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

subside, I spit out the rag and carefully reach for the cup of water and swish some around in my mouth. The intensity of the pain is making my mouth very dry, and now it tastes like an old rag.

For the next few minutes, I am occupied with making sure my leg is splinted as straight as possible. To do this, I break up some of my pallet bed and reuse some of the filthy rags from Des. This process hurts more than I care to admit. When I finish, I flop back and breathe deep and slow to try to control the pain, though it comes out more like harsh, ragged breaths. There's nothing else I can do until this 'Maiden Teal' shows up. I can only hope they have some pain killers with them.

Alone and wrapped in the agony of my current state, I begin to ponder my situation. Things are looking kind of bleak right now. I still don’t know where I am or how I really got here. By now I’ve missed a few days at work, so they’ll consider me AWOL, and I'll get no pay. I have some family, but none live close by; therefore, it might take a week or two before they even notice I’m gone. Most of my friends are co-workers who will notice I’m gone, but in our field, disappearing and going on a bender for a few days is not unheard of. The rest of my friends are scattered throughout the country, and we only talk every few weeks, if that. I reckon the first person to really care that I’m gone will be my landlord when my rent is late. No phones, no calendars, nothing to ground me to any specific places or time here, which is also evidenced by the Sarge supposedly being dragged here from sometime in the '70s. Oh, yeah, and my leg’s broken, and I’m in some bizzaro dungeon prison. Perfect. Looks like this one-man pity party is in full swing!

To distract myself from all the details I still can't wrap my head around, I look at the tattoo on my arm again. Right now, it seems to be dully flashing with a small blue arrow in the center. It stops flashing when I put my finger to it, and the image pops up with my stats. I can't find any obvious reason for the flashing. I let the image collapse, and the tat goes inactive.

Pressing it again, I review the new changes:

FIGHTER

Level: 6

Hit Points Max: 62

Current Hit Points: 55

Dexterity: 6 (-2 penalty) for checks based on movement and A/C1; 12 (+2) all others

Armor Class: 8

Base Movement: 5 (Crippled)

My ‘Armor and Weapons’ lists are empty again, and my A/C is down to 8 without the Dex bonus and the new penalty due to my leg. Playing around a bit, I manage to get it to flip to the next page. Also, it seems my ‘Base Movement’ has dropped to ‘5’ to reflect I can’t move very far or fast. Great, I can add that to my resume: “Crippled, clumsy, and slow, but has a great personality.”

I must have drifted off into an exhausted sleep, because the next thing I know, I’m jolting upright on the pallet from an intense pain in my knee. I let out something resembling a scream and take a wild swing at the shape crouched over me. This earns me an elbow to the nose that knocks me right flat on my back again, causing more pain to shoot down my broken leg. Blood flows from my nose, and through my watering eyes, I see a woman dressed in blue robes. She steps back and watches me with suspicion from above the veil half-covering her face. I rub my eyes and huff.

“Maiden Teal, I presume?”

She stops retreating and says, “Your accent is atrocious. The way you say my name hurts my ears. You may call me Thorn if you must speak to me.”

Yeah, definitely some kind of brogue, remembering her voice from the last time she had attended to me. I ignore her insulting scorn and ask, “So, are you here to just hit me, or is there anything you can do about broken bones?”

“Is it the habit of your people to question the abilities of your healers?” she retorts. I notice her eyes glowing a brighter blue with her mounting anger.

“Actually, it is. It builds trust and discourages assaulting a sleeping patient! Maybe next time—”

She cuts me off with what sounds like a few curses in her native language. I’m not going to even try to spell them here, but trust me, it sounded rude. She spins on her heel, hood falling back as she marches out the door. I briefly catch a glimpse of a pointed ear poking out of her reddish-blonde hair. Her blue robes flash above her brown leather boots as she slams the door shut behind her. I let out a deep breath and lay back down, trying to get comfortable. My knee and nose begin to throb in rhythm. Sigh.

Sometime later, I hear many feet trudging down the hallway. A low murmur of voices and several different languages echo from the hall. After a few minutes, the door swings open, and Des and Jesse shuffle in. Distracted and exhausted, Jesse nods at me, takes off his coat, and flops down on his pallet, facing the wall. Des stops next to my cot and looks down, a smirk on his unshaven face.

“So, you attacked Thorn, eh?” he says, humor in his eyes.

“Are you kidding me? Is that what she said? She grabbed my damn leg while I was sleeping! I didn't know who she was!”

“And yet, you're the one who ended up with the broken nose!” He laughs out loud and sits on the edge of my pallet. “Don’t worry about it. Most elves are even more stuck up and prouder than she is. I do think you made a good