Chapter 83

The Redcap, its face now red and raw, again charged Milo, who put his 14 Dexterity to good use and sidestepped, just barely avoiding the wickedly sharp steel weapon. Milo, now out of spells, pulled his least favourite backup plan out of his belt.

Every Wizard has a staff. They come standard-issue. Some are gnarled and rough, some are covered in glowing arcane runes, while some are plain and practical. Many staffs are magical, although a smart Wizard realizes that, by and large, magical staffs are overpriced and distinctly use-impaired. Nevertheless, as has already been stated, every Wizard has a staff. A staff, for a Wizard, is like his robe or pointy hat. A Wizard without one of these three things would be as lacking as a political career without scandal or a trip to the dentist without an unpleasant aftertaste. Everyone knows this. Hells, even Muggles know this. A staff is a symbol of a Wizard's power, of the triumph of knowledge and reason over chaos and insanity (note that Sorcerers, by the way, generally prefer spears, although this is certainly coincidence), and as a warning to others: Do Not Meddle, For I Am Subtle And Quick To Anger. Also, For Reality Is My Plaything.

What most people tend to forget is that, in addition to all of these things, a staff is also a large, heavy, wooden stick.

A stick which Milo brought down on the head of the enraged Redcap.

Hard.

While the Redcap staggered in pain, Mordenkainen crept up behind it.

The Redcap took another swing, enraged beyond reason, but its quarry vanished just before the blade struck home. There was a quiet popping sound, and a small, spotted rat sat in the ground in front of it, staring upwards with unblinking eyes.

"— Transposition," Milo finished casting, standing, now, where Mordy had been lurking just a moment earlier. With a meaty thud, Milo whacked the Redcap again, this time on the back of its hard skull. Redcaps back at Milo's home (Milo still thought of them as 'real Redcaps,' although the one standing in front of him looked — and smelled — pretty damn real) could only be hurt by Cold Iron. However, from what Milo could tell, this world didn't even have Cold Iron, so these Redcaps (in the interests of fairness and balance) must, by Milo's somewhat screwy meta-logic, therefore be without damage reduction. It was a risk Milo figured he had no choice but to take, as the staff did slightly more damage than the dagger and Milo badly needed all the killing power he could get.

"This is so unfair," Milo said, narrowly catching a poorly-aimed blow with his staff. "Clerics get the same number of spells as I do, but they also have a good Base Attack Bonus and Armour Proficiencies." The Redcap gave no sign of understanding him, and continued to flail wildly at him. Milo blocked a surprisingly amateurish high attack with his staff. "And even if that's not enough, they can just command armies of undead to go in first."

The Redcap, taking advantage of Milo's now raised staff, slashed him expertly in the stomach through the somewhat unreliable Robe of Arcane Might (leaving Milo with 6 HP).

"And Druids!" Milo said, jabbing the Redcap in the solar plexus with the butt of his staff. "Don't even get me started on Druids. Armour? Hit Points? Good Base Attack Bonus? Full casting?"

The Redcap made another feint, which Milo, now that he'd cottoned on to the Fey's trickery, failed to fall for.

"And failing that, they can have a wolf backing them up!"

Milo swung, but the Redcap rolled to its right with surprising agility for something to wrinkled and ugly.

"And failing that," Milo continued his rant uninterrupted, swinging his staff horizontally like a baseball bat and taking the Redcap dead on in the side of the head with a satisfying thwak, "they can just turn into a godsdamned grizzly bear!"

The Redcap, realizing that Milo had overextended himself, slapped him hard on the wrist with the edge of his blade. Milo dropped the staff as his hand, ignoring frantic orders from his brain, released the polished Darkwood weapon, which the Fey contemptuously kicked off into the snow.

Milo staggered backwards, drawing his dagger with his left hand (by our standards, Milo was more-or-less ambidextrous; although to him the word Ambidexterity meant something completely different) and eyed up the Redcap. By his calculations (assuming this beastie was anything like those he was familiar with), the Redcap had somewhere in the vicinity of three hit points remaining. Milo's dagger, propelled by his scrawny frame, was capable of doing exactly that much damage, assuming he hit.

Well, it was risky... but it just might work.

Milo took a deep breath, and, on the exhale, released the dagger in a powerful overhand throw. It spun once, twice, three times, and buried itself to the hilt... in a tree about ten feet from the Redcap.

Unfortunately for Milo, while his 'physics' did run on a number of different story conventions, poor rolls can, and do, happen regardless of dramatic necessity.

The Redcap messily ran Milo through the stomach with his serrated sword.

"Gah!" Milo gasped, suddenly tasting blood. He fell into the deep snow, and tried to scurry away, backards, from his attacker. He got a respectable distance away, leaving a trail of blood, before bumping into a most inconveniently-placed tree.

Milo glanced back at the Redcap, who was, to Milo's disgust, licking Milo's own blood off the edge of his weapon with a long, almost prehensile tongue, making horrible little sounds of delight, as if tasting, for the first time, fine Belgian chocolate.

Milo coughed weakly, spitting blood. He only had one hit point remaining, meaning his wounds weren't exactly physically debilitating — they just hurt like hell.

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