Chương 1: Chapter One: A New to You, You. (Slightly Used)

Hyena Werks, A proud Orario Company. Danmachi-X-DnD Nonhuman semi SI Disclaimer: I, Danger Desperado, do not own either Danmachi, nor DnD. This is a fanwork and is non-canon. All of the IP's used in this fiction are the sole property of their respective holders. Prologue: New Beginnings. Chapter One: A New to You, You. (Slightly Used) I smiled, and it smiled. I winked, and it winked. I waved, and it waved.

I stuck my fur covered thumbs into the edges of my lips and pushed up, revealing a fearsome collection of bone white teeth and fangs that would have made any self-respecting wolf utterly green with envy. The monster in the water had done the same. I slowly let go of my lips and dragged my paws down my furry face until they rested along the chin of my muzzle, framing the hyaenid countenance that stared out at me from the pond.

The creature's fur was an incredibly dark, almost black, russet color from its lips to about halfway down its muzzle. Which then quickly transitioned to a sandy beige that persisted across its entire body. Other than its minutely twitching nose and triangular ears; The only facial feature it had was a pair of inscrutably deep eyes, like pools of pure onyx set into the beast's head.

My eyes absently drift over to watch a water strider as it skates across my reflection, before it's eaten with nary a splash by some silvery fish that had darted out from beneath the lily pads nearby. As the hyena-like creature in the water ripples with the passing wake I have an epiphany. I know you. The creature that stares up at me from the pond seems to share in my sudden revelation when its mouth slightly opens and a new light of recognition shines in those inky eyes. I know you, Maedmux. …... Maedmux… …

The fucking joke character I've been playing as in the Exandrian campaign my friends and I were running! My eyes fly to the charcoal-gray hooded poncho I'm wearing. I quickly yank it aside- and am met with an absolute mess of leather belts, buckles, and bandoliers. All loaded down with an uncountable number of books; scrolls; vials, each filled with various colored liquids of dubious purpose; and the tools necessary for seemingly every kind of job imaginable.

All of it layered over an old, yet well maintained studded leather vest dyed a deep maroon. Other than that, the only other piece of clothing I'm wearing is a pair of loose cotton shorts that ended right before the bend in my digitigrade legs, and some cloth wraps around my… paws, I guess. I let the poncho go so it could go back to covering up the crime against organization and basic safety that sat across my chest; And bury my face in my baseball-mitt sized hands (paws?).

I finally have a name for the indescribable feeling that had been brewing deep in my belly ever since I had woken up to this small, sunny glade in a body that wasn't mine. Utter fucking dread. If I had to be yanked from all that I knew and loved, and shoved into one of my Dungeon and Dragon creations, could I have at least been dropped into any number of other characters I had made over the years?

I could have been my dragonborn paladin who struggled between his black dragon ancestry, and being the paragon of virtue and honor he swore to be. Or maybe the lady killer Tiefling assassin with a secret heart of gold. Hell, I would have even settled for my kobold mage! The little lizard who's entire schtick was that he was obsessed with becoming a true dragon, but was so weak and pathetic, that he could only manage to emulate dragons in goofy ways!

I would literally rather be stuck in the body of a three-foot-tall gecko who had tried to imitate the majesty of a dragon in flight… by using Mage Hand on himself and telepathically punting his tiny body through the sky. But no- I'm stuck with Maedmux, or Mad Max, the certifiably insane gnoll artificer. Instead of the groan that I thought I was about to let out, a canid-like whimper escaped my lips. Which made me whine even harder at the completely animalistic and undignified noise I just made. Oh, God …

I wanted to run an artificer because it sounded fun. But playing as yet another gnome magic man with a steampunk aesthetic would have been so mind-numbingly cliche, I'm sure my DM would have done his damnedest to kill me off just on the principle of it. So, in the spirit of making such a powerful class interesting to play with, I came up with an educated man with a barbarians heart. One whose inventions would be more at home in post-apocalyptia than in any fantasy world.

His primary weapon, for instance, was a homebrew called The Growler. It was a chainsword that was made out of an old mace with a rusty anchor chain draped over the head, with metal shards spot welded along its length. When activated the chain would vibrate back and forth rapidly, giving the mace some slashing and bleeding damage to go along with its good old fashioned blunt force trauma. The Growler unfortunately met its match in our last session when it was broken against someone wearing plate-mail.

Which is a damn shame because now the only dedicated weapon I have on me is some bog-standard hunting knife. Speaking of which… A quick pat down later and I found said blade strapped to the small of my back, right above my tail. Something that I became acutely aware of when my hand accidentally grazed over the aforementioned limb. A full body shiver ran up my spine at the indescribable feeling of touching a body part you didn't have when you went to sleep that night.

Even still, the bizarre feeling of whatever the opposite of 'phantom limb syndrome' pales in comparison to seeing your legs bending the wrong-! No! No… Breakdown over body dysmorphia later, take stock of what you have now. Clamping down my building panic with a force of will I didn't know I possessed, I continued my full body inspection. I noticed that the layout of my gear isn't as chaotic as it originally appeared.

That, or I got some of Max's muscle memory along with his personal taste for 'organizational skills' when I stole(?) his body. My hands and eyes ghosted over the various sized hammers, tongs, chisels, and other assorted tools of the blacksmiths trade that hung from specially made loops and holsters along my belt. Each of them well worn, yet undeniably well loved. Unbidden, my mind supplied the specific name, function, and use of each and every one of the tools on my person.

With nought but a glance I could differentiate the minutiae between an embossing and forming hammer. And then use both with the skill of a master with years of experience. Instinct… it felt like pure animal instinct, but I just knew that I could pick up an ingot of pig iron right now, and with only a bit of time and elbow grease- Work the excess carbon and other impurities out of it until I'm left with high grade steel. And then from there? I could make anything I wanted.

The ideal temperature for working adamantine, the expected tensile strength and elasticity of a blade made from pure mithral, and the ideal amount of Residuum dust to mana ratio for powering a cantrip level enchantment. All this knowledge and far, far, more- simply sitting in my head as if it was always there. As if I was the one to actually learn it.

Suddenly I'm on my hands and knees, wrist deep in pond muck as bile crawls up my throat and out- into what was only moments ago an utterly peaceful and picturesque pond within a small glade. Chest deep retching and gags thoroughly shattering the once tranquil atmosphere. Years, decades even, of education, theory, and expertise just grafted into my mind with none of the associated memories of actually earning these skills.

I can remember my entire life up until this exact point, twenty odd years of living an utterly mundane life. One lived by hundreds of millions of others before. Go to school, graduate. Go to a more expensive school, walk out with an associate's and the delusion that you'll eventually go back and finish when you're more established. Get stuck in some soul sucking job and never get the energy to go back and better yourself. Completely ordinary, a life lived by uncountable others every single day. But now?

In the span of what must have been seconds, with no distinction between my old life and my new. I gained a proficiency and finesse for the crafting arts that could have only been earned with blood, sweat, and tears. The full might of an artificer was now mine to command. I now knew the exact steps I would need to take to build magical artifacts straight from myth and legend. From arcane prosthetics and enchanted tattoos to magical swords and fully autonomous robot assistants.

If it could be dreamt, I could build it. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. And all of this knowledge was gained, being gained, as if some unfeeling automata was robotically carving the information directly into my brain. Fact by fact. Skill by skill. Line by agonizing line. And I screamed. The mid-afternoon sun reflected along the edge of the small, (human) finger sized glass vial in my hand.

The blood red liquid sloshing around inside gave it a slightly sinister appearance, but I knew better. The humble health potion. Ubiquitous to the fantasy genre; And an essential piece of kit for any adventurer worth their salt. They can be found pretty much everywhere. From your local general store to the loot of your slain enemies, and occasionally buried deep within dungeons that haven't seen the light of day in millennia.

The latter of which tend to be of an advanced age and of dubious quality, so use at one's own risk and all that. As I hold the potion up to the light as though I'm about to cry 'Poor Yorick!' to it- I'm struck once again by the duality of my memories, though thankfully far more muted this time. I knew this particular potion came into existence when I told my DM that I would spend our group's long rest gathering ingredients and brewing a batch of them.

But Maedmux knows, however, that this potion had been carefully distilled from a tincture of dried and crushed Red Amanita Mushrooms bound to purified water using a small drop of acid as a catalyst. Simply recalling such a small nugget of information sent a fresh wave of agony through my skull. So, with a grimace, I popped the metal latch holding the cork in place with my thumb and downed the vial's contents into my open maw.

Instantly, the overwhelmingly disgusting taste of cherry flavored cough syrup assaults my tongue. And it's not even the 'good' stuff either, this garbage tastes like the off-brand stuff you'd find in some bootleg, highway convenience store. Forcing myself to swallow, the effects are nearly instantaneous. I could feel my throat, raw and sore from screaming myself hoarse, heal back as good as new in real time.

I lifted my hand and watched, enraptured, as healthy flesh grew over my split knuckles and scratched up fingers. A fine layer of fur had even started to grow over the new skin before the effects seemingly wore off. Not to mention the potion took the edge off my migraine, and I could finally think straight again. After marveling at the literal magic happening before my eyes, I looked back up at my surroundings while slotting the now empty vial back into its holster. The once beautiful clearing had seen better days.

The flowers and grass that had dotted the edge of the pond were stomped flat. Many trees that made up the clearing now sported long, deep gouges torn into them. Some of them had just been straight up ripped from the ground, roots and all, only to be tossed aside. It looked as though a grizzly bear had gone on a complete rampage, which, when I looked down at my pretty formidable frame… Fair enough, I guess. I uh… Kinda lost my mind there for a bit and took out my frustrations on whatever I could get my claws on.

I- I don't think I'm quite done expressing my feelings yet, but I'm running out of time before nightfall, and needs must. I should probably sit down and take the time to properly psychoanalyze myself; To figure out whether or not my reaction to being isekai'd was normal and justified, or if it was the manifestation of some sort of- Gnoll Blood Rage or something but… I had already burnt enough daylight with my 'episode', so it's probably high time I make tracks and find some place to spend the night.

The only problem was that I was absolutely covered in mud and filth. Dirt was caked on in clumps to my thoroughly soaked clothes, and matted into my fur, it's going to take hours to get this all out-!.. Wait a minute. I have magic now! A giant furry hand met my face with a resounding ' clap'. Because I'm an idiot. Here I am wasting potions when I know I always keep Cure Wounds prepared for when Maedmux's slapdash inventions inevitably blow up (usually literally) in his face. And for my cantrips?

Leaning into my new instincts, I let my body go through the motions as I waved my hand over my soiled clothes. And with a muttered Prestidigitation - all the dirt and sick clinging to my equipment just sluiced off me like water over a duck's back. I stared at the mound of muck piled up around my feet with wide eyes before a slow chortle built up in my chest. A chuckle that quickly grew into a full belly laugh. Magic! Honest to God magic… Maybe… Maybe things just might work out.

With a few more passes with Prestidigitation, I finally felt clean once again and was ready to leave. Only- Which way should I go? As pretty as this little clearing is, or was, the only thing I could see beyond the tree line was… well, more trees. With no better idea for which direction to head for, I decided to trust my body once more. Leaning back on my heels, I put my nose to the sky and just… started sniffing the air. The scents of the forest filled my mind as I breathed it all in.

The fetor of stagnant water mixed with the odor of fish was almost overpowering, but barely beneath the smell of the pond, there were hints of animals that frequent this little watering hole. I'll be spare on the details of what fox urine and rabbit droppings smelt like, but I wasn't too focused on those malodors anyway. It was only a whiff, barely perceptible underneath the far more numerous and fresher scents around me, but it was there. Horse flesh. Just a trace, but undeniably there.

Carried in on the northern-! No, north easterly wind! I drop to all fours and start sniffling along the ground to be sure, but the smell definitely fades in intensity the lower I am. Meaning the scent could only be brought in with the wind. Looks like I have my heading. Turns out I didn't have to go all that far, because after only about half a mile of hiking through the woods, I found a small dirt road neatly slicing the forest in half.

While the scent that drew me here was old, by several days at least, there were other smells that were far fresher. The earthy, sour tang of unwashed bodies was abundant here; The most recent being only a few hours old. It appears like I've stumbled across a fairly popular route. Looks like I have a few options here. I could wait around for someone to pass by so that I could stop them and ask a few questions; Based on the sheer number of different scents around I probably wouldn't even have to wait all that long.

It would also be a good way to gauge their (and by extension the locals) reaction to interacting with a gnoll. Exandria would be ideal, as I'll simply be treated as any other race there, albeit a more violent and primitive one. But God forbid, if I'm in one of the more mainline 5e realms? It'll be "Kill the demon spawn!" first and ask questions never. Ugh, ok, so the first option is to wait here and test the waters so to speak on where I stand both physically in the world and with the populace at large.

My second option is to be a bit more proactive and seek out the freshest scent here, which appears to be multiple individuals traveling together westward to parts unknown. Trying to interact with a group would be less than ideal if they turn out to be hostile. But that also eliminates the uncertainty of waiting around in the hope that someone happens by this spot in a timely manner. The last option I can think of, would be to just spin on my heel and march on back into the woods and live as a hermit.

While that sounds like it would be terrible in the immediate- I'm willing to bet that with enough time and effort, Maedmux's skill as an artificer would enable me to build a pretty kick ass homestead for myself. The only thing- well, two things actually that prevent me from seriously considering that plan both stem from the same source. The first being a gnoll's inherent need for a pack. I can feel the desire to be part of a tribe like a physical force weighing down upon me even now.

Manifesting as a creeping dread running down my spine, and pooling in my belly at the fact that I don't have at least one trusted pack mate here to watch my back as I sit here on the side of some random road. Gnoll's are social creatures, they need allies as much as they need food and shelter. And speaking of food… My hand goes to my empty stomach, currently twisting itself in knots in rebellion over not having eaten anything all day. That would be my second reason for tracking down the group heading west.

I don't think I would have the patience to sit here all day waiting for someone to pass by, not without chewing my own arm off or something. The curse of Yeenoghu upon gnoll kind rearing its ugly head. With my course decided for me by my gnawing hunger and newly chronic loneliness, I rose from my hiding place in some bushes along the road, and started walking west. Hopefully new friends and good food awaited me. ~ It only took a few minutes into my journey before the silence started to grate on me.

So used to doing nearly everything with a pair of earbuds in; That the mere thought of walking potentially miles in silence was anathema to me. So, with nothing but the cheerful clinks and clanks of my equipment as it bounced up and down in time with my march to keep my company; I decided to test the pipes of my new body by belting out'Dogface soldier' as loud as I could. And as it turns out? Gnoll's can in fact hold a tune. Or at least Maedmux here can.

Provided the song is sung in a deep bass and literally nothing else. I tried running the scales to find my new vocal range, and It looks like a mid-baritone is the absolute highest I can get my voice to go. Which tracks, I suppose, when you consider that I kinda sound like Johnny Cash now… Well, I'd sound like Johnny If his breakfast consisted of broken glass and nails, washed down with a pack of cigs and a cup of motor oil.

Seriously, no matter how hard I try to talk from the throat, I always end up growling out whatever I'm saying from deep in my chest. Which adds a snarling, animalistic undertone to anything I sing or say. On one hand, my rendition of Elvis Presley's ' It's Now or Never' sounded more like a snarled-out threat than any love song. But on the other hand, Ed Sheeran's ' I See Fire' sounds amazing when it sounds like its being sung by the dragon.

My chuckle at the image of Smaug waxing poetically about what it's like for his victims to die at his own claw, was interrupted by a sound just at the edge of my hearing. Stopping dead, and with ears twitching like crazy, the disturbance became clear. Voices. A lot of voices. Picking up the pace, I sped past a slight bend in the road and could see a break in the tree line in the distance. A short jog later brings me to the edge of the forest, and the vista that greets me is breathtaking.

A seemingly endless grassy plain spread out before me. An infinite ocean of waist-high grass, gently blowing in a breeze carrying just the barest hint of brine from the actual sea. And while a few trees and rivers did dot the landscape, only one feature truly commanded my attention. Slicing the horizon in half was a walled city of colossal size.

With a gentle circular curve, the pure white walls that must be at least thirty or forty feet high, go on for several miles in both directions before disappearing from view. Interspaced along the wall were gates that must have been several stories tall. While the walls are too high for me to get a glimpse at what the interior of the city looks like, they aren't nearly tall enough to hide the city's most distinctive feature.

A monstrously tall stone spire juts out of the center of the city and towards the sky, easily as large as only the tallest of modern skyscrapers back home. An unimaginable amount of people spread out from every single one of the gates in lines miles long. All of them waiting for their chance to enter the city. One undulating mass of bodies, animals, and wagons all blurring together into a single entity of colors, shapes, and sound. …

I can't think of a single city that matches the one in front of me in any of the campaigns I've played. Neither Exandria nor the Forgotten Realms have a city that comes close to the one that currently lies before me. So why the hell does it look so familiar? Damnit, this is going to drive me up the wall! I swear I feel like I've even seen this city before, but for the life of me I can't say when. That Tower… Ugh, It's just on the tip of my tongue!

But that could be any number of generic wizardly towers, that kinda' stuff is practically fantasy boilerplate! Whatever, I can just go down there and ask someone from the crowd where the hell I ended up. Provided they don't immediately try and kill me for the crime of being a gnoll. I was feeling less and less sure of my grand plan of 'marching down there and introducing myself to see what happens' by the second.

Tall and lanky elves, short and stout dwarves, animal-folk half breeds (or maybe Shifters) of all types, and of course, your bog-standard humans. Nothing but the garden variety fantasy races as far as the eye can see. There was not a single non-humanoid being in that crowd of thousands. No freedom loving bird-folk soaring overhead. No playfully curious tabaxi wandering the crowds and causing mischief. No proud yet genuine dragonborn trading war stories with anyone who will listen. And certainly no gnolls.

A fantasy world, with fantasy cities and fantasy people, but no actual fantasy races? The whole scene just looked wrong, like looking at a painting that had specific colors purposely ripped out of it, making the art look uneven and washed out. Are there other races out there somewhere in the world- and I just had the unbelievably bad luck of ending up near some sort of humanoid supremacist city? Or do they not exist at all, making me completely unique?

Both options would be equally terrible, if for different reasons… The unease coiling in my gut turned to outright terror as I drew closer to the main road and saw exactly how many of these people were armed to the teeth with fantasy firepower; From swords and steel plate to mage staffs and flowing robes, and everything in between. Even the most unassuming of them were packing some manner of medieval weaponry.

I nervously pulled up my hood and tugged it down as far as it would go but held no delusions as to its ability to maintain my anonymity. Not when my muzzle stuck out half a foot from my face. My other hand went to my chest and grasped a particular potion. One of the only reasons I felt confident enough to try and pull this stupid stunt. A small vial of Liquid Courage, or would Liquid Cowardice be more apt? A potion of invisibility, my one 'get out of jail free' card.

As I nervously rubbed my thumb across the cork lid of the potion, the caravan I chose for my test trundled closer to where my path met the road. A modestly sized convoy of a few covered wagons escorted by people of various races marching with the exhausted, yet anticipatory demeanor of someone whose destination is in sight after many, many days on the road. Even from where I stood, I could hear the quiet chatter of the group picking up in volume with excitement as the city drew near.

Through the chitchat, however, one sentence rang out like a gunshot.

"Mama Look, a doggy!" There, right in the middle of the pack, was a small boy holding a woman's hand… Pointing right at me. As my eyes roamed up to the woman's face, also now looking at me, I had a realization. I've never actually seen someone go pale like that before. I mean, it's a common enough descriptor in books.

'The blood drained from their face' and other such expressions are used constantly. But not once, in my entire existence have I ever seen such an idiom be so apt for what just happened to the poor woman in front of me. Her strangled gasp cut through the good cheer of her fellows like a knife, and the whole convoy stuttered to a stop. Her fellows' confusion equally turned to horror when they spotted me as well. And then there was silence.

The noise of the crowd further ahead seemed to dim and then fade away completely as we stared each other down. Shit. Ok, not the reaction I was hoping for, but I can still salvage this; I just have to speak their language. Hell, this should be easy! I've watched Game of Thrones, I've been to a Ren Faire, I even did high school theater for a year!

Just gotta' throw in some thee's and thou's, maybe say 'hail travelers' and 'how fair thee' and I'll have these guys thinking I've been a fantasy land native for all my life! Oh man, was it this hot out a second ago? Why is my mouth so dry all of the sudden? I nervously ran my tongue over my fangs before deciding to break the ice with all these people just silently staring at me.

"W-what's up?" Double shit. In a flash, the now ghostly white woman shoved her son behind her back, while her comrades drew their weapons with practiced but shaking hands and rushed forward into a defensive semi-circle around the wagons, yelling at the top of their lungs all the while.

"Loup Garou!"

"Where the hell did it come from!"

"Forget that! Where's the rest of them?! They always hunt in packs!"

"Form up on me! Standard line!"

"Protect Tyche!"

"A monster this close to Orario?! What the hell is Ganesha even doing?!"

"Is that thing wearing clothes?! And did it just fuckin' talk?!" But over their screams and the barked commands of a man with dog ears, one word pierced the air like a banshee's wail." MONSTER!" Triple shit. At this point, I could see other groups further along the road also turning around to see what the commotion was. Some of them had even drawn their own weapons and were full fucking tilt sprinting this way. Quadruple shit.

Man, the risk I took was calculated, but apparently gnolls come preloaded with dyscalculia. Even if I popped my invis. potion, there's not a snowball's chance in an Archdevil's asshole that I can get away before I'm filled with enough arrows that I'll look more like a hedgehog than hyena. Already, I can see a dwarf with a crossbow longer than he is tall posting up on me from the top of a wagon; Not to mention the archers' yard worth of elven and human bowman starting to draw right now.

Can't retreat, definitely can't go forward; I can't go off the road either, the grass will give me away immediately… Only one thing I can really do." I SURRENDER!" With my arms up, eyes firmly shut, and throat sore from how loud I just yelled, I waited for the inevitable hammer to fall- literally or figuratively; For an arrow to take me in the gut, or a sword to run me through, or any number of dumb ways to die in this ye ol' fantasy world.

I waited for something to end my new life before it even began because I'm an impatient idiot who couldn't wait a few hours to gather more information. But no attack came. The only sound I could hear was the wind blowing across the plains, and the collective heart-beats of thousands. After what was definitely an eternity, and not a few seconds (I would know, I counted), I squinted open one eye to peek. And was met with an honest to God 'record scratch, freeze frame' moment.

As far as I could see, all manner of warriors and travelers stopped dead in their tracks, gapping, actually open mouth gapping at me.