The 5th Hero is a Beast [Queer LitRPG Isekai]

This experience with the clockmaker was antithetical to every other authority figure in Hallvar's life.

The quiet coexistence between the old man and the beastmaster was sort of profound, in a way that only someone who spent several months as a beast would feel.

He didn't feel the need to fill the silence with conversation, nor did the clockmaker expect something from Hallvar.

Regardless of language, the beastmaster failed to feel the impulse to speak anyways. It was an urge briefly forgotten, with no familiar language to pique the sense-memory.

They drank and ate quietly, watching snow through the window and fire in the stove.

Pipkin and the blue bird settled their birdy curiosity, occupying warm spots in the workshop as they napped.

The akergryph did help herself to some bird food and some of Hallvar's cheese, though the beastmaster wasn't sure how cheese would affect her stomach.

After, the old man showed off some of his clocks. He seemed particularly entertained by Hallvar's reaction to a berggeist clock, one that was painted almost identically to the beastmaster.

There was little else to show, in terms of amusing carvings. The clockmaker settled in at his workbench to repair a dark-wooded cuckoo, allowing Hallvar to peer over his shoulder in curiosity.

When the beastmaster became bored of watching the man clean the movement of the clock, they requested to borrow pen and paper.

After sketching a clock, Hallvar drew from their travels. A fuzzy memory of the dragon's lair in Staareaux, details filled in by imagination. A fjord with the castle in the distance. A couple of deer that looked a bit too horselike, if Hallvar had to criticize their own technique.

A spearhead, the kind meant to hunt boars.

The clockmaker intervened while Hallvar was shading the rough shape of a mountain, trading the glass ink-pen for a metal-tipped stylus with an odd grip. He handed the hero a round of wood, a cross-section of a tree.

Hallvar scratched the wood with the metal pen. No results.

The old man tried to convey directions, saying words then conjuring a light and pointing to the pen.

Hallvar conjured a light; the pen didn't work.

Charades was not a super fun game to Hallvar anymore, not after living it for so long.

They tried a few more things to no avail until the old man placed his hand – a bit cold to the touch – over Hallvar's only functioning eye.

In the dark, Hallvar felt the clockmaker grab their hand, then there was the curious sensation of… Oh. Hallvar inhaled, exhaled, and focused.

There it was. Magic.

The beastmaster moved the hand from their eye, peering at the pen and attempting to get magic to flow into the device. It took a couple tries, as it was more sensation than visualization, but soon the tip of the pen glowed red with heat.

This was a woodburning tool.

The clockmaker returned to work while Hallvar played with the device. They used Pipkin as a model, half from memory and half from her silly pose as she slept.

Hallvar was adding little evergreen needles to the edge of the tree slice when the bell on the door of the shop dinged. They made eye contact with the old woman who entered, dressed in fur and leaning on a cane.

Her Adventurers had spent the last hour and a half scouring Alvgarten from the western market outwards, extending out like spiderwebs in pairs to find evidence of the kjerrborn and the alleged berggeist.

And here it was.

The berggeist smiled.

Sharp fangs extended in place of canine teeth on the top and bottom, slight gaps between each fang and the surrounding teeth allowing the jaw to shut fully.

It was injured or had been recently. The scar across its missing eye was pink, bright pink, beyond the risk of infection but still a fresh injury.

Oma nodded a polite hello, then stepped into the workshop to ask her husband a few important questions.

Lenz looked up after he finished setting a piece into place, one of his brown eyes enlarged by a magnifying glass attached to his headpiece.

"My treasure, is it time already to go?"

The question was rhetoric, as Opa Lenz began to organize his workbench, setting tools into place and arranging parts in proper assembly order for the morrow.

"We hunted for the berggeist since the report from the market, yet you have it? Lenz, you should tell me when we are playing a game of hide and find."

"It is happy and I have work to complete," the clockmaker said in his defense. He drew on his jacket, gesturing to the curious berggeist in the next room as it watched.

"Yet – it is not an it; it is one of your Adventurers."

The nuances of language were lost on Hallvar, who only understand a few words here and there when they were cognates of Amnasín words. Adventurer was easy to make out.

Oma Guildenmeister and Opa Lenz were careful to use a non-specific pronoun for the entity, as it could be a human (gendered by its choice) or it could be a berggeist (genderless by virtue of being a spirit).

Oma scoffed, even as she followed Lenz toward the door. The clockmaker began gesturing to the berggeist to pack up so they could leave.

"It possesses fangs and claws. It bears the Dragon Mark of Rodu the Wisen. It cannot be an Adventurer. A berggeist or a revenant, yes."

"It possesses a guild card."

Opa Lenz held up his now-gloved fingers in a squared gesture that Hallvar recognized, pairing it with the prefix guild- to understand. They fished out the card, handing it to the serious looking old lady.

"Amnasín," she said with growing curiosity at this spirit who was not a spirit, eying the Amnasín guild crest of a crossed sword and axe with a starry background.

Her eyebrows shot up as she read more of the card. Although the data was long out of date, the luck attribute was still higher than any normal human and the endurance attribute was nothing to sneeze at.

And a hero, no less.

"Your guildmaster is the malcontent duelist?" Oma asked, switching to Sínisch with ease.

Hallvar was surprised by the sudden change of language, but it was welcome. They nodded, handing off the wood drawing to the clockmaker to admire.

Did she know Viktor?

The old woman continued to speak in her clipped manner, precise and exact. "You are here on royal business?"

Again, Hallvar shook their head.

The woman stared at the beastmaster for only a few seconds before barking out an order. "Speak."

"Right, fuck–" The words tripped out of Hallvar's mouth, as they remembered that verbal communication was possible. "Uh, no, I– ow."

They were not aware of the fangs, not until this exact moment, at least. The damage was minor – their endurance and kjerrborn traits offsetting any scratches and scrapes – but still they bled a little from biting their lip.

Oma traded a glance with her husband, waiting for the hero to continue.

"I'm not a royal hero or whatever," Hallvar said cautiously, becoming more and more aware of which phonemes caused their long teeth to scrape the inside of their mouth. "I allied myself with the Adventurer's Guild, technically."

A guild hero was intriguing indeed. Something to consider, especially since the Guild was a singular, Aestrux-wide cooperative organization run by Guildmasters who operated local branches.

"You will stay at the Guild then, berggeist."

"My name is Hallvar."

Oma opened the door as Lenz doused the fire and dimmed the lights. "When you cut your hair and nails, then you are Hallvar. Now, you are mountain spirit. Berggeist."

The snow fell off of Queenie as she raised her head to look at Hallvar, eyeing the two other humans as they passed.

While neither of the pair reacted strongly to Queenie as she stood and ambled to Hallvar's side, the clockmaker did watch her with interest. Probably filing away her proportions for a clock carving, if Hallvar had to guess.

The tiny bluebird was nestled in the old woman's fur coat, whereas Pipkin leapt from the sparse warmth of Hallvar's hair to the kjerrborn's very warm fur.

At the old woman's prompting, the group went uphill towards the large castle, not downhill back into the city.

Hallvar was ambulating between their informed anxiety about the dangers of castles and the kjerrborn-sentiment of taking all troubles in stride.

Ultimately, it helped to remember that while pinning them down pre-beastshaper was easy, it was now much more difficult to pin down a fish hawk, kjerrborn, or qitta.

The path to the castle wound up the side of this rocky outcrop. Hallvar wasn't sure if it was technically a fjord or a mountain, but it didn't really matter. It was pretty, is what it was.

The buildings along the road began to dwindle, replaced by castle walls or defensive portcullis. The left-hand side opened up to a clear view of the city and the surrounding wilderness, only a balustrade preventing one from dropping over the edge.

Hallvar paused to look, momentarily entranced by the sight of the treetops covered in white as they covered the mountainous landscape.

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To their human gaze, this landscape seemed impossible to traverse – even without the snow, the roads cut between high mountains that seemed to jut upwards at steep inclines.

Hallvar supposed that was why they didn't spot any lone cabins in the woods. To survive here, you needed community.

They were led into a courtyard covered in snow, following lines of footprints in different directions. The clockmaker headed to a large door, the main entrance, while the old woman gestured toward a stable house tucked away by the gatehouse.

Horses and vulleig alike were nervous as the kjerrborn passed, but Queenie was uninterested in them.

It was winter so the kjerrborn had two modes – sleep or survive. She was content to sleep most of the day and eat only when she had to.

Hallvar knew this, but they still intended to feed their fur-covered daughter like a good parent should.

"Write a list for your beast's feeding," the old woman said in response to the hero's concern, leading Hallvar into the castle.

People approached her constantly as she walked, and in equal measure the locals stared at Hallvar. The beastmaster did nothing wrong, just wandering along behind the lady like a puppy.

Pipkin was thrilled to be back inside of a warm building. She flitted around, investigating the great hall and keeping an eye on Hallvar.

Immediately beyond the main doors, a corner of the hall was cut off by large desks on one side and shelves on the other.

Hallvar recognized the process here, their awareness honing in on a flag with a starry background, two crossed staves on the front.

The Adventurer's Guild. A different one, but the same.

It was sentimental and maybe a bit stupid, but Hallvar felt a sense of relief wash over them. This wasn't their home but it was kind of the same. The same sentiment of working together for a living, working for the community.

The old lady was busy fielding questions. Hallvar didn't know who she was, but they figured she had work to complete and was coming in for a shift.

Everyone at a guild had a job to do, and Hallvar frequently spent time with Stella and Viktor. Both were very popular when it came to questions from others.

This was all normal.

They stepped to the side, clicking their tongue so that the akergryph would stop investigating a beast-pelt hung over a rack behind the desks. Pipkin couldn't do much damage as she was small, but just like moths, she could leave little unwanted holes with her beak.

Someone stepped away from the old lady to attend to the guild desk, making an inquiry in Valien.

Still no understanding on Hallvar's end. It would come in time, maybe a day or two? Hallvar didn't know how that sage skill worked exactly.

They held out the guild card, unsure how to ask for a system update for the contents.

The Brigavalé guild displayed their system information differently than Amnasín. Instead of a glowy display emanating from a device, there was a bronze book on a swiveling mount.

Words inscribed themselves on the page when Hallvar's guild card was placed into a designated slot.

They were foreign, but Hallvar could make out their own information easily. The guild representative said something in surprise after the old woman spoke across the floor.

A couple magical adjustments later and the book was displayed in a familiar language.

It contained the guild card, the Amnasín guild crest, a note of the last time the card was updated by a system mage. There were blank sections, notes about guild quests completed that must correspond to the Valien accounting system.

The guild representative used a blue feather quill to magically circle the date of last update, seeming to request permission to do so.

Hallvar shrugged and nodded.

Yikes, it'd been a while since the card was last updated. Well before the entire debacle with the King-Consort.

Stella was capable of checking Hallvar's information on her own, without need for the guild card, so it simply didn't cross the hero's mind to have it properly updated.

Strength was boosted, starting at 11 and currently at 13, augmented to 14 by the percentage bonus from the defense form. It needed to be more. Hallvar was tough but they couldn't back up their rough demeanor as a human with those numbers.

Awareness, 14 to 15. Also needed work. Maybe they could write Stella a letter and tell her they were training in Brigavale or something for a while. It would kind of be a vacation, a change of pace.

Charisma, 6 to 10. Bleh. No wonder people stared.

Agility, 10 to 11, functioning at 13 due to percentage bonus from both the travel and offense forms. It… it was okay for being like… not even a year into this world. Hallvar didn't exactly sprint for fun.

There were no changes to Constitution, Intelligence, or Dexterity. Hallvar hadn't done anything to increase those; they were feeling extremely lucky that dexterity hadn't been slashed as an attribute by the existence of their talons.

Now, for the big boys.

Endurance, 18 to 21. Looking very good. With the idea that a master of an attribute could reach 30, a 21 was nothing to scoff at.

Luck, 6 to 7. Being actively hunted wasn't considered bad luck, but intentional targeting, so [ unique skill: bad luck boon ] hadn't activated in a while. Even still, the chances were like… 5% or less for a success.

Hallvar didn't need more luck, anyways. Unless it offset the charisma factor, then they'd absolutely beef that category up.

The guild representative called another staff member over and they presumably gossiped about the attribute numbers. Hallvar gave a half-hearted grin and a thumbs up when one of them stared.

With the glowy pen, the representative switched the written language a few times and marked up lines in the bronze book.

The notes were translated along with the card information, a useful ability.

First, their class was listed as beastmaster, with no subclass noted. Did they want to add it in?

Was there a point in hiding their abilities still? If they intended to use the beastshaping as a tool and a weapon, then it didn't make sense to pretend it didn't exist.

But prior beastshapers successfully existed by hiding in plain sight.

It was a difficult choice. Hallvar ultimately decided that the talons and the fangs were basically advertisements that something was off, so they might as well have the paperwork to prove it was normal.

Their subclass was officially listed as beastshaper, which caused another stir of gossip among the guild staff.

The old woman was listening in now, though she approached in Hallvar's blind spot and spooked them.

The beastshaper startled. Their surprise was undercut by the realization that the old woman took off her furred hat, revealing elf ears.

Oh, that was neat. The second elf Hallvar had ever met, also involved with the adventurer's guild.

Well, Stella did say that elves tended to end up in places of power because of their magical ability.

The guild representative magically flipped a page in the bronze book, another series of words translating and retranslating until they were shown to Hallvar.

"You pick a title," said the old woman from the dark spot in Hallvar's sight.

There were categories of titles listed on the page.

Augmentations, meaning the titles themselves provided a passive benefit to the holder. The title of Defiant was in this category, earned when confronting the King-Consort.

Descriptive, meaning they were based on features or established traits. Hallvar didn't expect multiple options to be present, yet they could choose from Hallvar the Red, the Rusty, the Scarred.

Social, meaning they were assigned by others. The Berggeist. The Mountain Spirit. The Omenic. The Guild's Hero.

Factual, meaning they were based on attributes or other system skills that existed. The Enduring. The Lucky.

Did this mean that Tyrus the Wandering Scholar and Kiran the Unyielding had chosen titles to be displayed? Sure, they might have come from others, but still, the idea made Hallvar laugh a bit.

If you can't beat them, join them. If they were going to call you a Wandering Scholar regardless, might as well make it official.

Hallvar tapped on the book with a talon, picking the title that would benefit them the most in social situations. Their name was rewritten onto their card as Hallvar Nyman, the Guild's Hero.

Though the old woman was not forthcoming in her emotions, she was not subtle with her opinions. She hummed in approval.

"A smart choice. As guild member, you find work at any Adventurer's Guild. But as Guild's Hero – it is a trade of alliances. You help us; we help you."

Hallvar didn't entirely understand as they furrowed their brow at the old woman. Isolation as a beast had done nothing good to their already failing social graces.

"You do not know who I am," she stated plainly.

The hero – the guild's hero shook their head.

The old woman scanned their face to identify if Hallvar was telling the truth, but she found that they were, indeed, honest. With how ragged and wild the child appeared, it was likely a truthful assessment.

"You will call me Oma. I did not have a family name, but I chose Guildenmeister. In Sínisch, the translation is Grandmother Guildmaster. I have held this title since Kahrábhi split into Kuteli and Kovatelli."

Oh, oh no. Hallvar's monumental luck was in play, placing them in the path of yet another authority figure.

Oma must have seen the bewildered look on the hero's face, as she continued. It was not a gentle handholding explanation, but plain and serious, as Oma preferred.

"I have made family, and I have chosen family. To most people, I am their Oma. The city is named for my presence. Alvgarten is shortened from Obergarten der Elf. The elf's upper-yard."

If she originally set the guild into the mountainside, then it would be an "upper" yard. Was all this the Guild then? The entire castle?

The other guild representatives and folks who previously milled about were watching now, though it was clear they didn't understand most of the conversation. The words Oma, Alvgarten, Guildmaster were familiar enough to let them know what was going on.

Oma continued speaking, as if this was a scheduled meeting between herself and a new charge, one occurring behind closed doors, not in public.

"You claimed the title of the Guild's Hero. The Guild is more than Viktor Veðraldi; it is an organization that takes care of its people and the community, especially where government fails to do so. Guaranteed work, pay that is fair, resources when requested."

Hallvar was able to assess the Guildmaster now that she was this close, that the conversation continued onward.

She shifted her grip on her wooden cane, a glimpse of the handle underneath her fingers showing the off-white of bone and a dark red of gemstones.

Staffs were always mixed materials, Stella said. Wood, bone, gemstone. They didn't have to be long sticks, but that was the preference of most mages. They could be, say, a cane.

"If you are the Guild's Hero, then you work for the guild. You will report to me directly. Amnasín and Brigavalé are separated by the Staargraven, with several countries between; you will find that very few speak Sínisch."

So, Oma was Hallvar's only option, is what she was saying.

She looked every bit like a grandmother, wearing an apron-looking outfit that seemed older than the fashions of the other feminine people in the area.

Around her neck was a black bow, worn like a drooping ruffle, pinned by a gold hiwode brooch with several round beads. Most of them were marked by spacers as deceased; the final yellow bead was not.

"Your beasts will be cared for. You will have room and board for as long as you stay. Tomorrow, I will arrange for someone to escort you to market for appropriate equipment, clothing, and grooming."

Yeah, Hallvar needed that.

"The following two days will be for rest. Then, there is a caravan of four carts that the Adventurers escort across Brigavalé. It delivers supplies in the coldest months of winter. You will be a guard."

It wasn't that Hallvar resented being told what to do; they resented the idea that a hero was immediately obligated to serve the Crown, pulled back from death itself to swear fealty.

Sure, they were technically orders, but it was clear by Oma's words that to be the Guild's Hero was a choice. If they didn't want to be a proxy of the Guild, then they could simply change their title or leave.

Oma knew that a human who wandered in the snow, not clothed properly for any winter, was not bound to this place by the season. Implying that Hallvar could walk out was not a death sentence.

So, the hero merely nodded.

With a raised eyebrow, Oma questioned the gesture. "You are amenable?"

Hallvar nodded; Oma clicked her tongue.

"Speak," she insisted.

With a grumble, Hallvar did so, annoyed that they kept forgetting a basic part of human socialization.

"This is what I signed up for. I told the Queen – Amnasín's Queen – that I wouldn't swear fealty to a crown but that I would serve an organization that worked for the people directly."

Hallvar gestured vaguely with their talons toward the Valien Guild crest on a flag hanging above them.

"I work for Viktor because I live in Amnasín, but I've also adopted him as a father. The system mage Stella who is being trained to inherit the Guild is my partner. Uh, romantically. The Guild is my family."

That was why it was so difficult to commit to killing Guillaume, Hallvar realized. They shoved that thought back into the metaphorical closet for later.

They watched Oma's expression shift into surprise, though she was quick to return to a forced neutrality.

"So, yeah… what you've proposed is what I expected and prefer, honestly. I like working and helping."

Oma seemed pleased with these results, but she had a further question.

"You are the assassin's child by choice?"

Hallvar shrugged and nodded. "Have you ever seen a housecat that smacks the shit out of other pets and is affectionate with like, one or two people only? That's Viktor."

He was limited in his affection, but it was there, if you knew what to look for. The fights and words might be cruel, but they led you to a result that was safer, that made you stronger.

Oma exhaled in what Hallvar thought was a laugh. "We are expecting the Wandering Scholar to return this week, with letters from other guildmasters. If he has written me, I will tell him that you declared him a housecat."

"Good," Hallvar said, undeterred by threat of future stabbing and vitriol. "I can send a letter to Stella along with that one, if that's okay?"

There was a lot to catch her up on. Housecat joke not excluded.