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LOCATION: THE LUSTY WENCH
CITY: GRIMWATCH
DATE: ??? | EVENING
As evening settled over the quaint village of Grimwatch, the lanterns lining its cobbled streets flickered to life one by one, casting a warm golden glow. The air carried a sense of well-earned calm—the kind that only followed trial, effort, and return. Inside the tavern of The Lusty Wench, laughter and conversation spilled from the large central table where the first cohort of The System gathered one by one, returning from their individual trials.
Liesl and Greta moved among them, delivering frothy steins of ale, flasks of harder spirits, and generous trays of cheese, meats, and rustic breads. With only eighteen members in this initial cohort—not counting the odd behaviorally-scripted NPC or two—the tavern wasn’t crowded. But the noise they generated easily filled the space, bouncing off the wooden beams and stone hearth like something alive.
There was joy. Real joy. The kind born not just from success, but from discovery—from the feeling that they were in this together.
And they were different now. That much was obvious.
Each one wore new armor, the fresh gleam of leather, cloth, or metal practically humming with potential. Those assigned common classes—Fighter, Healer, Mage, Skirmisher—bore more standardized gear. But six among them stood out like torchlight in a cave: the members of the Round Table core team and their Steward, Mallory. All six had achieved rare class upgrades—skipping the standard progression entirely and ascending straight from Common to Rare.
Aria, Sienna, and Nina muttered just loud enough to be heard, side-eyeing Ronan as they sipped their drinks.
“I mean,” Nina said, “you could have programmed in a little love for the rest of us.”
Ronan held up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I didn’t touch the class rarity code! That came from a team Voss put together personally.”
He leaned forward. “They built the assignment system to analyze three things. Stats, obviously. Then karmic history—how you’ve lived your life. And finally, your intent. How you plan to use your power going forward.”
“Future karma?” Sienna asked, raising a skeptical brow.
“Karmic direction,” Ronan corrected. “Intentions matter.”
That earned a few nods—and a few grumbles—but eventually the table quieted down and the topic shifted, as it was always going to, to everyone’s experience during the day.
Grim was first.
They couldn’t not ask him. His armor practically demanded comment—red and black heavy leather, with two short swords crossed on his back. The resemblance was immediate.
“You look like Deadpool got dropped in Skyrim,” Brick said around a mouthful of sausage, washing it down with a massive swig of ale.
Nina arched an eyebrow. “You’re going to get sued by Ryan Reynolds, you know.”
“Do we even have lawyers anymore?” someone asked.
Brick turned to Mallory. “We do, right? You’re still a lawyer? If not, I’m out.”
Mallory laughed but nodded. “I’ll take the case. Pro bono. Just don’t sign any endorsements.”
They laughed, and the sound was warm, rich, and honest.
“So what’s the actual class called?” Brick asked. “You some kind of front-liner?”
Grim took a drink and set down his stein with a resigned sigh.
“Yeah. In game terms, I’d be considered DPS—high burst damage. But my class also comes with buffs, reaction speed, support. I’ve got a mix of passive and active boosts.”
Vanessa leaned in, grinning. “And yet, he refuses to tell us what it’s called. That seems suspicious.”
“Grim?” Aria prompted.
He exhaled in defeat. “Commander.”
Silence.
And then—Aria stood slowly, placed her hands primly in front of her, and raised her voice by half an octave.
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“So… do Sienna, Nina, and I need to start wearing red robes and white bonnets now, Commander Thorne?”
The room erupted. Mallory was doubled over. Ronan nearly spit his drink. Even Brick wheezed.
Grim just rubbed a hand down his face. “Yeah, yeah. Get it out now.”
“You know I’m not letting that go,” Aria said, sitting down with a satisfied smirk.
Later, it was Vanessa’s turn.
She shared a portion of her journey—more than she expected, less than the whole—and when she reached the end, she stood and made her way to the second-floor balcony. The room fell quiet as she took out Wraithwood and summoned Nyssara with a whisper.
She descended the stairs and walked calmly toward the front door of the tavern, drawing her bow.
Before anyone could ask what she was doing, she nocked and loosed three arrows in quick succession—thup-thup-thup—each one striking the same blackened stone just above the fireplace.
But the arrows had not come from her.
Everyone at the table had seen her fire from the ground floor. And yet the arrows had clearly flown from the second-story balcony.
“Nyssara’s Waltz,” Vanessa said as she lowered her bow. “And that—” she pointed up at the ghostly woman waving flirtatiously from above, “—is Nyssara.”
Dead silence. And then Darian muttered:
“That’s a fucking ghost.”
Vanessa sat, smug. “Yes, and I am the Spectral Huntress,” she said, by way of class name.
More murmurs. More nods of approval.
And of course, Aria leaned toward Grim and whispered, just loud enough for everyone to hear:
“Still think Commander was the cooler name?”
Grim elbowed her gently. “Keep talking and I’ll reassign your bunk to the stables.”
She grinned.
Mallory went next, her tone a little quieter as she recounted her emotional encounter atop the mountain—her unexpected meeting with Voss, the words exchanged, and what it meant to carry on in his stead.
When she finished, she stood up from the table and stepped into the open, raising her spear in a single, fluid motion. The polished metal caught the firelight as she held it vertically at her side with practiced ease.
“Everyone, this is Fatepiercer,” she said, her voice calm but resonant.
She thumped the base of the spear against the wooden floor. The sound echoed.
Then, with a graceful sweep of her left hand toward her armor: “And this is Vigil’s Raiment. My class is called Spearmaiden. I guess you could say I’m something like a Valkyrie—judgment and execution.”
Nobody said a word.
Despite the warm tones of her armor—matte silver edged in goldenrod—there was a presence about it, a faint shimmer just under the surface, like her very existence had become charged with authority.
Elise let out a low whistle. “Daaaamn, girl… you look hot.”
That broke the tension, and several heads nodded in agreement—because it was true. Mallory looked like justice wrapped in grace and steel.
After a beat, the conversation turned to Ronan.
He stood and gave a theatrical flourish as his outfit shimmered in the firelight. Ronan was a mage-class, but he didn’t wear robes. Instead, he was clad in a long, asymmetrical trench coat layered over reinforced fabric pants and rubber-soled combat boots. The coat was void black—absorbing light in a way that defied easy description—and faint glyphs shimmered subtly along his sleeves and down his legs, moving slowly as he did.
The sleeves tapered into lightweight bracers at the wrist, reinforced for combat dexterity. The pants were fitted like high-end jeans but made of a soft, flexible weave. Altogether, the look was a cross between a futuristic hacker and an occult technomancer.
Holstered diagonally across his back was his weapon.
“So,” Ronan began, with a grin, “I was also given a rare class upgrade—much to my surprise.”
A few groans circled the table, but no one could deny how impressive he looked.
“My class is called the Original Architect, and I’m absolutely certain Voss had a hand in naming it. Because, hoo boy… it’s interesting.”
He paused, noticing that everyone was watching him with rapt attention.
“This,” he said, pulling the sleek object from its holster, “is my Sigilspike.”
It looked like an oversized stylus with a fine point—part pen, part arcane focus.
“It can rewrite fate during combat,” he said dramatically. Then, less dramatically: “And it can also…”
He pressed a hidden switch. A razor-thin blade clicked out from the back.
“…cut shit, I guess.”
Groans echoed around the table at the anticlimax, but the laughter wasn’t far behind.
“I know we won’t be openly sharing our skill sets once we leave this place,” Ronan continued, “but I’ll say this—I can’t wait to try some of mine out.”
He glanced at Mallory, then back to the group.
“I have a passive aura that amplifies healing and defensive buffs for allies with positive karma… and decreases enemy hit chance for attacks targeting anyone inside the radius, especially if the attacker has a negative karmic balance.”
Mallory raised her eyebrows. “Wow, Ronan—that’s incredibly cool.”
Grim nodded. “I have a feeling we’re going to need that. I’ve been thinking a lot about what happens after this… The pace only ramps up from here. Between recruiting the Peacekeepers and prepping for the global launch of The System, we’re going to be running full tilt.”
A few heads nodded as people took thoughtful sips of their drinks. Brick leaned forward, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
“Anyone else notice how little sleep we actually need now? I think I could’ve gotten up after two hours, easy. Slept ‘til oh-five-hundred just out of habit.”
Elise tapped her fingers lightly on the table. “It’s the increase in neural and cellular efficiency,” she said. “Our bodies process energy differently now. Physical exhaustion won’t require sleep at all once your Endurance crosses—” she looked upward, thinking “—probably seventy-five or so. After that, it’s just mental fatigue. And even then, a short period of daily meditation might be enough.”
That turned a few heads—and lifted a few moods. The excitement was palpable now, the cohort more energized than ever. The possibilities ahead of them weren’t just hypothetical anymore. They were real. They were here.
The conversation drifted and flowed, laughter and speculation filling the room—until eventually, someone turned to Elise.
And the good doctor—quiet, confident, always composed—began to speak.
What she said next floored everyone.