Acheron's Irregulars, Part 3

"So, you're a shape shifter?"

Fact's question caught Jerald by surprise. The actor currently appeared as a tall elegant-looking old man with a wispy beard and a set of spectacles.

"Eh? Well, yes," Jerald responded. "I suppose so."

After hopping through a portal out of Sigil, the three villagers had explained to the actors that the town of Rigus was not more than a mile away. This had turned out to be an error of sorts - they had been walking for most of the day now, and the bleak sky of the Outlands was beginning to dim into a menacing night. They at least knew they were hiking in the right direction, though. The earth was becoming rocky and scorched, and there were fewer trees with every passing hour.

"So, what's your original form?" Fact gave Jerald a very serious look.

"I don't know," Jerald shrugged.

"You... don't know?"

"Nope. I forgot. It wasn't important. Acting is all I want to do, after all..." He explained, throwing his gaze towards the horizon. "It's all that really matters to me. That, and acquiring new experiences."

"Jerald's a Sensate," Jaer, who wore a rather unflattering set of traveling jeans and tunic, piped up from behind him. "He's been one for about a decade, ever since he got knocked on the head and forgot who he was." She lifted her hand and made a swinging motion at the side of her skull.

"Thank you for your thoughts on this matter, Jaer, but I don't think the girl is interested in your perspective of the matter," Jerald growled with sharp disdain. "Yes, I was hit on the head. But it wasn't a traumatic experience. You see, it opened my eyes..."

"Opened your eyes?" Fact asked, raising her eyebrows. "Usually getting hit on the head makes your eyes close, doesn't it?"

"Metaphors, my dear girl. Metaphors. You see, back before I became a Sensate - that's the Society of Sensation - I was preoccupied with... Oh, I don't remember, but it was something that seemed terribly important at the time," Jerald told her. "But when I was struck in the head, I became free of all that. Suddenly, I understood, you see. The point of the Multiverse is to experience it. And how better to experience it then to shift into other people's roles and see it through their eyes? What more perfect way to acquire experiences then to become someone else?"

"Can you teach me to shift into things?" Fact asked, a sparkling interest gleaming in her eyes.

"No," Jerald sniffed, turning away. "It's a secret."

"The oldest elder of our village has told us many stories of you, Rin," Clarity began to speak to Benjamin with quiet reservation, walking besides him. "He said that-"

"Ben, please."

"Excuse... excuse me?"

Ben turned to her, throwing her one of his fetching smiles. "Ben. You can call me Ben. I'm not in character right now. Unless you really want me to be. After all, you're paying."

"In... character...?"

"Well, yeah," Ben said, continuing. "You know, the whole hero thing. I'm not sure what you folks are going for here, though. When I get to town, am I going to leap right into this thing? Or are we going to set up a date when I face off with this Boric fellow?"

Clarity blinked, trying to comprehend everything Ben was saying. Most of it was so confusing it just slipped right through her ears. "I, er... Boric will be arriving in three weeks. You'll meet him and face off with him then."

"Oh, good. Got some time to practice our lines, work out the kinks in the script..."

Clarity frowned. "You are a very strange man, 'Lord Ben'."

Meanwhile, Rash was glowering at Jerum. The boy had been politely ignoring it for the last few hours, but when Marien joined in just for the hell of it Jerum finally snapped. "What the hell are you two looking at?"

"I just wanted to feel like part of the group," Marien sulked.

"You don't look like a hero," Rash growled back.

Jerum smiled bitterly. "I'm not."

"Then what are you?"

"An extra."

"Oh." For several moments, Rash was quiet. When he spoke again, there was just a touch of reservation in his voice. "So does that mean you do things like fetch water for the important people?"

"Something like that."

-------------

Somewhere in the depths of the Outlands, a crackling camp-fire roared. Around it sat three figures in various poses of rest.

The first was a broad-shouldered beardless dwarf who's stout form and lengths of bound animal hide disguised the fact that he was actually a she. Going by the name of Grumelda and sporting a menacing-looking horned helmet, she was sitting back on her rump while gnawing away at a leg of fresh boar who's remains were still spitted over the flames. Behind her, an immense battle-axe of granite sat, its handle bound in sloppily wrapped leather and a rune carved into the flat of both ends.

Next to the dwarf was an archaic-looking elven girl who could be summarized by the phrase 'ditzy mage'. With splendidly rich locks of golden hair and a garment of ruby-pink that was so comfortable it made laying on rocks an exquisite pleasure, everything she did was hopelessly graceful and dismally eloquent. Even the act of eating boar-meat - one delicate sliver at a time - was performed with an infuriating sense of tact and poise.

And besides her sat the most quiet figure of them all. Kept distant from the fire, the gruff-looking human with his long dark hood and his unshaven chin appeared to be a rakish ruffian, his long wickedly curved daggers sheathed beneath his cloak. His eyes were a particularly savage color of gold, and when he stared at any member of his party they could not help but feel as if they were being quietly measured and analyzed.

Most inhabitants of the Outlands would be terrified at the idea of casually setting up camp and slaying random beasts and animals to fill their bellies. But most inhabitants of the Outlands weren't adventurers.

The recent upsurge in adventurers throughout the Multiverse had meant a few changes. Wielding power often far beyond the imagination of the Multiverse's native denizens, adventurers more often than not harkened from the Prime Material Plane, immigrating over to the Planes after they had managed to loot everything they could from their homes and were now hungry for more. More often than not, they were incredibly strong and immensely dangerous.

The steady and brisk stomp of metal shoes signified the arrival of their fourth member and leader. Everyone besides the dark-hooded human looked up as Boric returned, his sword still hefted over his shoulder.

"How did it go, Sir Boric?" Selandria, the elven sorcerer asked with a voice that caused several rocks to quiver in sickening delight.

"Less well then expected." Boric grunted. He dropped the length of his sword down next to his seat, the weapon sinking several inches into the dirt. Dropping down with a clink of metal, he glowered angrily at the fire. "Apparently, they don't want to be saved from Acheron."

"We could try Baator," The dwarf grunted in her rough and menacing way before she paused to tear another strip of meat from the boar-leg with her teeth.

"I've tried Baator. It's hopeless. Besides, they always think you're just a bloody Tanar'ri," Boric muttered. "No, the only way for us to really make an impression... To really become legendary... It has to be Acheron. We have to go in there and rough up the Plane of Tyranny. We have to go after Hextor."

It never occurred to any of them (save perhaps one) that Acheron as well as Hextor were far too powerful to be slain. For adventurers, it was always a simple matter. You found out who the biggest baddest villain was, then you went over to their house and roughed them up. After that came glory, riches, and power. It was a brutally simple formula, but it was one that worked.

"So what do we do?" Grumelda asked. "We dun' have to stay in the village for long. We can just, y'know, bash through it."

"They think if we attack Acheron, Acheron will take it out on them," Boric grunted. "They think we're not capable of defeating Hextor and destroying the Plane once and for all..." Suddenly, struck by a fit of heroic rage, Boric stood upon his feet and snatched his sword. "Was I not the one who slaughtered the ancient Red Wyrm, T'rxilssathilizion? Did I not stop the undead hordes of Grimoldenoire?! Did I not single-handedly defeat the dreadful Wilderbock?!"

"Well, we helped," Grumelda piped up between bites, nonchalant in the face of her comrade's sudden surge of righteous indignance. "'Specially with that last one."

"Whoever this Hextor fellow is, we'll surely deal with him the same way we dealt with that awful Wilderbock," Selandria said, her voice so achingly sweet that several squirrels were struck dead by its beauty on the spot.

Boric sighed, lowering his sword and dropping back atop of his rock. Dourly, he sent a low gaze towards the silent thief of their party. "What do you think, Kizen? You're our guide while we're here in the Planes... What do you think the wisest course of action would be? Should we three forget about this?"

"I believe," Kizen spoke, barely able to hide his own personal amusement, "That someone as powerful as you has nothing to fear from the likes of Hextor."

Boric smiled, delighted at their recently acquired guide's confidence. "Enough, then. We'll make preparations. In three weeks, we ride - For Rigus!"

"For Rigus," Grumelda spat out a bit of bone.

"For Rigus," Selandria sang.

"For Rigus," Kizen grinned.

-------------

Ben swallowed. "I think they're taking this just a little too seriously."

The entire village of Rigus had gathered out near the entryway to greet the actors as they arrived. Hundreds of tan-skinned people - women, children, and men - all awaited them, all of them baring wide, cheerful grins. Behind them, the sprawling city of Rigus - orderly blocks carved out of iron and rock, dotted with farmlands and blacksmith shops - stretched out far into the distance, back towards the entrance to Acheron.

The Aasimar, with his crinkled old face looking like folded parchment, grinned cheerfully as he stepped forward, his hands thrust behind his back. "I hope you don't mind, Clarity. We made a few preparations when one of the children saw you coming from the valley."

"Of course not, Old One," Clarity smiled, bowing low and reverently to the Aasimar. He smiled, throwing a glance towards Ben.

"I assume you're one of the heroes here to deliver us from the clutches of the over-zealous?" He asked, extending a long and bony hand, the skin across it stretched by weight and age.

"Er, well, funny thing about that," Ben said, the old man putting on the best grin he could manage as he shook hands with the Aasimar. "Y'see..."

"He's Rin, Old one!" Fact piped up, barely able to contain her excitement. "Like the stories you always told us about! He's even got a sword, I think! Wait, where's your sword, Mr. Rin?"

"Rin, eh?" The Aasimar gave Ben his classically fixed gaze with one eye wide open and the other nearly shut. "Never imagined you'd be that short."

Suddenly, all five of the actors were mobbed by the rushing audience, questions peppering them from all sides. 'Is it really true?' 'You're really Rin?' 'Can I hold your sword?' 'Ooh, I bet that one's a hero, too!' 'Can I have your autograph?'

Still baring that stupid grin, Ben stepped back and shot a glance towards Jerald, who had suddenly taken up the shape of a hoofed tiefling in a tux. "Er, Jerald..."

"Mmm?"

"I think, and mind you, this is only a hunch," Ben said, dropping his voice so low that Jerald had to make his ears extra big to hear, "That they really think we're heroes."

"I told you so," Marien mumbled gloomily.