Stolen Lives: A LitRPG/GameLit Novel (The Underhill Chronicles Book 1) by Keith Ahrens (books for 8th graders .txt) 📗

He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling for a while. Finally, he exhales a deep sigh. “I find myself in a peculiar situation. My… er, the clan is almost evenly split about what to do with me. Some want to accept me back into the fold, as long as I adhere to their ways and forgo any knowledge I may have learned in the past two decades I've been gone. Pretend I'm not who I am now. The rest want to shun and deny me. They would treat me as a lost traveler that they need only offer short term shelter to. I find myself loathe to accept either. I prefer to make my own choices. So, in light of these developments, I find myself needing a third option. Tell me of your world… please.”

Olivia and I look at each other in surprise. I have no idea how to respond to this.

I notice the handcuffs are still on his wrists, but the chain has been severed. Each silver bracelet is decorated with bands of leather to prevent them from touching his bare skin. The chains also have dangling silver charms and beads. His tattoos are still there, but it looks like they've been added to as well. Swirling nature designs with bright vivid colors surround both the blue and red circles.

Acri sits up and looks at us. “Perhaps this will help loosen your tongues?” He produces two bottles of a deep red liquid. “Elvish wine,” he explains.

Tonight, we have two willing pupils. And some very nice wine. Acri seems intrigued about a world without magic. “As a child, we're told stories of the original lands. How the humans developed their iron and technologies in opposition to our Magics. How they poisoned the rivers and fields, and the very air they breathed with their 'war industry.' It was enough to drive the pure Elves and most of the Fey to Under the Hill. We all dismissed these stories as fancy and fantasy as we grew older. We thought these stories were only cautionary tales to keep the young in line, to create a fear of the humans. Now you tell me this is all true… perhaps ‘The Lore’ truly do exist.”

The way he says that, with the capitalized emphasis on the “L” in Lore, perks my ears up. “What’s that? The Lore?”

“Oh, it's an old tale we tell our young. In the beginning, we Elves ruled the Green lands, what you call your Earth. Then you creatures evolved and learned to work metal and make weapons. In the process, you all managed to kill off the rivers and lakes with poisons from these workings and make the air itself all but unbreathable. A decision was made to find a new world before we were too weak to conquer one.

"My ancestors came here a few hundred of your years ago and wrested ownership from the Fomorians. But, before they left, each Fiefdom compiled a written history of their culture and history. These became known collectively as Doctrina De Primigenes. Individually, they were named for each Fief. Dullahan’s would be known as Doctrina De Terram Caeruleum.”

“So, it's just a history book? And what’s Terram Whatever-you-said?” Olivia asks.

“Terram Caeruleum. The name of this Fiefdom. And it is history, that and so much more. They are said to contain magics and spells that don’t work on this side of the Hill, so they became lost to us.”

In a flash of memory, I remember Jesse saying something about old scrolls that were used as a basis for an RPG game. I think I just found another link! I mention this to Acri, and he gets even more excited.

“So, it must be true! Your people have found them! I need to see them. However, I am appalled to hear your kind uses them as a game.” A look of disgust crosses his face.

I let it drop for now, seeing how offended he is over the game thing. His enthusiasm to learn quickly outweighs his annoyance at how his people’s history was treated, and he asks about half a million questions right away.

This goes on deep into the night with Acri asking far more questions than Thirax. His agile mind analyzes and picks apart each new piece of information we give him. He seems very quick on the uptake and files each piece of information away. The more questions he asks, the less arrogant he seems. Almost like he's forgotten to put on airs. He's very excited about the prospect of traveling to our world, but he tries to hide it. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know much more about the Lore scrolls or what they have to do with us.

We all get caught up in the enthusiasm of the conversation. After sharing some laughs and a few more stories about life in New York City, we finish the wine and call it a night.

The very next morning, the village gets attacked.

Hungover, we are pulled from our slumber by shouts and screams. The familiar clash of steel on steel cuts through my morning haze. Olivia and I scramble out of the pile of blankets and hastily grab our weapons.

I freeze as I hear a peculiar creaking of wood coming from near the ceiling. My first thought is that the roof is about to collapse, so I scoop up my helmet and plop it on my head. My second thought, as I look up, is that the ceiling is leaking.

I watch as a thick, exposed root sags lower than usual, and a large drop of gray liquid hangs from its tip. As I stand there, clad only in my boxer-briefs and steel helmet, the drop grows larger and hangs closer to the floor.

When I say it grew larger, I may be underselling it a bit. It grows to nearly my size before it 'pops' and disgorges a hulking gray-skinned