“Alright, Mr. Middlespoon, you are all set. Just sign here and here and you are good to go.”
I take a few moments to process the words spoken to me and my present circumstances. Clearly I have blacked out for a while, for one moment I was expertly piloting one of my grand and glorious vessels around the battlefield to tactically redeploy troops, and the next I find myself at some kiosk in a strange place.
The young lady across from me, a fine gnome in her own right, appears professional with all the items of flair that decorate her person and workspace. Knickknacks, doodads, whatsits, widgets, and even a few trinkets can be found, none of them sticking to any sort of theme. I don’t recognize her, but she doesn’t appear dead behind the eyes, so she probably doesn’t work for my ex-wife. Her outfit is rather corporate, with a cravat that goes nearly to her belt, so clearly she has good taste.
“Um, my name is ‘Muddlespoon’, not ‘Middlespoon’,” I reply to her with a bit of uncertainty in my voice. I am pretty sure I didn’t legally change my name, but I don’t remember why I am here or where “here” is.
“Oh, my apologies Mr. Muddlespoon. Please review the documents and ensure everything is correct before signing.”
She hands me the forms, complete with a blank copy in case I need to start over. Finding a bench behind me, I opt to ignore it in favor of searching for a seat with actual cushions. My tushy needs proper support if I am to spend a great deal of time on it, after all. To my delight, I find an upholstered armchair with an accommodating table suited for paperwork nearby, and I eagerly snatch it up before someone else can, not that there is anyone else here.
As disappointing as it may be to not have tea and proper refreshments, I still muscle through such lack of hospitality and get to work. I start by flipping through the pages to get an understanding of what it is even about. Quickly, I catch on that this all appears to be typical stuff related to “near-death experiences”. I have been punted, squashed, eaten, sat on, and generally subjected to a fair number of indignities in my time, but I have always managed to turn my body into a statue as hard as steel before any damage could occur. Each instance counts as nearly dying, and it involves a trip through The Void and to the realm of my gods to fill out the appropriate paperwork, so I am familiar with the song and dance routine.
I start reviewing the forms, my dissatisfaction growing as I see that literally everything is wrong, not just my name. My address is listed as the apartment next to mine back in Berkerin, and I live in World’s End now, so I annotated it on the filled out copy. It is a rookie mistake to fill out the new copy until everything is accounted for first, as there is no means to erase mistakes.
With how sloppy this all is, I quickly look for the clause about how I filled everything out truthfully to the best of my ability, but I don’t see it anywhere. In fact, this isn’t the form I normally fill out, and glancing around the room, I notice that the aesthetics are nicer than what I am normally used to. Looking closely at the paperwork, a sickening feeling grows within my guts as I see the checkbox for “near-death” is not checked, and instead, “final death” is checked.
“Oh,” I say outloud to myself as realization dawns on me. “I wasn’t quick enough this time.”
That can only mean that I am Upstairs, on The Top Floor, at the place where the Big Wigs reside. I take a gander at the exchange rate of the memories I would have to sacrifice for a Mulligan, and the figure is staggering. I would barely even be me if I took the offer, and the effect would be permanent for when I finally depart for my final afterlife. It would be a poor deal to take a few more years of life if it meant spending eternity not knowing who or what I am. The past exchanges had been light and agreeable, not that I can remember what I gave up, only that the juice was worth the squeeze.
Flipping a page over to a blank side, I start taking notes of everything that is wrong and what my options are. The paperwork doesn’t explicitly say that I need to be truthful, but I wonder if this is some elaborate trap as a final judgement of my character before the afterlife. And as I do so, I experience a hot sensation from within my breast pocket.
With curious fingers, I fish around in there and pull out a rather elaborate business card. The paper is golden yellow with a metallic sheen, and the black font comes in no fewer than six different styles. One side has a silhouette of a dragon crossing a bridge, so I quickly recognize whose it is. There is also a folded up piece of paper with it, and I unfold it to see what light it may shed on my situation. It is just a simple note with familiar handwriting on it, but the words fill me with hope.
“Bellwright, tweak your forms a little bit in your favor, but don’t get too greedy. Be sure to show them my business card when you hand it all in.”
“Too greedy” is an extremely relative term that may not have the same level of expectations across species, and I gulp nervously as I ponder what I can get away with. How far out on the proverbial branch do I want to go to grab the best fruit at the risk of it snapping under my weight? I consider my options, writing down the original values and contenders for what they should be changed to, my focus on the things that matter most.
Obviously, I won’t change my name. My actual current address is fine too, even though the apartment next door is on the corner; I don’t want to risk all my stuff somehow no longer being mine if I change that. But then I see my age as “684”, and, glancing around briefly, I quickly annotate that to “486”. It feels like an innocent enough mistake if I am caught.
Then I move on to my Blessing, and I feel like it could use a small adjustment. [Gnomish Grand Conjurer With Expertise Of Vessels And Terrain] gets changed to [Senior Illustrious Gnomish Conjurer With Mastery Of Marvelous Vessels And Fantastic Augmenter Of Reality]. They are practically the same thing; there is no reason for anyone to quibble over such small details.
Hair color gets changed from “Gray” to “Silver Fox”, which really just better suits my natural charm and charisma. I add an inch or two to height, which will require a whole new wardrobe, but I am due for an upgrade anyway. Ear Wax can remain “Wet”, as that isn’t worth my assumed reserves of fudgery. Eye Color can be changed to “Sky Blue,” which is the color they look when the light hits them just right, so it isn’t really a falsification of records to make such a clarification.
And so on and so forth I go, making adjustments as necessary to “correct” a few injustices that life has dealt me. After all, with what memories I have traded away in the past, some of this stuff could have been true at some point in my life, so it really would not be definitively false. When I get to my second Blessing, I expected it to be blank, but instead it says “[Used Wagon Salesman]”.
“Pssh, as if anyone would ever want that!” I exclaim to myself as I think of what to write instead. As I sit there pondering and doodling, my hand moves of its own accord to write something down on the sheet. “Oh, well that doesn’t sound so bad.”
[Magnificent Draconic Headmaster of the Exquisite Educational Institution of the Crossroad Wayfinders] had a certain appeal to it. I do like teaching, and it has the appropriate level of prestige for a gentleman of my distinguished caliber. However, considering the capacity for violence that dragons possess, it would be to the good order and dignity of an institute of education that the person ultimately in charge of its success would have the means necessary to ensure civil conduct for pupils. Or put another way, it will probably enhance my ability to box the ears of anyone that gets to uppity.
With utmost care and attentive focus, I scour the forms one final time for any hidden gotcha in the normal print and the fine print. I also examine it for extra fine print and invisible ink, but no such shenanigans are to be found. That either means there are none or they are of exceptional quality. With everything in order and to my satisfaction, I employ my best penmanship to fill out the blank forms, ensuring there are no misspellings or smudges that could be used against me. A final review ensures no mistakes have been made, and after waiting longer than strictly necessary to ensure the ink is completely dry, I head back to the kiosk to hand in my forms.
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“Is everything in order, Mr. Muddlespoon?” asks the receptionist as she puts down her embroidery and accepts my forms with the business card on top. She takes a good stare at the card, then glances at me, then back to the card for while before she shrugs and starts to process them. She gives a perfunctory pass at each page before her stamp bounces back and forth from the inkpad to each page. “There you go, Mr. Muddlespoon. Try not to come back here anytime soon, or the Big Wigs will need to have a word with you,” she commented as she leveled a critical gaze at me.
“Understood, madam, and thank you for your efforts in this matter,” I reply as I accept the business card back as she offers it to me. Safely tucked away in my breast pocket, I depart without further dialogue lest I somehow fumble my words and have her “misfile” my paperwork.
With my business finished, I head for an elevator platform and press the call button. When it arrives and the door opens, I almost stumble as I find myself face to face with a Big Wig. Indeed, he is dressed in the finest clothes, the fanciest shoes, and a combination of wig and hat that rivals the size of his own body. Not wanting to be rude, I step onto the platform as it continues downward. I try not to look at him, hoping he remains inclined to continue in silence.
“So, fancy business card you have there,” he states suddenly in abject disregard for my hopes of passivity. “The Boys Upstairs and I have been talking about it and your paperwork. Your interpretation of reality was most imaginative when making corrections. To ensure that it all gets processed smoothly, there is something we need you to do for us to ensure our focus isn’t invested in other ventures.”
Ah, a shakedown, and the kind I can’t refuse given the sensitivity of how it would affect me. No way out but through, so I crank up the charm.
“Oh, I didn’t realize that little ol' me would garner the attention of such prestigious individuals such as yourself. I wouldn’t want there to be any mistakes or misunderstandings, so please, tell me what service I may provide to ensure everything works out best for everyone,” I finish while beaming my best polite smile at the jackal in gnome’s clothing next to me.
“It is a trifling thing, really. Why, you will barely even have to do anything,” he replied with a predatory smile. “Here is my business card,” he said as he leaned in and offered me his own card, black with silver and red ink. “I just need you to do one teensy weensy little favor for me.”
My eyes widened with shock as he whispered his instructions to me, and unable to refuse, I accepted his business card with equal measures of distaste and damnation.
“Understood. I will endeavor to do my best.” Stoic acceptance masked my reluctance and aversion, but such would doubtlessly not fool a Big Wig.
“Splendid!” he replied as he gave me a slap on the back. “It gladdens my heart that we could come to an accord. Naturally, you won’t remember any of this after you leave here, but the time will come when the memory returns, when you will recall what was promised and what is owed, and you will do your part.”
The “or else” was firmly implied, and with the lift coming to a stop, the Big Wig departed with a “toodles” being uttered.
Alone in the lift, the fleeting foreknowledge of what I must do and the betrayal that would hound it left a bitter taste in my mouth that not even the best tea could wash out. Time and distance became background concerns as my mind wandered while the lift continued on. Memories, the price of a second chance, shifted and stirred, with those of this conversation in particular evaporating away as I traveled through The Void and back to the world of the living. And there, in all his draconic glory, was my friend, to whom I am now bound, and to whom I must someday apologize for a betrayal and pray he forgives me.
I have saved two of my companions in one day and it isn’t even lunch yet! Fatigue, more magical than physical in nature, shrouds my mind as my [Parallel Minds] all but shut down. Jericho living high on the hog by limit testing her capabilities was not helping things, so I had a whelp casting my voice on repeat to remind her to taper it back lest she drains me dry.
Bellwright had been little more than paste upon the high road, and my prospects at saving him were not very high. However, as disturbing and grotesque as it may have been, my blood worked, and his fleshy bits did ooze back together into a coherent physical form. I dare say he looks better than ever, his hair having a brighter sheen, his eyes a lighter hue, and his figure possessed of more vigor and youth than normal. I could only wonder as to how costly it would be when it came time to pay the piper for clearly stealing him away from death. A problem for future me, I quickly snatched him up and flew us away back to the command center.
Chooka, bless her heart, was still merrily going at it, seemingly oblivious to the heroic efforts of my whelps to constantly stave off disaster for her. Foes well above their weight class were throwing themselves at her, but with combined firepower, my whelps were keeping the worst of it away while letting her do her thing. All good things must come to an end, and so I instructed them to also herd her back to the command center. She had caught on to my earlier dismay for Bellwright, but she soon shrugged it off as she felt me handling it. With my resources taxed and not wanting to risk more loss, I began efforts to corral members of my flight into safe areas.
The flight back would not be without risk. I am tired, and the enemy surely knows I am an Emperor. There are only 3 other True Dragons in my flight, and none of them are escorting me, as they are handling their own dilemmas. However, my return flight takes me outside and slightly below the high road, so any strike force against me would have to be subtle and powerful if it were to reach me. Given the rash of mind controlling and infiltration of subversive forces, I cannot rule out that those garrisoned below could be colluding with the enemy, willingly or otherwise, but to venture even further out only exposed me to more risk.
Skull, ever lurking in the Shadow Path, keeps vigil over my person. I can feel her frustration, the call to battle ringing strong as she is forced to stay her hand to protect me. I send over feelings of gratitude and assurances that she too will get her moment to shine, which helps to assuage her concerns. Such is the role of upper management, that all I do is run around and issue instructions while bailing out my subordinates without ever getting a chance to get into the fray myself. The smorgasbord of Experience Points is passing me by, and even though I know intellectually that it will be there for centuries to come, it still rankles me to seemingly sit idle.
This dissatisfaction caused a feedback loop between Skull and I with both of us wanting to go fight, acknowledging that it would be foolhardy at best for me to do so in my current condition, and trying to make each other feel better. Not to say that we were distracted, for I had eyes and ears everywhere to survey my route back to the command center. Nothing of note happened, which isn’t to say that nothing happened, for there still exists the possibility that the enemy movements were so clandestine as to escape notice. Perhaps they would be content to observe patterns and to strategize for future attempts on my person.
Safely back in a secure location, I instructed Bellwright to hop off before I returned to a human form. Shifting my focus, I attended to assessing the flow of battle as a whole and accounting for key personnel rather than issuing commands. I also apprised the other Emperors as to what I have been up to so that they would know to pick up my slack. No biting or insulting comments flowed between us, so either they were too busy for verbal barbs or they were empathetic to my situation. You may be surprised, but the latter probably contains more truth, as dragons are exceptionally protective and covetous of their important mortal allies, and so we all understand the risks and efforts we take to protect them.
It-Has-Pockets, Torborg, and some female elf that is yet to be decided are all the remaining candidates to be my companions. It-Has-Pockets is here in the command center, and we have far bigger problems than worrying about her if this location should come under serious attack. Torborg is deep beneath the fortress in the most secure and secretive location, which is where most of my traps, whelps, and other defensive measures are located, so he should be safe. That left a handful of potential elven beauties running around that could be my companion, but given that there are enough spares should one experience an untimely demise, I dedicate fewer resources to protecting them than they may strictly require.
Not sleepy, but still fatigued, I set about the vigorous process of resting, straining my every nerve and muscle to rest even faster, not that any success could be had with such a paradoxical undertaking. It-Has-Pockets and Chooka, sensing my unrest, came over to help, with the former dancing slowly and the latter playing a soothing melody on her electric shamisen. Not only were their actions physically effective, but they also possessed supernatural qualities to help me out, and within a few hours, I would be as good as new.
