🏹😄 PART 1 — DeNae

The Hunter Who Made the Moose Laugh

📍 Hunter’s Lounge, Mystery House

There are moments in life when you realize you have made a series of questionable choices.

For me, one of those moments came when I walked into the Hunter’s Lounge and discovered approximately fourteen grown adults laughing so hard that one of them was lying underneath a table.

Not beside it.

Under it.

The bartender had both hands braced against the counter, wheezing. A gamekeeper was wiping tears from his beard. The stuffed raven on the shelf—which I would like to point out had absolutely been stuffed when we entered the room—was hopping up and down and making a sound suspiciously like a snort.

Tara stopped beside me.

“Something magical happened.”

“Or everyone’s drunk.”

The chandelier flickered.

A little brass plaque appeared on the wall.

RUDE.

I stared at it.

Tara folded her arms.

“The House heard you.”

“I know.”

The plaque changed.

APOLOGIZE TO THE CHANDELIER.

“No.”

Every candle went out.

“Tara.”

“Yes?”

“I hate this house.”

The candles relit themselves in the shape of a smiley face.

⸻

At the center of the commotion stood a man in a weathered hunting jacket, holding a pipe and looking far too pleased with himself.

He waited until everyone had recovered enough to breathe.

Then he announced:

“Gentlemen—and ladies—the mistake people make with moose is assuming they respond to calls.”

A hunter near the fireplace groaned.

“Oh no.”

The man raised one finger.

“Moose respond to comedy.”

Tara whispered, “I knew it.”

“You did not know that.”

“I suspected.”

“You have never, at any point in your life, suspected that moose enjoy stand-up comedy.”

“Until today.”

The man continued.

“A moose appreciates timing. Delivery. A strong opening. Nothing too intellectual before dusk.”

I opened my notebook.

Not because I believed him.

Because someday somebody is going to ask what happened to me in this place, and I intend to have documentation.

The hunter leaned dramatically against the table.

“You tell the right joke, a moose will walk straight out of the woods and shake your hoof.”

Someone shouted, “You mean hand!”

The hunter shook his head solemnly.

“Not if you’ve committed to the bit.”

⸻

Apparently, this was not his first performance.

His name was Bramble McBoomerang, although several people insisted that could not possibly be his real name.

Bramble insisted it absolutely was.

The Mystery House produced a birth certificate.

Nobody asked why.

Tara immediately wandered toward a display cabinet labeled HUNTERS OF THE WORLD, because naturally our assignment required us to locate one specific hunter among several dozen objects the House had apparently collected from every continent and possibly several dimensions.

Inside were carved figures, old hunting charms, miniature bows, animal tracks cast in silver, and one tiny bushman holding a boomerang.

The moment I touched it, the cabinet slammed shut behind my hand.

I froze.

“Tara.”

“Yes?”

“The House has me.”

She looked over.

My arm was inside the cabinet.

The cabinet door had locked around my wrist.

A little paper ticket slid from a slot.

YOU HAVE FOUND THE BUSHMAN WITH THE BOOMERANG.
CONGRATULATIONS.
PLEASE ENJOY YOUR PRIZE.

“What prize?”

The cabinet released my arm.

A boomerang flew across the room.

It hit Bramble’s hat.

His hat spun off his head, circled the chandelier twice, and landed on the raven.

The raven puffed out its chest.

The House rang a bell.

DING.

A sign dropped from the ceiling.

HAT TRICK.

Tara collapsed against the wall laughing.

I wrote:

House continues to believe it is funny.

The ink on the page rearranged itself.

House is objectively hilarious.

I closed the notebook.

⸻

That was when Bramble climbed onto a chair.

“All right,” he announced. “Would you like to hear the joke that brought the moose?”

Every person in the room shouted yes.

I did not.

This did not matter.

The windows rattled.

The curtains drew themselves back.

Outside, the forest was dark and silver under the moon.

Bramble cleared his throat.

“A hunter walks into the forest and sees a moose standing beside a sign that says—”

The front door swung open.

Hard.

Everyone stopped laughing.

Something enormous stood on the porch.

Antlers first.

Then eyes.

Then an entire moose.

A very large moose.

A very real moose.

He stared into the lounge.

Bramble smiled.

The moose tilted his head.

And then—and I will swear to this under oath—the moose’s mouth curled upward.

Tara grabbed my arm.

“He’s smiling.”

“I see that.”

“The moose came for the joke.”

“We do not know that.”

The moose stomped once.

The House projected glowing letters across the wall.

FINISH THE JOKE, COWARD.

Bramble nodded respectfully.

“Fair.”

He turned toward the moose.

“So the sign says, ‘NO HUNTING.’ And the moose says…”

Bramble paused.

The entire room leaned forward.

Even I did.

Bramble delivered the punchline.

“‘Finally. I was getting tired of carrying this rifle.’”

There was silence.

Then the moose made a noise.

A deep, strange, honking snort.

Again.

And again.

His entire enormous body started shaking.

The gamekeeper fell out of his chair.

The bartender dropped a mug.

The raven launched itself from the shelf.

Tara screamed, “THE MOOSE IS LAUGHING!”

I stared at the porch.

At Bramble.

At the laughing moose.

At the Mystery House chandelier, which was now blinking on and off like applause.

Then I opened my notebook.

Moose appears to possess sense of humor.

The House added underneath:

TOLD YOU SO.

I hate when the House wins.

Отредактировано DeNae (Вчера 03:33:10)

Подпись автора

DeNae 🇺🇸 67b526

Guild: Tagalong

Этого охотника звали Коба. Бушмен, путешественник и обладатель такого количества невероятных историй, что никто в Охотничьей уже не пытался выяснить, где в них правда.

В здешние края Коба приехал издалека и вместо ружья носил за спиной старый бумеранг.

— И что ты им собираешься делать с лосем? — спросил егерь Семён.

— Ничего, — невозмутимо ответил Коба. — Хороший охотник знает, когда оружие лучше вообще не трогать.

— А бумеранг тогда зачем?

Коба хитро улыбнулся:

— Чтобы ошибки возвращались к хозяину.

За столом захохотали.

И тут Коба заявил, что лося можно выманить из леса хорошей шуткой.

— Только смеяться надо громко. У лося лес большой, слышимость плохая.

Естественно, ему предложили доказать.

Коба вышел на середину Охотничьей, положил бумеранг на стол и начал:

— Однажды решил я научить своего приятеля метать бумеранг. Дал ему самый простой и говорю: «Бросай в ту сторону».

Приятель бросил.

Бумеранг улетел.

Стоит.

Ждёт.

Минута проходит.

Вторая.

Он спрашивает:

— Коба, а когда он вернётся?

Я говорю:

— Настоящий бумеранг обязательно возвращается.

Ждём ещё.

Нет бумеранга.

Приятель начинает смеяться:

— Всё, Коба! Сломалась твоя наука!

А я смотрю ему за спину и говорю:

— Не моя.

— А чья?

— Твоя.

— Почему?

— Потому что ты бросил обычную палку.

Охотничья взорвалась хохотом.

Бармен согнулся над стойкой. Семён хлопал ладонью по столу. Даже суровый егерь Петрович хрюкнул и отвернулся к стене, делая вид, что кашляет.

Но Коба поднял палец:

— История не закончилась.

Через три дня приятель прибегает ко мне счастливый:

— Коба! Вернулась!

— Кто?

— Палка!

— Как?!

— Собака принесла!

За столом снова грянул хохот.

— И что? — сквозь слёзы спросил Семён.

— Пришлось признать, — вздохнул Коба, — в наших краях даже палки проходят обучение на бумеранги.

Именно тогда снаружи послышалось странное:

— У-уф!

Все стихли.

Коба распахнул дверь.

У крыльца действительно стоял огромный лось.

Он смотрел прямо на Кобу.

Коба посмотрел на лося.

— Видите? Пришёл дослушать.

Лось фыркнул.

— Ему понравилось! — прошептал кто-то.

Коба взял со стола бумеранг и вышел на крыльцо.

— Хочешь проверить?

— Коба, не вздумай!

Но бушмен уже метнул бумеранг — не в лося, а далеко в сторону поляны.

Тот описал красивую дугу и вернулся точно ему в ладонь.

Лось шарахнулся, уставился на Кобу и снова фыркнул.

— Вот, — серьёзно сказал Коба. — А это был настоящий.

Из Охотничьей донеслось:

— А если бы не вернулся?!

Коба пожал плечами:

— Тогда завтра рассказал бы вам историю про две палки.

Хохот поднялся такой, что лось наконец решил: с этими людьми явно что-то не так.

Он развернулся и неторопливо пошёл к лесу.

У самой опушки остановился и оглянулся.

Коба помахал ему бумерангом:

— Приходи завтра! Расскажу про охотника, который хотел поймать лося!

— И поймал?! — крикнул Семён.

Коба посмотрел вслед исчезающему животному.

— Нет.

Он широко улыбнулся.

— Зато лось нашёл его сам. 🦌🪃😄

Подпись автора

БЕСТИЯ d525bd

Люка замер на пороге, не смея моргнуть.
Перед ним стоял Портос — огромный, широкоплечий, с напыщенной осанкой и той самой самоуверенной улыбкой, которую Люка сотни раз представлял себе, читая описания. Чёрный плащ развевался на ветру, широкополая шляпа с пером сидела чуть набок, а на боку поблёскивала массивная шпага. Вокруг пахло лошадьми, дымом и сырой парижской мостовой. Это была та самая сцена: двор гостиницы, где д’Артаньян только что вызвал на дуэль сразу троих мушкетёров.

Люка стоял прямо между ними.

— Эй, мальчишка! — громовым голосом окликнул его Портос, заметив чужака. — Ты чего здесь застыл? Не мешай людям решать вопросы чести!

В этот миг из-за угла выскочили гвардейцы кардинала. Их было пятеро, шпаги уже сверкали в вечернем свете. Атос, Арамис и д’Артаньян мгновенно встали спина к спине. Портос, не колеблясь, выхватил клинок.

И Люка понял: если он останется просто зрителем — сцена закончится так, как в книге. Но книга наконец дала ему шанс.

Он рванул вперёд. Не думая, схватил валявшуюся на земле палку (или это была сломанная древко алебарды?) и встал рядом с Портосом, закрывая ему спину.

— Я с вами! — выкрикнул он дрожащим, но громким голосом.

Портос глянул на него сверху вниз, и в глазах гиганта мелькнуло что-то между удивлением и одобрением.

— Ха! Смелый цыплёнок. Тогда держись крепче, малец!

Клинок Портоса свистнул совсем рядом. Люка отбил первый удар гвардейца палкой, отскочил, снова встал рядом. Он не фехтовал как мушкетёр — он просто не давал себя убить и не давал ударить Портоса сзади. Сердце колотилось так, что казалось, вот-вот выпрыгнет. Но он был внутри сцены. Не читал. Не представлял. Жил.

Когда последний гвардеец упал, Портос хлопнул Люку по плечу тяжёлой ладонью так, что тот едва устоял на ногах.

— Ну что ж… Ты оказался полезен, юный храбрец. Как тебя звать?

— Люка, — выдохнул он, всё ещё не веря, что это происходит.

Портос расхохотался.

— Люка. Запомню. В следующий раз, когда судьба снова бросит тебя в нашу историю, — приходи с настоящей шпагой.

Воздух дрогнул. Лифт где-то далеко за спиной снова зашумел. Мир начал таять, но Люка успел увидеть, как Портос поднимает шляпу в коротком прощальном жесте.

А потом снова были двери лифта. И книга под мышкой. Только теперь на полях одной из страниц тонкой тёмной линией была нарисована шпага. И рядом — маленькая буква «П».

https://i.imgur.com/UmbFxRW.png

Подпись автора

✅Вейма 5907с1

Luca stepped out of the elevator into a world that smelled of gunpowder, horse sweat, and old parchment. Before him stood the very figure he had traced a thousand times with his fingertip across the worn pages of The Three Musketeers: a young Gascon in a wide-brimmed hat crowned with a white plume, black cloak snapping in the wind. It was d’Artagnan, exactly as the book described him on the day he first arrived in Paris, ready to challenge Athos, Porthos, and Aramis over a series of accidental insults.

The familiar square stretched around them—the same cobblestones, the same low wall where the three musketeers waited with drawn swords. Luca’s heart hammered. This time the words on the page were breathing. Without thinking, he snatched up a fallen fencing foil from the ground and stepped between d’Artagnan and the three veterans just as the first blades crossed. “Four against three is better odds!” he shouted, echoing the spirit of the story he knew by heart.

For a breathless minute he fought beside his hero, the steel ringing, the musketeers’ laughter mixing with the clash of swords. When the duel ended in the famous truce and the cry of “All for one, and one for all!”, d’Artagnan clapped Luca on the shoulder and grinned. “You have the heart of a true Gascon, mon ami.” Then the world blurred, the elevator doors closed, and Luca found himself back in the ordinary hallway, the foil gone, only the scent of horses lingering on his clothes.

That night he sat on his bed staring at the tattered cover of the book on his phone screen, replaying every second until dawn. In the morning he told his best friend the whole tale, smiling when the boy shook his head in disbelief. From that day on, every time Luca pressed the elevator button he paused, just in case the doors might open once more onto a different path—one where the pages still waited for him to step inside.

Отредактировано DeNae (Сегодня 05:21:13)

Подпись автора

DeNae 🇺🇸 67b526

Guild: Tagalong

Adventure Quest. The Elevator - On The Other Side Of The Page

On the Other Side of the Page” 📖✨
📍 Elevator

📚✨😲 Luke was reading The Three Musketeers for probably the tenth time, and by now he knew entire conversations by heart. He secretly dreamed of living among those men of honor and steel for just one day. His parents had long accepted that their son fenced imaginary opponents in the hallway, and one of his teachers had even nicknamed him d'Artagnan because of his restless temper, stubbornness, and remarkable ability to turn an ordinary disagreement into a matter of honor.

That afternoon Luke entered the elevator of his apartment building with the battered novel tucked under his arm. Without looking up from the page, he pressed the button for the first floor.

The elevator descended.

Then it jerked .

The lights flickered.

There came an unusually long metallic groan from somewhere above him, followed by a strange sound that Luke could have sworn was the clatter of horses' hooves.

The doors opened.

Luke took one step forward—and stopped.

There was no lobby.

Beyond the elevator stretched a narrow seventeenth-century Paris street crowded with carts, horses, vendors and pedestrians. Smoke drifted above crooked rooftops. Somewhere a church bell was ringing. Men swords wearing passed within yards of him without giving the impossible metal box behind him a second look.

Luke slowly closed his book.

"Oh," he whispered.

Then he grinned.

"Oh! "

The elevator doors closed behind him.

Luke wandered through Paris in a state somewhere between astonishment and delirious happiness. Every few steps he recognized something—not because he actually saw it before, but because Dumas had built it so completely inside his imagination.

Then he heard angry voices.

Luke turned a corner and froze.

Ahead stood several men with swords.

One wore a broad-brimmed hat and a dark cloak that moved in the breeze. He was young—much younger than Luke somehow expected—and there was something unmistakable about the way he stood, one hand resting near his sword.

Luke's heart nearly stopped.

d'Artagnan.

Not an actor.

Not an illustration.

Not Luke's imagination. But, d'Artagnan — from the “Brave Hearts” collection.

And then Luke noticed the three men beside him.

Athos.

Porthos.

Aramis.

Luke's mouth fell open.

He knew exactly where he was.

This was the meeting at the Carmes-Deschaux.

The three duels!

That ridiculous, wonderful chain of accidents in which d'Artagnan had managed to offend Athos, Porthos and Aramis separately and arrange to fight all three—only for the Cardinal's Guards to appear and interrupt them.

Luke had read this scene so many times that he knew what was coming next.

And sure enough, five guards approached.

Luke almost laughed from sheer excitement.

This is it.

This was the moment when d'Artagnan would choose to stand beside the Musketeers.

Luke crept closer.

He wanted to see everything.

Unfortunately, seventeenth-century Paris had not been informed that Luke was just a spectator.

"Boy!"

Luke looked up.

One of the Cardinal's Guards was pointing directly at him.

"You! Away!"

Luke scrambled backward—and collided with a wooden handcart.

It rolled downhill.

"Oh, no."

The cart struck a stack of barrels.

The barrels toppled.

One smashed into the legs of a guard just as swords were drawn.

The man went down spectacularly.

Everyone stared at Luke.

Luke stared back.

Porthos burst out laughing.

"I like the boy!"

"I didn't do that on purpose!" Luke cried.

"That," said Aramis, drawing his sword, "makes it considerably more impressive."

Then the fight began.

For approximately eight seconds, Luke thought it was magnificent.

Steel flashed.

Boots scraped across stone.

Cloaks whirled.

Athos fought despite his injured shoulder. Porthos seemed to occupy half the street. Aramis moved with astonishing precision.

And d'Artagnan—

Luke forgot to breathe.

He had imagined this hundreds of times.

But books had never told him how fast a sword was.

Or how frightening.

A blade struck another inches from Luke's face.

CLANG!

Luke stumbled backward.

Suddenly this was not fencing with imaginary opponents.

Nobody was playing.

These men could actually die.

And for the first time since stepping out of the elevator, Luke desperately wanted to go home.

Then d'Artagnan was knocked sideways.

His sword flew from his hand.

Luke saw it skid across the stones.

He also saw one of the Cardinal's men advancing towards him.

In the novel, Luke knew exactly what was supposed to happen.

But Luke had changed the scene.

The fallen barrels had changed everyone's positions.

The story was not following the page anymore.

"Your sword!" Luke shouted.

d'Artagnan looked.

Too far away.

Luke was closer.

Every heroic thought Luke had ever had vanished immediately.

He was terrified.

Then he remembered something.

d'Artagnan had been afraid too.

Of course he had.

Luke suddenly understood something the book had never quite managed to teach him.

Courage wasn't feeling anything.

Courage was being frightened—and deciding that something else mattered more.

Luke ran.

He snatched up the sword with both hands.

It was far heavier than the fencing foil he had imagined carrying someday.

"D'Artagnan!"

The young Gascon turned.

Luke threw it.

It was a terrible throw.

The sword spun awkwardly through the air, and d'Artagnan had to jump sideways to catch it by the hilt.

But he caught it.

His grin flashed.

"Well done!"

Steel rang again.

Three seconds later his opponent's sword was on the ground.

Luke stood completely still.

d'Artagnan had just said well done to him.

Unfortunately, another guard had noticed.

He seized Luke by the collar.

"And what have we here?"

Luke's feet almost left the ground.

“A very bad idea,” Luke answered honestly.

The guard dragged him backward.

d'Artagnan saw.

His expression changed immediately.

He disengaged from his opponent and came towards them.

The guard put his sword near Luke.

"Another step!"

d'Artagnan stopped.

Luke had read enough Musketeer adventures to recognize a stalemate when he saw one.

He also had enough to know what d'Artagnan would probably do next.

Something reckless.

So Luke decided to beat him to it.

He stamped as hard as possible on the guard's foot.

The man howled.

Luke ducked.

d'Artagnan moved.

A moment later the guard's sword clattered across the stones.

D'Artagnan grabbed Luke and pulled him behind him.

"You," he said without looking around, "have an alarming instinct for trouble."

Luke could hardly believe the accusation.

"Me?"

Even Athos laughed at that.

The fight ended almost as Luke remembered it, although the fallen barrels, runaway cart and mysterious boy had certainly not appeared in his copy.

When it was over, Luke sat on a overturned barrel trying to make his knees stop shaking.

d'Artagnan approached.

Luke looked up at his hero.

For years he had imagined exactly what he would say if this impossible moment ever happened.

He remembered none of it.

"You were afraid," d'Artagnan said.

Luke's face reddened.

"Yes."

"Good."

Luke blinked.

"Good?"

"A man who is never afraid is either a liar or a fool."

Luke hadn't expected that.

d'Artagnan sat beside him.

"Courage comes afterward," he continued. "When you know you're afraid and do what must be done anyway."

Luke looked down at his hands.

They were still trembling.

"I always thought you weren't afraid of anything."

D'Artagnan laughed.

"Then whoever told you stories about me has exaggerated terribly."

Luke couldn't help smiling.

"You have no idea."

Athos approached them.

"We should go."

Porthos pointed towards Luke.

"Are we keeping him?"

“No,” said Athos.

"Pity."

Aramis studied Luke's strange clothes.

"I suspect he already belongs somewhere."

Luke suddenly remembered the elevator.

And home.

And parents who would probably be wondering why their son had went downstairs and disappeared sometime around the reign of Louis XIII.

"I have to go."

D'Artagnan nodded.

Luke hesitated.

There was one thing he desperately wanted to say.

"You're my hero."

D'Artagnan stared at him.

Luke immediately wished the ground would swallow him.

But d'Artagnan didn't laugh.

Instead he removed one glove and held out his hand.

Luke took it.

"Then choose your heroes carefully," d'Artagnan said. "You may discover they're only men."

Luke thought about everything that had happened.

"Maybe that's better."

For once, d'Artagnan had no quick answer.

Athos smiled.

Luke ran back through the streets carrying the book under his arm.

Behind him came a shout.

"Luke!"

He turned.

D'Artagnan stood at the end of the street.

Luke had never told him his name.

For one strange second neither moved.

Then d'Artagnan raised his sword in salute.

Luke raised the book.

And ran.

The elevator was waiting exactly where he had left it, absurdly modern against the ancient stone wall.

Luke jumped inside.

The doors began to be closed.

In the last second he saw four figures appear at the end of the street.

Porthos was pointing at the elevator.

Aramis appeared deeply suspicious.

Athos simply watched.

And d'Artagnan was laughing.

The doors shut.

Luke pressed 1.

Nothing happened.

“Come on.”

He pressed it again.

The elevator jerked violently.

The lights flickered.

Luke squeezed his eyes shut.

DING.

The doors opened.

His apartment lobby.

Same carpet.

Same mailboxes.

Same flickering light that his father had complained about six months.

Luke stepped out.

Then stopped.

He opened The Three Musketeers.

The pages looked exactly the same.

Almost.

On the page describing the fight with the Cardinal's Guards was a tiny brown smear.

Mud.

Luke touched it.

Then looked down at his shoes.

The same reddish-brown Paris mud covered the soles.

Luke smiled slowly
.

🏠📖⚔ That night Luke sat on his bed with the battered copy of The Three Musketeers lying across his knees. There was no photograph of that impossible Paris street on his phone—nothing he could show anyone as proof. The only picture he had of d'Artagnan was the familiar figure on the worn cover of the book, but Luke now handled that shabby old volume more carefully than any treasure.

Sleep was impossible. Again and again he replayed the flashing swords, the runaway barrels, his terror when the guard grabbed him, and the impossible instant when d'Artagnan caught the sword Luke had thrown. Most of all, he remembered something he had never understood while just reading the story: heroes could be frightened. They could make mistakes. They could be reckless, stubborn and very human—and perhaps courage was meant more because of it.

The following morning Luke told his best friend everything with such burning excitement that he nearly reacted the entire sword fight over breakfast.

His friend didn't believe a word.

Luke didn't argue.

He smiled and later checked the bottom of his shoes, where a little seventeenth-century mud still stubbornly clung to the tread.

And from that day onward, whenever Luke stepped into the elevator with his beloved book under his arm, he always hesitated before pressing the button.

Because when the doors opened, he never immediately assumed there would be a familiar hallway waiting on the other side.

Sometimes, just for a second, Luke hoped to smell horses and woodsmoke again—and hear a Gascon voice somewhere beyond the doors shouting:

"Well? Are you coming?" 🏰⚔📖✨