Heist, Die, Repeat - 13/2/24 - Digs
Feb 14, 2024 19:54:23 GMT
Wixspartan, Andy Davy, and 3 more like this
Post by Tom M on Feb 14, 2024 19:54:23 GMT
Digs hit the floor with a wet thud as he slid along the grimy sewer platform and took a minute to just lie there and look up at the assault course he’d made for himself.
“And you’re dead. Again.”
He had died. They all died. Over and over. They died as a way of learning. A way of improving. They made mistakes and they learned from them.
It was real. It felt like a dream, but it was real. It happened. He died. They all did. They came back.
But at the same time it wasn’t though… was it?
If he makes those mistakes again he won’t just “reset”.
He looked up at the ancient blue dragon skull suspended above him and pondered. This little trip to… wherever they were, had woken him up.
For all the risks he took on heists, fighting dragons was something beyond that. The slightest mistake and he couldn’t just try again at the lock or bluff the guy who caught him trying to swipe some keys. He’d be dead. Dead dead. He wouldn’t be coming back.
He flipped back up onto his feet and made his way back to the start of the course, resetting elements as he went, and slapped the sides of his face to wake himself up. He’d been at this all night. He was getting tired. Making even more mistakes. Not. Good. Enough.
Digs hurled himself across the gap between the two sewer platforms, grabbing hold of the dangling rope between and shimmying up it with lightning speed to enter a hanging pipe barely wide enough for him to fit his shoulders through.
Keeping his arms at his side he propelled himself on leg strength alone until he reached the tipping point and let himself slide forwards, rocketing out of the end to forward flip in flight and embed his sword into the head of a practice dummy, bouncing forward to whip a “component pouch” from the belt of a second one behind it that he’d balanced a pointy hat on.
Without even a momentary pause he leapt onto a door nailed to a wagon wheel that he’d rigged to rotate with his momentum as he hit it, holding onto the handle as he spun at dizzying speed with one hand and effortlessly picking the lock with his other.
Hard part next. He hopped off the door and fought to regain his balance from dizziness as he sprinted up a wall and backflipped onto a greased balance beam on the ceiling - waving his arms as he struggled to duck a swinging sandbag, but pivoting to catch it on the return and springing off to hit the wall with enough speed that he could run along it and leap at the skull…
And he missed. Crashing to the floor again. Same spot. Same mistake.
He lay face down in the muck for a few minutes this time before pulling himself into a kneeling position and coughing up some blood onto the floor.
That’s probably not good.
Digs turned to look at the obstacle course he’d made. So much of it, near impossible feats, was easy to him now. He’d drilled himself over and over and over. That place was a good teacher. Practice makes perfect. No more silly mistakes. His talent was a lot more reliable for it.
That last move though, striking at the skull itself…
Was it just a mental block?
He might not have understood all of his last adventure, but they had broken into the library of the goddess of magic, Mystra. They had beaten her defences. They had disarmed her traps. They had slipped her guards.
Digs had been no small part of it. He knew that. As a thief… he’d literally stolen from one of the realm’s mightiest deities. He had burgled a god. There isn’t much more “up” from that.
A good thief? No. A great thief.
Maybe that’s enough? Maybe this whole dragon hunting thing isn’t what he’s meant to do. Should he just be a great thief?
He’d gotten lucky. He’d had good allies. He was under no illusions that those dragon fights, for all he wanted to believe they were, were not won by him. Certainly not alone.
He rolled onto his back and looked up at the skull again.
No. Fuck that.
He groaned and rolled back onto his shoulders before kipping up again.
He didn’t want to just be a thief. Yeah, maybe it’s what he’s best at. Maybe that’s what the gods wanted him to be.
Fuck them too.
He walked the course in reverse, resetting it again as he did so. Reaching the start he locked eyes on the skull’s empty eyesockets and remembered who was waiting for him back home. Served by his family, all obedient dragon cultists among thousands being ruled over by a tyrant with a skull just like that one sitting underneath its skin.
He’d snorted a laugh all those months ago when she rebuked him.
“I’m not what a hero looks like Zola.”
“Heroes come in all shapes and sizes Digs.”
She couldn’t be right. A kobold can’t be a hero. A kobold can’t kill a dragon. Kobolds serve dragons. Kobolds are a lesser, lowly, pathetic, creature.
“No! Fuck you!” He yelled at the dragon’s skull, before simmering down to mumble under his breath “I’ll show you who I can be real soon.”
He cracked his neck from side to side at the beginning of the course and looked from the skull of Vorax who had devoured an entire civilisation of kobolds, to the severed white head of Covys the marauding indiscriminate murderer on his wall, to his armour currently displaying Kallos, the brutal lieutenant of Tiamat's scales, folded on a box next to his hammock.
“I just need a little more practice.”
“And you’re dead. Again.”
He had died. They all died. Over and over. They died as a way of learning. A way of improving. They made mistakes and they learned from them.
It was real. It felt like a dream, but it was real. It happened. He died. They all did. They came back.
But at the same time it wasn’t though… was it?
If he makes those mistakes again he won’t just “reset”.
He looked up at the ancient blue dragon skull suspended above him and pondered. This little trip to… wherever they were, had woken him up.
For all the risks he took on heists, fighting dragons was something beyond that. The slightest mistake and he couldn’t just try again at the lock or bluff the guy who caught him trying to swipe some keys. He’d be dead. Dead dead. He wouldn’t be coming back.
He flipped back up onto his feet and made his way back to the start of the course, resetting elements as he went, and slapped the sides of his face to wake himself up. He’d been at this all night. He was getting tired. Making even more mistakes. Not. Good. Enough.
Digs hurled himself across the gap between the two sewer platforms, grabbing hold of the dangling rope between and shimmying up it with lightning speed to enter a hanging pipe barely wide enough for him to fit his shoulders through.
Keeping his arms at his side he propelled himself on leg strength alone until he reached the tipping point and let himself slide forwards, rocketing out of the end to forward flip in flight and embed his sword into the head of a practice dummy, bouncing forward to whip a “component pouch” from the belt of a second one behind it that he’d balanced a pointy hat on.
Without even a momentary pause he leapt onto a door nailed to a wagon wheel that he’d rigged to rotate with his momentum as he hit it, holding onto the handle as he spun at dizzying speed with one hand and effortlessly picking the lock with his other.
Hard part next. He hopped off the door and fought to regain his balance from dizziness as he sprinted up a wall and backflipped onto a greased balance beam on the ceiling - waving his arms as he struggled to duck a swinging sandbag, but pivoting to catch it on the return and springing off to hit the wall with enough speed that he could run along it and leap at the skull…
And he missed. Crashing to the floor again. Same spot. Same mistake.
He lay face down in the muck for a few minutes this time before pulling himself into a kneeling position and coughing up some blood onto the floor.
That’s probably not good.
Digs turned to look at the obstacle course he’d made. So much of it, near impossible feats, was easy to him now. He’d drilled himself over and over and over. That place was a good teacher. Practice makes perfect. No more silly mistakes. His talent was a lot more reliable for it.
That last move though, striking at the skull itself…
Was it just a mental block?
He might not have understood all of his last adventure, but they had broken into the library of the goddess of magic, Mystra. They had beaten her defences. They had disarmed her traps. They had slipped her guards.
Digs had been no small part of it. He knew that. As a thief… he’d literally stolen from one of the realm’s mightiest deities. He had burgled a god. There isn’t much more “up” from that.
A good thief? No. A great thief.
Maybe that’s enough? Maybe this whole dragon hunting thing isn’t what he’s meant to do. Should he just be a great thief?
He’d gotten lucky. He’d had good allies. He was under no illusions that those dragon fights, for all he wanted to believe they were, were not won by him. Certainly not alone.
He rolled onto his back and looked up at the skull again.
No. Fuck that.
He groaned and rolled back onto his shoulders before kipping up again.
He didn’t want to just be a thief. Yeah, maybe it’s what he’s best at. Maybe that’s what the gods wanted him to be.
Fuck them too.
He walked the course in reverse, resetting it again as he did so. Reaching the start he locked eyes on the skull’s empty eyesockets and remembered who was waiting for him back home. Served by his family, all obedient dragon cultists among thousands being ruled over by a tyrant with a skull just like that one sitting underneath its skin.
He’d snorted a laugh all those months ago when she rebuked him.
“I’m not what a hero looks like Zola.”
“Heroes come in all shapes and sizes Digs.”
She couldn’t be right. A kobold can’t be a hero. A kobold can’t kill a dragon. Kobolds serve dragons. Kobolds are a lesser, lowly, pathetic, creature.
“No! Fuck you!” He yelled at the dragon’s skull, before simmering down to mumble under his breath “I’ll show you who I can be real soon.”
He cracked his neck from side to side at the beginning of the course and looked from the skull of Vorax who had devoured an entire civilisation of kobolds, to the severed white head of Covys the marauding indiscriminate murderer on his wall, to his armour currently displaying Kallos, the brutal lieutenant of Tiamat's scales, folded on a box next to his hammock.
“I just need a little more practice.”
