Lord of the Props: A Slice-of-Life Harem LitRPG Fantasy Adventure by Austin Davis

Author:Austin Davis [Davis, Austin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2025-05-09T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter

Fourteen

Living with three elves and a captured interdimensional disco-sprite in a perpetually failing, possibly sentient tourist trap was, by any objective measure, completely, certifiably insane. My life had somehow morphed from predictable mediocrity into a bizarre, high-stress sitcom written by H.P. Lovecraft after a particularly bad acid trip and directed by Mel Brooks on a tight budget. Yet, somehow, amidst the constant low-grade panic that had become my baseline emotional state, the looming threat of exposure (or bankruptcy, whichever came first), the ever-present dust bunnies that I was becoming increasingly convinced might actually be sentient nexus-critters, and the complex emotional minefield laid by my otherworldly, ridiculously attractive roommates, a strange sort of domesticity was taking root. It wasn’t normal, not even remotely close to the postcode of normal, but it was… ours. A weird, fragile ecosystem built on shared secrets, mutual dependence, and copious amounts of cheap instant coffee.

The shared crises – the terrifying break-in foiled by Brynja’s unexpected, balletic combat prowess; the near-death (or at least near-bruising) experience in the runaway earthquake simulator that led to that kiss; the chaotic capture of the Lumina-Sprite that almost revealed magic to a crowd of unsuspecting tourists – had acted like intense pressure cookers, forging tentative, unexpected bonds and shifting the initial dynamics of suspicion, confusion, and outright hostility into something far more complex, nuanced, and frankly, confusing as hell for me.

Elara, the High Council representative trapped in a world without decent tailoring, proper respect for ancient protocols, or readily available Aeridorian vintage wines, was still undeniably haughty. Her sighs remained potent weapons, capable of conveying volumes of existential suffering at being forced to endure polyester blends, human ignorance, and my questionable spreadsheet skills. But beneath the glacial, aristocratic facade, cracks were appearing, hairline fractures revealing glimpses of something almost like… reliance? Her dependence on me, the ‘primitive Keeper with questionable hygiene and even more questionable taste in fantasy literature,’ was growing, albeit grudgingly and always framed as a command rather than a request. She’d started seeking my help, or rather, commanding my assistance, with things beyond the cursed inventory system she still hadn’t mastered. Deciphering baffling human idioms overheard from tourists (“Why do they inquire about ‘kicking the bucket’? Is it a local funerary custom involving pails and percussive foot movements?”). Navigating the arcane complexities of the workshop’s temperamental, possibly malevolent coffee machine, which she treated with the suspicion usually reserved for dark artifacts of questionable origin. She even, one afternoon, requested – no, demanded – I use a precious HUD point to repair a minuscule, almost invisible tear in the sleeve of one of her ‘lesser,’ borrowed velvet robes (apparently snagged on a display case while she was inspecting it for historical inaccuracies).

“Keeper,” she’d announced, holding out the damaged sleeve with an expression of profound personal injury, as if the tiny snag were a mortal wound. “This… inferior garment has sustained structural damage. Its integrity is compromised. See to its immediate restoration.” It wasn’t exactly a polite request, dripping with her usual condescension and implying the fault was somehow mine for providing such shoddy materials.

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