Fedwig the Foul: A LitRPG/Gamelit Short Story Length: Roughly 10k Blurb: Sometimes, men are given greatness to write upon their story. Other times, men seek greatness for much the same reason. Unfortunately for the world, Fedwig fell into neither category. Fedwig? What sort of a name is Fedwig you may ask? The name belongs to a user of magics most foul. It is a necromancer's mark and heralds other, less than pleasant things. Fedwig is also a man with a problem. Well, two if you count the fact he's forgotten the first. Eventual price: .99
Excerpt of RD: Deep in the Forests of Fogwell, beyond the River of Doubt but not quite past the Mountains of Misery, sat a lowly young man by the name of Fedwig. Now, Fedwig wasn't your typical man. Deep within his black robes, under his white skin, and in those squishy parts that don't always have names, he had an idea. An idea? Well, that's just special. Cast out of his coven, he was a wizard without a home. A sage without a sanctuary. A mage without a... mage-y place. Fedwig didn't quite know what to call a place where mages worked. Despite this lack of knowledge, his outrage was as pure as tempered steel. How could they cast him, the great Fedwig the Foul out of the coven? Sure, necromancy wasn't the most beloved of the magical schools. Sure, animating Wrynn's dead aunt to prove she was a whore wasn't exactly what one would call responsible. And sure, infecting the town's vagrants with the plague wasn't as funny to anyone else that complained about the town's overpopulation problem, but at least he did something, damn it. If his skills got stronger as he did the world a service? Well, then that was just another in a long line of bonuses. So there he sat, deep in thought as he looked at his stolen soul sheet. There we so many things to do, so many places he could visit to recoup and enjoy his life of freedom. Wondering what his next step would be when onto his shoulder, his familiar, a large pink butterfly gifted with an unnaturally long life, came to rest. "Good evening, Patricia. Thought I lost you in my escape." Patricia gently batted her wings in response and looked to him with her large, multifaceted eyes as he sighed in defeat. If there was anything he hated more than being cast out of his coven, it was being alone. "There has to be a way they'll accept me back into the coven. I just wish I knew why they threw me out." Granted, Fedwig would have known this already if he had bothered to show up to the meeting concerning his expulsion, read any of the letters sent to him rather than feed his fire, or had taken Wyrnn’s aunt’s fingers out of his ears. It would have helped exponentially more if he had also had her head stop singing while he was being chased by the rest of the coven with torches from the grounds. However, despite his actions, Fedwig was still a great, high ranking necromancer with enough ranks in animate corpse to make anyone dance to his tune of undeath. Wrynn's dead aunt, despite being a whore, could vouch for that. With that horrible, decaying mess of a thought in his head, it was only a matter of time until something grew. It was then when a lightning strike of an idea set the fertilizer of the idea ablaze with putrid light. Much to the fluttering terror of Patricia, Fedwig’s idea wafted from his mouth and into her earholes. "Patricia! What better way to learn what went wrong than to have others go listen for me? I'll just go to some of my old haunts, bring back a few old friends, and have them ask about!" His intelligence may have been higher than average, but his wisdom barely registered as common sense. You must understand that most magical folk took familiars to tell them the secrets of the aether or because they could share their natural, magical talent. Fedwig picked his because Patricia was pretty, but even though she was an insect, Patricia was not what you would call dumb. Her natural twenties in intelligence and wisdom saw to that. Though she only let her wings waft, an expert in butterfly communication would read this as, "By the gods, Fedwig, don't do what you're thinking. It never works out. Just go back and apologize for setting the orphans against each other. Say you're sorry!" Sadly, Fedwig couldn't be bothered with learning such languages. He had better things to do, like animate corpses and set orphans ablaze with plague. Besides, today was Friday, and that meant fresh executions in Gundhill. Plenty of blood for rituals, plenty of corpses for animation, and, hopefully, a beautifully stocked picnic by the locals.
Alright, have the first run of the draft done, but with only referencing his soul sheet (Character Sheet) I'm worried it won't be enough to entertain the crowds.
Care to read the entire thing when the short is done? It involves demon chicken lords, cultists, multiple deaths, muses, and how not t deal with Jim.
Sure. I can't promise to be speedy because I'm insanely busy this summer, but so long as you're okay with me being a slow reader....
