The Dark Lord Bert 2 by Chris Fox (bookstand for reading .TXT) 📕

turned to the last member of their party, who stood a little apart from the others, and did a double take when she had to crane her neck to peer up at the towering half-ogre. Monster races were never allowed, because they offered far more stats and abilities than normal races.

Kit’s own race, shapeshifter, was borderline and she’d had to argue long and hard, and make pancakes one summer afternoon to get the GM to agree. Wait, pancakes for who? The game had already begun to obscure the real world.

“Are you even kidding me?” Nutpuncher rumbled as the gnome waddled over to the half-ogre. His voice was far too deep for a human’s, much less a gnome’s. “Half-ogre? That is so unfair.”

“Yeah.” The ogre gave a wide grin that exposed a truly disgusting set of rotting teeth. “I was going to dump stat charisma anyway, and that’s their only real downside.”

“They give you a -2 intelligence too,” Kit pointed out absently. “That’s one less skill point per level. And a -2 to dex. That lowers your AC.”

“So?” Crushstuff, the half-ogre, gave a low gravelly laugh, like a truck idling. “I get +6 strength, and a +2 con, and twelve hit points a level. I can take some hits, so I don’t care about the AC penalty. We’re ninth level.” The ogre reached over his shoulder and unstrapped a comically large battle-axe. A bladed weapon for someone with the word ‘crush’ in their name. “As a barbarian I can use oversized weapons. I only need a 2 plus to hit pretty much anything, and I do an obscene amount of damage. If you haste me I get six attacks a round with this thing.”

“I feel like an idiot.” Nutpuncher scuffed the dirt with his tiny shoe. “I mean, gnomes are cool, but I could have been a firbolg. Or—why not an ancient gold dragon if we’re using unplayable races? Don’t they have like a 45 strength?”

“46 to 47 average,” Kit supplied absently. She stared past her party at the path leading into the valley below. She knew that it led to a town they’d been to before. $Placeholder, where she’d left Bert in charge. How had things changed since they’d been away?

“So what’s the adventure?” Crushstuff the ogre rumbled. “Tomb of Deadly Death again? New dark lord means new loot, and more xp.”

“We’ll start there.” White gave a snap of his fingers and a flying carpet unfurled out of thin air, then moved dutifully to float before him. “We’ll use this to travel. It will expand to be as large as I need. I could accommodate an army with this thing.”

Crushstuff stepped gingerly atop the thin cloth, which effortlessly supported the ogre’s weight. Kit stepped on as well, and a moment later Nutpuncher leapt up to seize the floating carpet. He pulled himself atop, and rolled to his feet. “I can’t believe I went with gnome.”

“Why is your voice so deep?” She figured she ought to ask, or it would keep bugging her.

“Oh.” Nutpuncher gave her a smile from under his moppy hair. “I expect to be hasted most of the time, so I made my voice deeper. That way I’ll sound normal with haste up.”

Kit turned toward the wind with an amused laugh as the carpet accelerated up the path. She had no idea what to expect, but for the first time she had hope, especially after how the last adventure had ended.

She’d never gotten the better of White before.

Still, there was a nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. There was something she should be doing, or getting. Something from the real world that kept trying to intrude into the game.

Kit ruthlessly shoved it away. Whatever it was—it wasn’t important. Her game time was sacred. The real world had no place here. Whatever it was could wait until the game was over.

3

An Adventure

The following morning, after breakfast of course, Bert and Boberton headed up to the tower once more. This time the throne room was dominated by a massive oaken table, large enough for an entire family of goblins to live underneath.

Perhaps he could rent the space. Upkeeping a kingdom had proven more expensive than he’d expected.

Bert had gathered his very best advisors, who sat around the round table. Bert’s own chair had a very large booster seat so that he could just barely peek over the lip of the table.

To his right sat Bumbledork, the wizard’s musty smell overpowering from this small distance. To his left sat the Finger of the King, his newly appointed spymaster. Well, ‘sat’ wasn’t quite right. A slug couldn’t really sit. They more just kind of…oozed.

“Bert call council to order.” Bert withdrew a small wooden mallet from his pack, which sat beneath the booster seat. He rapped the gavel against the table, and the other advisors perked up.

Brotep the mummy sat on the far side. He never added anything, just beatboxed under his breath, and raced out of the room as soon as meetings were over. Perhaps he needed a new job, or something.

The last advisor was even newer than the finger, one who’d come to the castle just the week before. The leprechaun stood just a bit taller than Bert, with a green jacket and a bristly black beard. He wore a conical hat, which seemed rather dangerous if one was clumsy, as Bert tended to be. You could put an eye out.

“Darby report first,” Bert commanded. He rather liked commanding people.

“Course, your dark lordness.” Darby hopped up onto the table and gave a little bow. “No new adventurers have come through my level. In fact, no new adventurers have been in the town at all since you came to power. Your lordship…have you given any thought to my petition?”

On the one hand Bert rather liked the word petition. It was new and he’d learned it just the other day, when Darby had explained it at the last council meeting.

“Not today. Bert have important business.” He rapped his gavel again, because it