II-9: The Price of Fame II

Greg had gotten a few interesting receptions in all the towns and villages he had been in since he had shown up in Westeros.
Most of them had been oddly hesitant about him, a little suspicious, eyeing him like he was some kind of alien — which, technically, yeah — or worse, a threat.

Even Frostfall had acted that way and he had helped save their lives which was just… a little insulting but whatever, it's not like he cared… at all, really.

Seriously, he didn't.

But yeah, almost every place he had shown up to had been cautious when he showed up, looking at his clothes, his face, his sword, all of it with a clear wariness in their eyes like he was going to pull out a machine gun or start breathing fire. Though I guess the fire thing isn't totally wrong anymore.

For some reason, Northbank wasn't like that at all. The village itself wasn't much to look at — wooden houses with thatched roofs, a few stone buildings here and there, and the ever-present smell of smoke from cooking fires mixing with the crisp autumn air.
Granted, sure, at first the villages had stared at him as he walked through the gates, but it hadn't been with suspicious eyes. No, every eye he had on him was wide and shocked, jaws dropping like they were trying to catch flies. Granted, it could have been for many reasons. Like, so many reasons.

Like the quarter-ton boar he was carrying above his head with one hand, blood still dripping from its massive bulk onto the muddy ground below. The thing probably weighed as much as three men put together, and here he was carrying it like a waiter with a serving tray.

Or… maybe, just maybe, it was the man they all thought was dead striding back into the village with blood all over his body and not a scratch on him, grinning like he'd just won the lottery instead of nearly becoming pig food.

Greg lowered the boar to the ground on the grass where Wald asked him to — finally, my arm was starting to fall asleep — and watched silently as two women ran out of the growing crowd to embrace the blood-covered man, tears streaming down their faces. Well, one woman and one girl that looked not that much older than him, both of them clutching at Wald like they thought he might disappear.

Being honest… he really couldn't tell in the North. Even the teenagers tended to look at least two to three years older than he'd expect people to look, not just in the face but just more mature in general. Like they skipped the awkward phase and went straight to adult-lite.

Either way, as Wald announced to the village that Greg had saved him, his voice carrying over the murmur of the crowd, the villagers had surrounded him and started chanting his name like he had just scored the winning touchdown or whatever. The sound echoed off the wooden buildings, making it seem like there were twice as many people.

Wald had walked along with his wife and daughter, all of them cheering his name, as they led him through the village and onto the center. The packed dirt beneath his feet was well-worn, countless footsteps having smoothed it over years of use. Greg couldn't help but smile, excited at all the positive attention, and just wave back at everyone. This… He blinked, smile brightening into a grin… This is way better than Frostfall.

Granted, that first village hadn't treated him like a pariah, but everyone there hadn't been sure how to deal with him and it showed. Sure, most people were respectful, but they also kept their distance, like he was some kind of weird exhibit at a zoo.

Even back in Brockton Bay, the only one to ever shower him with this much attention was…

He shook his head, quickly changing his train of thought before he could think of anything sad again. Nope, not going there. Happy thoughts only.

This was almost too much to deal with, the press of bodies around him, the sounds of cheering mixing with the normal village noises — chickens clucking, dogs barking, the distant bleating of sheep.

He glanced around, and spotted Wald, the man speaking into his wife's ear as his daughter waved back at him with a demure smile, her cheeks slightly pink. Greg blinked, waving back at her, unsure what to do with that smile. The only girl that had ever looked at him like that before was… Gwenna.

He winced a half-second later. What did I say about sad thoughts, brain? Getting real tired of your emotional sabotage.

Thankfully, a distraction came in the form of what Greg could only assume was the village chief, the man dressed a good bit better than everyone else and a bit more well-fed as well. Like Santa Claus's younger, slightly less jolly brother. He stood about a head taller than most villagers, his robust figure wrapped in a thick, fur-lined cloak that probably cost more than most villagers made in a year, while a woolen cap, dyed a deep forest green, rested atop his slightly graying hair.

"M'lord, we thank ye for returnin' Wald to us," the man spoke, voice deep and not as gravelly as Greg would have expected from someone who looked like they gargled rocks for fun. "What would ye have of us?"

The teenager shrugged, the gesture automatic. "It was nothing."

The chief seemed not to expect that, blinking slightly at Greg's unbothered response like someone had just told him the sky was green. "I...er, would ye have us prepare a feast... one 'eld in yer honor?"

Didnt I already say yes to Wald… Greg stared at the chief for a moment. "I mean, sure, I..." He paused a second later, glancing out at the expectant crowd of smallfolk, before deepening his voice and standing proud. Oh, I get it. I gotta really play it up. Time to channel my inner Brian Blessed. "Yes, I will feast with you!" he bellowed, throwing a hand in the air like he was about to summon lightning.

The villagers cheered and the chief looked satisfied, nodding his head like Greg had just solved world hunger. Greg held back a smirk. Well, it's just cooking some meat. How long could that take?

The feast took the whole damn day to set up. Like watching paint dry, if the paint was made of raw meat and needed to be cooked.

Well, not exactly...

At least half a fucking day. The sun had been high in the sky, almost in the middle when the villagers had gotten started, beating down on them like nature's own spotlight while they worked.

They had gone at it with axes, knives, and anything other sharp tool they could get their hands on, cutting apart the boar into large sections with the skill of a well-oiled machine. Like a medieval butcher shop assembly line. Splitting apart the torso and removing the organs and extra fat so fast that Greg would be distracted by a villager coming to say something to him and when he turned back, there'd be another large part missing from the dead animal, like someone was playing the world's grossest magic trick.

Then, they set up multiple fires and spits while others began preparing the hall and getting tables ready and whatever else they needed for a proper feast. The smell of smoke and cooking meat filled the air, making his stomach growl even hours before the food would be ready.

Greg hadn't been able to see the rest of it as the head of the village kept him distracted by taking him on a tour of the village for some reason, blabbing on about the "beauty of Meadowbank" and how it was a "something something" of a "place for him."

He didn't really pay attention, too used to tuning out adults unless it was for important stuff. Like when they're trying to kill you, or offering you food.

That was hours ago.

Now, though…

Now the hall was loud—too loud, alive with noise, and thick with the smell of roasted boar in the air as the villagers cheered, drank, and sang like they were trying to wake the dead. Greg sat at the head of the long table next to the village chief, his plate piled high with chunks of the very boar that had almost killed Wald. Talk about karma being delicious.

The lute player in the corner was strumming out some bawdy tune about a northern maid and a wandering knight, his fingers dancing across the strings like drunk spiders. The crowd was roaring with laughter at the verses, even though Greg couldn't quite catch all the words through the thick accents and slurred voices that made everything sound like it was being spoken underwater. The northern air outside was cold enough to freeze spit before it hit the ground, but in here, heat from the roaring fire in the hearth and the bodies of hundreds of villagers pressed together made the place feel stifling, like someone had turned the hall into a sauna.

The noise, the attention, the way people kept clapping him on the back, calling him "m'lord" — it was a lot, being honest. Honestly, the way people kept calling him 'm'lord' or whatever when he didn't have any proof of being a lord, or one they ever heard of, made him start wondering if adventurers like him who fought bandits or monsters were just called that for some reason.

He frowned a few seconds later, wrinkling his nose as he thought about it harder. No, that doesn't make sense. Arryk Stonehall was a knight and he fought bandits too, and he said all they call him was Ser. Maybe it's the clothes? Or the magic? Or both?

Still a little confused, he glanced to his side, trying to make sense of it all while dodging another attempt to refill his cup.

Chief Hod, a heavyset man with a thick graying beard that looked like it could house small animals, sat next to him at the head table and was clapping along to the music, his face red with ale and mirth like someone had replaced his blood with beer. Every now and again, he would slap Greg on the back or shoulder, a choking hazard if there ever was one, and laugh as if they were old friends sharing some private joke. Greg offered a weak smile each time, though he was sure it looked more like a grimace.
Three months in Westeros, and he still had never been treated this well in any village. He definitely wasn't used to it now, especially not when they were trying to drown him in ale like they were preparing for another flood.

A girl with wide gray eyes, a freckled face and hair in thick blond pigtails leaned over his shoulder, her hand quick as she tipped another mug of ale into his cup, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "For ye, m'lord!" she beamed, her cheeks flushed from the heat and drink like someone had painted them pink. Greg could feel the warmth of her breath on his neck, and the way her hand lingered just a second too long on his arm made him redden faster than the ale ever could. She wasn't the first to try that tonight.

She wasn't even the fourth.

The lute player near the fire was halfway through another bawdy northern song, his voice slightly slurred from drink, as he sang about a maid who'd fallen into a river and the many things the lads had done to "save" her. Pretty sure CPR is from the top end. The whole hall roared with laughter, banging fists on tables in rhythm with the song hard enough to make the cups jump. Greg winced, his tankard slipping from his grip as another girl—the sixth or seventh one that night—leaned over and topped it off with more ale. Oh, great. Even more.

Wald, sitting across the table with a new tunic and trousers to replace his bloodstained ones, raised his cup to Greg, a wide grin splitting his weathered face like an overripe melon. He was alive because of Greg, though the boy wasn't sure they needed to do all this. Just a bit of magic, like putting a band-aid on a cut.

"Drink up, lordlin'!" one of the hunters—Rulf or something, names are hard right now—called from down the table, lifting his own cup in a toast. The others joined in, shouting Greg's name and clapping their hands, ale sloshing onto the floor like a beer waterfall. The sound echoed off the wooden walls, making Greg's head buzz even more than the alcohol already was.

Greg forced a grin and took another sip of his ale.

It was strong—too strong for him, like drinking liquid fire—but the villagers seemed to take his reluctance as modesty, pushing more food and drink his way like they were trying to fatten him up. The boar meat, which had been spit-roasted for hours until it fell off the bone, was juicy and rich with herbs he couldn't name, but it was hard to enjoy when every few minutes someone slapped him on the back or shoved another slice of meat onto his plate like they were playing some medieval version of food Jenga.
"Ye carried that beast all th' way back yerself, did ye, m'lord?" the chief asked with eyes gleaming with respect. The firelight caught in his beard, making it look like copper wire.

Greg nodded, not trusting himself to say much with his head spinning a little. The room was starting to tilt at weird angles. "Aye." When in Rome...

These people thought he was a lord or something special like everyone else in this weird fantasy world did, and who was he to correct them? Not like they'd believe the truth anyway — 'Hey guys, I'm actually from another universe where we have phones and indoor plumbing!'

"Drink, m'lord, drink!" one of the girls beside him laughed, tipping another mug of ale into his hand. The liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim. Greg grinned, half-embarrassed but too caught up in the moment to refuse. His face was flushed, not just from the heat of the fire and the heavy meal but from the way the villagers kept cheering his name like he was some kind of rock star. Every time he lifted the mug, they cheered louder, as though they expected him to drink the whole hall dry by himself. Challenge accepted... maybe.

"Good lad!" the chief bellowed, slamming his own mug down hard enough to slosh ale over the table like a tiny tsunami. "That's da spirit! Let th' ale flow! We've got Wald back thanks to ye!"

Greg managed a laugh that came out more like a giggle, lifting the mug to his lips again, though he was barely taking more than a few gulps at a time. The whole scene felt surreal, like something out of a cutscene or a movie, and the way the villagers were looking at him—grateful, adoring, and more than a little hopeful—was starting to feel overwhelming, like being crushed by positive vibes.

But right now, with the music making his bones vibrate, the food filling his belly with warmth, and the cheers making his chest swell, he didn't care. He was part of this—part of something warm and alive in a way that felt good, felt real.

The girls, laughing and whispering among themselves like they were sharing the world's best secret, kept hovering by his side like moths around a flame. One of them, a redhead with bright green eyes that sparkled in the firelight, leaned closer and refilled his cup again, her fingers brushing against his arm again. The touch sent tingles up his spine.

Greg forced a smile and took another sip, trying not to gag on the strong ale that tasted like someone had fermented bread and fire together. He wasn't used to this.
None of it.

The attention, the expectations... he'd healed Wald because it was the right thing to do, not because he wanted to be worshiped. Just your friendly neighborhood wizard knight Jedi guy.

But they didn't see it that way.

The hall burst into another wave of laughter as the lute player stumbled through the end of his song, nearly falling off his stool, the chorus followed up with drunken cheers that made Greg's ears ring. A blond-haired girl with long pigtails—one of the same ones who kept filling his ale like it was her sacred duty—leaned in a little too close, her breath warm on his neck, smelling of honey and ale.

"Ye're a proper lord, aren't ye?" she teased, her eyes gleaming with mischief like a cat that found the cream. "We've not 'ad a lordlin' sit at our 'all, in many a year." Before Greg could respond, she stumbled and, laughing like bells, landed directly in his lap.

For a split second, Greg froze, blinking at the unexpected weight. Then he laughed, the ale loosening his tension like someone had untied all his knots at once. Roll with it, Veder.

"Guess I should watch where I'm sitting," the girl giggled, making no move to get up, her pigtails brushing against his cheek. Greg, a bit embarrassed but grinning like an idiot, decided to go along with it, grabbing her by the waist as she giggled. The entire hall erupted in cheers again, clearly delighted by his reaction. When in Rome, drink the ale... or something like that.

He blinked as he felt something inside him grow, the sensation familiar but Greg unable to quite put a word to it right now. Huh, he blinked again, trying to recall something important through the ale-induced fog in his brain, was that the…

A cheer erupted from across the hall, and Greg looked up through ale-blurred eyes to see a group of young men, faces flushed red as tomatoes, holding up their mugs like they were torches. They were toasting him, their voices blending into a mess of slurred words that bounced off the wooden walls.

"To da lordlin'!" one of them shouted, spilling half his drink as he thrust his tankard in the air, "he's got da strength of da old gods themselves!"

The girls refilling his ale giggled at that, each trying to catch his eye like they were fishing for his attention. Greg offered a weak smile and quickly looked away, focusing instead on Ash, who was still gnawing on the boar, blissfully unaware of the chaos surrounding him. The bear cub's fur was spotted with grease, making him look like he'd been wrestling with his dinner.

The lute player switched to another tune, this one even more inappropriate than the last, something about a miller's daughter and three traveling knights. The villagers sang along, some clapping in rhythm, others stumbling drunkenly around the tables like they were trying to dance but forgot how legs worked. Greg wondered if it was possible to drown from ale without actually drinking it; it seemed to be in the air, seeping into his skin like some kind of boozy fog.

"Sing wiv us, m'lord!" one of the villagers called out, voice thick with drink and cheer, and before Greg could think too hard about it, he was joining in, his voice hoarse from laughing and not quite in tune with the bawdy song everyone was belting out. His arm, already heavy from the drinks, was draped over the girl still perched in his lap like she belonged there, and he barely noticed the side glances she kept exchanging with her friends across the table.

Ash let out a low growl as he tore through another piece of boar flank, and Greg glanced down at the bear cub, who seemed to be enjoying the feast as much as he was, gnawing at the meat with clear satisfaction. At least someone's having a good time without getting drunk.
"To Greg, th' boar-slayer!" the chief roared, his voice cutting through the noise like thunder, raising his mug high enough to splash ale on his beard. The hall echoed the toast, the sound nearly lifting the roof, and Greg, caught up in the cheers and excitement, raised his own mug, grinning like a fool.

The world spun a little faster, but he didn't care anymore.

The girl in his lap smiled over his shoulder as she leaned in, her warmth pressed against him, but Greg barely noticed, not until she whispered in his ear, her breath tickling his skin. "Ye must be tired, m'lord," she said, her voice soft as silk, eyes wide in a way that made Greg's stomach flutter like he'd swallowed butterflies. "All that strength, all alone in da woods..."

The world tilted around Greg like a ship in a storm as he stumbled through the dimly lit hall, the laughter and music of the feast fading into a distant hum that seemed to pulse with his heartbeat. He blinked, trying to focus on the blond girl with the pigtails leading him by the hand. Her laughter rang like bells in his ears, sweet and clear through the fog of ale, and he couldn't help but grin at how her eyes sparkled in the torch light, filled with mischief and warmth that made his chest tight.

"C'mon, m'lord," she teased, her voice playful and inviting as she tugged him along. "Let's find a place more comfortable." He could barely process her words, his mind swimming in a thick fog of ale and cheer that made everything feel dreamy and distant. His heart raced like a drum, and every step felt like he was walking on clouds made of cotton candy.

As they reached the room, the door creaked open with a sound that seemed too loud in the quiet hallway, and she pulled him inside, her hands warm and sure as they guided him gently. He could feel the heat of her body close to him, her presence wrapping around him like the heavy cloak he wore earlier. The walls felt like they were closing in, yet it only made the air between them feel charged, electric, like the moment before lightning strikes.

"Be at ease, m'lord," she whispered, her voice low and sweet as honey as she pushed him back and onto the bed. He fell on it with all the grace of a drunk penguin, the soft straw mattress giving way beneath him, and he let out a laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside like a spring.

Before he could think – not that thinking was really happening much anyway – she was there, leaning over him, her pigtails framing her face like curtains as she drew closer. His heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to escape, and he was too dazed to register how intoxicating her presence was, how the whole world seemed to narrow down to just this moment.

Her lips brushed against his, soft and inviting as a summer breeze, and he found himself kissing her back, the both of them fumbling a little like blind puppies, feeling the world around them fade even further into a haze of warmth and wonder.

It was warm and heady, the taste of ale lingering on their lips as he kissed her, feeling the flutter of excitement in his chest that made everything else seem far away and unimportant. The room spun like a merry-go-round, but he didn't care anymore.

He didn't quite understand what was happening, but everything felt right in that moment, like the pieces were falling into place in a puzzle he didn't know he was solving. Her laughter mixed with the thudding of his heart, and the room spun faster, making him dizzy in the best way possible.

What is this? his mind buzzed like a bee trapped in honey, Why does it feel so... good?

He felt her hand slide under his shirt, fingers grazing his skin like feathers. The touch sent a jolt of heat through him, making his breath catch in his throat. He groaned, the sound muffled by her lips still pressed against his. Okay, yeah, yeahhhh...

10K Words - 100 GP

Roll: Treetop Shrine [Legend of Zelda: Oracle of Seasons] {Domain} (200 GP) - By now you should know that the Maku Tree represents a truly staggering amount of magical energy, most of it tinted with the colors of nature. With that in mind, it should come as no surprise that a fully grown and a fully empowered Maku Tree is infested with fairies. Specifically, atop its limbs are a number of small caverns made from branches and leaves, and inside each one is a weak fairy. Now, in and of themselves, they aren't terribly strong. Make no mistake, each one can heal you of the most grievous wounds, but they would only be able and or willing to do so once. However, every now and then one of them might find or make something useful to you - fairies are often pretty important to the hero's journey, you know? But, since future jumps likely won't have a Maku Tree unless you go out of your way to make one, the Shrine can relocate itself to any heavily wooded forest, jungle, or similar local, often near your starting location.

Grimoire Points: 500