So you keep your mouth shut. Robbery or not, he nods and shoves you into the alleyway. He drags you down. Your knees hit the ground hard and barely feel it. Your last whisky bottle's empty and broken, but your fallen comrade's done you proud. The orc pulls his dark blue kilt aside. Gods... It's like club. But you've done orcs before, and you do it again. His veiny member disappears into the haze. Nothing matters. Not when your brain's drowned and pickled. He spends himself fast. Sticky brine in your mouth. "You were shite," he says. You get up. He shoves you against the wall. "Swallow it! Swallow, or I don't pay!" [[Swallow it.]] [[Spit it back in his face.]]*"Anything?" "No! Still not breathing!" "Give him another round."* He grins and tosses a handful of coins at your boots. "Pathetic." He stomps away, and you wish you'd torn his cock off with your teeth. But it doesn't matter. You pick up your pay. In a few minutes, his face will blur away like all the others. You traipse to the nearest tavern for that [[drink.]]A blob of semen... *...of seawater...* ...splats on the orc's eye. *...splashes on your chest.* You grin... *...groan...* ...and wait for him to hit you. *...and stare up into the paramedic's face. [[You remember.->Ending 2.]]*"Move!" you say. "Needsh a... Needsh a fuck'n' dr'nk." The woman in the blue tabard gawps at you. "A drink!?! The city's under attack! Get to the south gate!" "Eh? Tax?" "Look, you drunken bastard!" She points into the distance. "They've set fire to the fucking-" She falls on her face. "Now whosh dr'nk?" There's something stuck in her back, with green feathers on the end. But that's not important. You need whisky... "You!" "Huh?" You blink through the blur. A green blob hardens and sharpens as it gets closer. An orc, holding a... fishing rod? No. A bow. "Ha! I said I'd rape you for free!" "Eh? N't free. Coinsh. Needs coinsh for wh'sky." He drops his bow and grabs hold of you. Flotsam memories bob up and down in a salty whisky sea. Your father's fist. No... Fists. Again and again. Fists and boots. Fuck him! Fuck him to hell! The orc growls. One hand's already reaching under his kilt. Your knee joins it. He moans. You clasp the back of his neck and gnaw at his throat. He struggles, tries to throw you off. But his foot catches on something blue, and the two of you go down hard. Your knee lands back in his groin. Air hisses out of his lungs. You keep biting. Biting and tearing. Fuck the orc. Fuck your father. Fuck every fucking whisky bottle that's emptied its bladder and left you sober! Brine and blood, slaking your thirst. [[Drink the orc's blood.]] [[Spit it out.->Spit it out 3.]]You don't just drink. You fucking quaff. The orc's lifeblood, warm and rich, fire and sea, washes down your throat. The city's burning. People are dying in the street. And you just bit an orc's throat out. You grin red, and head off to find more whisky before it all [[burns away.->Ending 1.]]You spew the blood... *...the seawater...* ...onto the orc's lifeless face. *...out from heaving lungs.* Glazed eyes stare up at the sky. *You look up at the paramedic.* Need whisky... *You [[remember.->Ending 3.]]**The female paramedic stays beside you, while the male one goes for the stretcher. She sticks to monitoring your vitals and arranging the strange metallic blanket. You don't blame her. You wouldn't know what to say either. You gaze out over the water, turned to treasure by the ambulance's flashing emerald and sapphire lights. Gemstones wash around the struts of the bridge. The bridge... Dark and high. The fall should've killed you. Something slips out of your coat pocket and flops on the ground. The paramedic picks it up. Your paperback. Sodden and bloated now. The sea's sunk into its yellowed pages. But the barbarian's still clear and crisp on the cover, his sword defying the heavens whilst twin moons gleam upon its blade. This world's shit. But so are the others. Doesn't matter. As they load you into the ambulance, you can still taste the orc's flesh and blood between your teeth. The world's shit, but you can fight it.**"Come on! Breathe!"* A hacking cough racks your body. Ash, spittle, and tears rain from your face. You look round, but Melissa's already walking away. Only the iron-grey heavens are watching. Watching and damning the victim of [[the goddess' curse.]]You let the salt-fire tang sear your mouth. The cloud of ash is dim and distant, scattered into world and sky. Your hand flinches at sudden warmth. Melissa's hair whips against your cheek. She doesn't turn, says nothing. But she keeps hold of your fingers and you squeeze hers in return. The two of you watch your daughter join the universe, as everything [[fades away->Ending 1.]]A curse. A curse on you, your marriage, your dead daughter. Because of that fucking priest's ritual and his bitch goddess. Fucking priest... You bang on the door. The rain bangs with you, bombarding old wood. It seeps into your jerkin. Soaks the cloth into a rough, heavy second skin. It should be cold. It should chill your flesh. But your blood's hot and fast, crashing through your veins. You kick the door, again and again. This time it opens. "What do you want? It's the middle of the... the bloody... night..." His eyes are white and wide. Bright even in the soft starlight. Fastened on the thing in your hand. You shove him. He totters backwards, into the vestibule. You follow and kick the door shut behind you. The priest stammers, spitting inarticulate syllables amid frothy saliva. He's still staring at the knife. There were things you wanted to say. A diatribe against him and his whore goddess, composed over whisky reflections. But your tongue's as dead as his. Words don't matter. So you stab him instead. Steel pierces his blue and green nightshirt. The blade emerges, red but still hungry. Blood and candlelight mingle on steel. The knife moves again. And again. The impact along your arm is dull and distant. Seared away. He falls, and you go down with him. Still stabbing. His eyes flutter like moths. A hot stream splashes your nose. You've hit something important. Found something big and juicy in that withered old chest. Another stab, another spray. Blood in your hair. Eyes. Mouth. It tastes foul, rancid. Sweet and salty like spoiled meat. [[Spit his blood out.]] [[Drink his blood.]]Crimson... *Seawater...* ...shoots from your lips and paints the goddess' graven visage. *...erupts from your gasping maw and splashes onto your chest.* Her marble mouth... *The paramedic's face...* ...screams through the blood. *...stares down at you. And you [[remember.->Ending 4.]]*You glare at the goddess' graven visage and drink her servant's life. Is that a tear on her marble cheek? Good. Fucking bitch... The world drowns in [[blood and darkness.->Ending 1.]]*The female paramedic stays beside you, while the male one goes for the stretcher. She sticks to monitoring your vitals and arranging the strange metallic blanket. You don't blame her. You wouldn't know what to say either. You gaze out over the water, transformed into treasure by the ambulance's flashing emerald and sapphire lights. Gemstones wash around the struts of the bridge. The bridge... Dark and high. The fall should've killed you. Something slips out of your coat pocket and flops on the ground. The paramedic picks it up. Your paperback. Sodden and bloated now. The sea's sunk into its yellowed pages. But the barbarian's still clear and crisp on the cover, his sword defying the heavens whilst twin moons bleed on its blade. She's cheated you of your suicide, but that doesn't matter anymore. This world's shit. So are all the others. But there's a way to make them all better. As they load you into the ambulance, you can still taste the priest's blood on your tongue. Blood. Blood and blades. The world's shit, but you can make it right. You'll say all the right things. Make the doctors discharge you. Then you'll begin... Blood and blades. You grin. The paramedic smiles back at you. Everyone... Everyone who made your life shit and brought you to that bridge... Blood and blades... You'll kill them all.*"...not weak anymore," you say. Your mother's in the corner of your vision, slumped against the wall. Sobbing. Clasping her purpled cheek and a nose that's leaking red into the blue and green patterns on her dress. You force yourself not to look. Force yourself to keep your gaze fastened on your father's eyes. How long have they been level with your own? Those bloodshot orbs aren't scary anymore. He sneers. His shoulders twitch like loose boulders. "Fuck off out of my house, or I'll batter you like I battered her." "No..." your mother says. "Please..." His head snaps round. "Shut your fucking-" You punch him. Pain explodes in your knuckles. A stupid, clumsy, angry blow. But he goes down. And you won't let him get back up. You drop your weight, driving your knee into his chest. He gasps. His big, heavy hands come up to throw you off. Your fists are faster. They knock his skull back and forth, bash it against the kitchen's stone floor. Bones crack. Yours and his. Your hands are screaming with every punch. You're screaming too. Everything's screaming. But you don't stop hitting him. Not till there's a red-black lake around his head. You stand up, gazing down at his corpse. Your mother's stopped crying. "Go." Her voice is a whisper, but it cuts through the room. "You have to go!" Your hands are trembling. You try to move your fingers, but they won't open or close. "They'll hang you for this!" She grabs your arm, pulls at it. But you can't look away. "You have run! To the city!" His eyes are glazed over, but they're still watching you. Still watching. "Fuck!" She moves away and opens the cupboard. It's the first time you've ever heard her swear. That thought, that single ridiculous thought, breaks your gaze. "Here! Drink this." She puts the bottle to your lips, as though you're still a baby. "It'll steady your nerves." The brandy's fire and brine and blood. It sets your mouth alight. [[Spit it out.->Spit it out 4.]] [[Glug it down.]]*"Come on, mate! Get it out!" "Anyone see what happened?" "He jumped!"* You splutter. Brandy rains down on your father's face, launching ripples across the dark red lake. Your mother leaves you coughing, and whirls round the kitchen like a dervish. She slings a strap over your shoulder. A knapsack bumps against your thigh. Food for the journey. Gods... How can she think this clearly, when you can't even manage to drink? She hustles you to the front door. Then she pauses, and the tears come back. She hugs you. Utters long streams of words that drift through your shaking, foggy mind. You want to say something. This is the last time you'll ever see her. You should tell her... tell her... But you can't [[speak.]]*"No output." "Give him another round. Anyone see what happened?" "He jumped!"* You force the fiery liquor down your throat. It's like drinking an ignited ocean. "Not weak," you [[whisper.]]Whispers. Always whispers. You sit at a corner table, shrouded by shadows, hood pulled low. The other drinkers whisper over sloshing tankards. Did someone recognise you? Did they see the wanted posters? Stupid. Stupid coming here. Stupid, risky. But you needed food. And the wild had nothing to offer. Not tonight, when the world's turned to rain and mud. Should've stayed in the city, among the teeming crowds and anonymous alleyways. But the whispers... They chased you away. Those dwarves look like bounty hunters. All leather, mail, muscle, and axes. Did the one with the green beard just glance your way? You should leave. Get out, right now. Run for it. They can't run fast, can they? Not on those stunty legs. Not with all that armour. You could run... Chair legs grind against the floor. Your head spins. But it's just a drunk, abusing the furniture as he slumps off it. If you run, that'll draw attention. Maybe they aren't whispering about you. Maybe... "Here." You yelp. The barmaid raises an eyebrow as she sets your plate down in front of you. "Sorry," you say. She sniffs and walks away, the hem of her blue dress swishing around her thighs. Have to eat. Need strength. Strength to run, or hide, or... whatever. You tear a piece of greasy meat off a drumstick and slide it between your teeth. It's hot. Coated in something. Spicy. Salty. Fucking elven chefs with their fucking elven spices! The whispering's getting louder. Your tongue's melting. If you spit it out, people will notice. You should swallow it. Wait... What if it's not just spice? What if it's poison!?! The chef spotted you! Spotted you and poisoned your food so they could take you without a fight! That's what they're whispering about! Fucking elves! [[Spit the meat out.]] [[Swallow the meat.]]*"Come on, mate! Get it out!"* You spit the meat onto the table and spring to your feet. The chair clatters away. Whispers turn to gasps. Someone shouts. You run for the door. The barmaid's in the way. Your shoulder catches her, knocks her spinning. A second later you're out in the downpour. Soaked. Sloshing through thick mud. But there are no whispers our here. Only the [[rain.]]You're chewing. Eating. Digesting. You haven't died yet. Maybe it's slow. Slow poison. Slow and sneaky. They're still whispering. Always whispering, while [[everything goes dark.->Ending 1.]]Rain falls across the empty square, glittering in the twin moons' light. Emeralds and sapphires between the flagstones. On the wooden platform. Shimmering along the noose. "No crowd tonight," the hangman says. "Bloody weather..." He prods you up the stairs. Your boot catches on the top step and you topple. Your hands try to move out of instinct, yearning to break your fall. But the rope burns against your wrists, locking them behind your back. The hangman catches hold of your jerkin and stops you falling. "Careful," he says. You don't know whether to laugh or cry. He takes you to the middle of the platform. Raindrops trickle down your cheeks. The noose fits snug around your neck, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever worn. Precious treasure. "Here," he says. "One last drink." He puts the flask to your lips. Burning brine. Everything always tastes like a fiery sea... [[Spit it out.->Spit it out 5.]] [[Swallow it.->Swallow it 2.]]You spit the liquor... *...the seawater...* ...into the rain. *...onto your chest.* The hangman grunts. *The paramedic exhales.* "Fucking waste," he says. *"We've got him back," she says. You stare up into her face and [[remember.->Ending 2.]]*The liquor sends fire down your throat. Deep into your guts. It's still burning as the lever grumbles and the world rises past you, rushing away [[towards the heavens.->Ending 1.]]*"Stand back! Give us some room!"* Ale gushes from your lips in a torrent of salt and fire. It sprays across the adventurer's broad chest, onto the hearth rug, into the sputtering fireplace. "Piss off!" Lucas says. "Piss off, or I'll tan your hide!" You run through leering faces and laughter, out into the jewelled rain. Your cheeks burn. Shame squeezes your throat. Behind you, glorious stories fill the tavern. Forever beyond your reach. Because you were weak. Weak, like your father always says. Like he says when he hits you... Back home, still in your sodden clothes, you lie in bed and taunt yourself with dreams. Dreams of chugging down great casks of ale while the adventurer cheers you on. "That's it!" he says. "Real men can handle [[their drink!"->Sleep takes you 2.]]*"He's not breathing!"* Cheers rock the tavern. "Blimey!" Lucas says. "Holds it better than his old man!" You beam. The adventurer claps you on the shoulder, knocking you sideways. "Sit by me, lad," he says. "You've earned yourself a spot [[by the fire!"]]You sit around the campfire, gazing at a pile of golden coins and silver cups. "Four shares," Hrulf says. The big adventurer's greasy grin is the same as when you first saw him in the tavern. "Three," the mage says. Her mismatched eyes glitter, green and blue. "Learn to count." "Four." He grasps your shoulder. "Him?" The dwarven cleric snorts at you. It makes her broad face flare even wider. "Your sodding apprentice? You just want to claim two shares for yourself!" "He didn't even come into the dungeon!" the mage says. "We did all the work!" "He guarded the horses," Hrulf says. "That counts." "Fuck off!" The women glare. Hrulf shrugs. "Fine," he says. "No share for the boy. Three equal parts for us. Drink to it." He picks up his wineskin, takes a swig, and presses it into your hands. "Come on, lad," he says. "Get it in you!" You sip. It's strong, briny. More like whisky than wine. Flames blaze along your tongue, scorching the roof of your mouth. Hrulf's fingers grip your shoulder hard. "Go on," he says. "Get it down." [[Spit it out.->Spit it out 7.]] [[Swallow it.->Swallow it 4.]]*"Come on! Breathe!" "Keep going."* Vile liquid spews from your mouth. You sink to your knees, choking and spluttering. The wineskin flops beside you. Its contents seep into the darkening dirt. The women laugh. "Keep your rancid wine," the mage says. "Let's just divide it up and all be on our way." Hrulf grunts. The mage and cleric ride off with their loot, leaving the two of you alone in the clearing. "You know the way to your village?" he says. "Huh? I-" "Answer the fucking question." "Yeah, but-" "Then fuck off back there. You're too weak for this life." He doesn't say anything else, and his glare silences you in turn. All you can do is watch him load his saddlebags. Then he rides off too, and you begin to plod your way back home. Back to your father's house. Your father's fists. Because you were [[weak.->Not weak...]]*"No output." "Give him another round. Anyone see what happened?" "He jumped!"* You gasp, eyes watering. The foul liquid blazes in your stomach. "Ha!" Hrulf says. "Too strong for you, boy?" He gestures, and the mage takes it from you. She has a sip and moans. "Fuck, that is strong!" "Give it here," the cleric says. "Humans don't know how to drink." She annexes the skin and takes a long swig. "Not bad..." The three of them quibble over the loot -- assigning values to each trinket, biting into coins. Everything's strange and fuzzy. Fuzzy and [[dark...]]"Get up." Something thuds into your ribs. "Get up!" Again. Harder. Bruising your guts. You roll over. Heavy lids flutter open. "Hurry up. Help me load the horses, before anyone else comes along." "Eh?" You sit up, rubbing your eyes. How did you get so sleepy? As the world wobbles into coherence, the mage and cleric blur into being. They're sleeping too. Lying by the fire. Lying there, with dark red smiles on their throats... You scream. Hrulf clamps his hand over your mouth. "The treasure's ours now. We had to drink first, or they'd've got wise. Didn't have a chance to give you the antidote." He trots over to the mage and starts cleaning his blade on the azure and emerald folds of her tunic. "Get that stuff into the sacks." He glances at you and grins. "Welcome to the [[adventurer's life."]]Flashing steel. Splashing crimson. Strewn guts and emptied bowels. The guard's just a kid, scared shitless. Literally. "Drop your sword," you say. There's no comprehension in his wide, wild eyes. Breeches full of crap but a hand full of steel. Still a threat. Still dangerous. He waves his weapon around, hacking the air. You thrust through haphazard defences and skewer his heart. He falls. "Bastard!" a woman says. The carriage door opens. Something gleams in the corner of your eye. You spin round, spin and slash. Redness. The woman's mouth shapes soundless gasps. Scarlet seeps into blue silk. Something slips out of her hand, spinning and catching the sun on embedded emeralds. A hairbrush. A fucking hairbrush. The noblewoman dies beside her carriage. "Shit." Hrulf comes up behind you. "You killed the rich bitch. We can't ransom a corpse." "I... She came out of nowhere!" He sighs. "Did you get them all?" you say. "One of the riders got away." "Fuck!" "Yeah. Can't kill a baron's daughter without getting a bounty on your head." "What do we do?" "I'm going to get out of the county. Make my coin somewhere safer for a while." He leans into the carriage before you can respond. It's some seconds before you understand that he's cutting you loose. "Might as well split the loot..." He emerges with a velvet pouch in one hand and an ornate bottle in the other. "And drink to the parting of the ways." "I'll open it," you say. "Don't trust me?" You just hold his gaze. Hrulf grunts, but he passes the wine bottle over. You pull out the stopper and glug. The wine's foul. Bitter and briny. Coarse and hot. As it smoulders against the inside of your cheeks, Hrulf's hand twitches towards the sword at his belt. [[Swallow the wine.]] [[Spit the wine in his face.]]The briny liquid sloshes down your throat. Hrulf adjusts his sword belt and weighs the pouch in his hand. "Take it," he says. He tosses it through the air. As you catch it, he's already striding towards his horse. There's nothing left to do but find your own steed and [[ride away.->Ending 1.]]*"I've got something! Keep going!"* A deep purple stream splashes his eyes. Hrulf cries out. For a second his hands go towards his face, driven by instinct, trying to shield himself or wipe it away. That's all the opening you need. Before the adventurer's brain can kick in with a better plan, your sword's buried in his chest. He slumps on top of the noblewoman's corpse. You grab the pouch, coins clinking beneath velvet, and run for the horses. Whispers rustle in your ears. You don't know if they're Hrulf's, the woman's, or your own. Just whispers. Chasing you on the breeze. [[Whispers.->whisper.]]