Player Reborn 2

by Deck Davis

  CHAPTER 11

  Tripp – Rolley – Etta – Barnard

  Tripp watched the three of them head off toward the alleyways that led deeper into the city. Windborne was divided into six sections. Four of them intersected in the heart of the city, and that was where most players spent their time.

  It was there that they would find quests, guilds, merchants, and pubs. It meant that people rarely visited the outer reaches, the places darker than the others even in daylight, on account of being close to the storm walls.

  His business took him not to the city enter, but away from the adventurers’ guild and west. It took only a few minutes’ walk to reach the mines.

  Here was a series of openings dug into the ground and re-enforced by iron and timber supports. Some were vertical drops barely a football-width wide. Miners at the top turned cranks and made pulleys work, hefting up materials mined in the depths below.

  There were three dozen miners, some with pickaxes and giant hammers. Others pushed and pulled minecarts in and out of the mines. They all wore full-body suits that made them look like astronauts.

  Tripp hadn’t been into the mines yet, but there was supposed to be a dungeon down there. Players needed similar protection to counter the noxious gasses and toxins.

  Way above them was a roof intended to protect the miners from storms. This was much thicker than the roofs used on the normal Windborne shops and house. If you looked closely you would see a current of light running over it in zigzags, the sure mark or artificery.

  It made Tripp think of the possibilities of his artificery skill. Could someone become an artificer architect, maybe? Players in Soulboxe could make their owns houses, shops, and guilds if they wanted. Why not combine bricks and mortar with magic and mana?

  It made sense that the mine roof was more storm-resistant than anything else in Windborne. It was what kept the city standing. It was under the streets and rocks of the city where precious stones and minerals sat. Ones that had properties to make them studier and storm-resistant, and were a key part of the storm walls. Since the walls constantly needed to be rebuilt and heightened, mining never stopped.

  He wasn’t about to go into the mines today. He crossed the mine surface and reached the ill-maintained buildings on the outskirts. This was where the miners took their breaks and where some of them slept if they were on a night shift.

  Tripp entered the first on the left, where he found a mole waiting for him.

  This mole was the height of a ten-year-old child, but with long whiskers touched by grey. He’d styled the tips into curls using wax. He wore glasses with thick lenses, and a miniature pipe was hanging out of the corner of his mouth. Every so often he took a breath, and the pipe glowed red. He breathed the smoke out of his nose in two big plumes, like a dragon.

  He smiled when he saw Tripp.

  “And here he is, just to round off a god-awful day! This morning I tripped over a rock and cracked my good glasses. I forgot my tobacco at home and had to buy some in the city, where they know how to tease the gold outta my purse. We’ve had to stop mining one shaft because the supports were weak. We gotta rebuild, and my best miner, Pretty Boy Bill, hit a gas cocoon. Poor bugger got blown halfway across the gods' damned shaft. So, I decided to take five minutes. Pull myself together, smoke some of my ridiculously-expensive-yet-awful tobacco. Close my eyes and find my happy place and stay there a few minutes. I even told my guys not to disturb me. And what d’ya know? My favorite orc strolls in. Here to try and barter my prices down so low I’m practically paying him to buy my damned things from me.”

  Tripp laughed. Jobst always had a mean spirited monologued ready every time he saw him. After hearing a few of them in the past and failing to interrupt , Tripp knew that he had to let Jobst talk himself out.

  “I don’t have long, Jobst,” said Tripp. “And since you’ve had a bad day, I won’t try and barter your prices. I just want to buy some things.”

  “Praise the lords, my fortune is turning. You want to buy my materials at their set prices? Lucky me!”

  Tripp gave a quick look around to make sure nobody was outside the door, listening. “You know, for a guy committing an offense that could get him executed, you’re pretty bold.”

  Jobst let out two furious plumes of smoke from his nose. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Really? You sell me some of the surplus stuff they find in the mines. Only, the mines in Windborne are council-controlled. And they don’t consider anything as surplus, do they? In fact…I would guess that the surplus you sell me, isn’t recorded on the books.”

  “You know,” said Jobst, “Me and you could be friends if you weren’t such an ass. Do the trade and then get your big green orc behind outta here, before you ruin my happy place for good.”

  And so Tripp traded with Jobst until he’d spent most of his coins. It worried him a little having little in-game currency left, but it would be worth it. If they were going into the Tower of Windborne, then it made sense to give it everything. No half measures, no hedging bets.

  Did he have everything he needed? No way. But that was impossible, since he wouldn’t know in advance what sort of things he’d need to craft in the tower. At least it was a start. He’d bought materials that would give him a little crating flexibility in the challenges to come.

  He checked them now, feeling a little better as he read the list.

  Items received:

  Steel pieces x12

  Iron pieces x12

  Copper pieces x12

  “Why’d you need so much metal?” asked Jobst. “Are you smithing for the army, or something?”

  “Not quite. Truth is I don’t know why I need it yet. Just that I’ll need it.”

  “Many a time I’ve woken up and thought hey, I might need a minecart full of metal today. No idea why, but I sure as hells need it.”

  “I’m going somewhere, that’s all.”

  “Ah. Somewhere secret,” said Jobst. “A lot of people want to go somewhere secret these days. Somewhere secret, taller, and rather phallic. Why do you want to go into a place like that, Tripp?”

  Why did he want to go to a place like that? Great question. Especially after seeing the monks carrying out the corpses. Who in their right mind would want to enter a tower like that?

  “You know,” said Jobst. “They’re saying the tower is a punishment.”

  “They?”

  “The storm callers. The crazy bastards who worship the storms around here. The ones who meet in cellars and strip to their nutsacks and paint their bodies in runes and stuff. They beg the gods to send more storms.”

  “There are people in Windborne who actually want the storms to come? But every part of the city is designed to stop the storm causing damage. Doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Crazy don’t need sense. Which brings me onto you.”

  “I’ve never stripped naked and begged for a storm if that’s what you’re hinting,” said Tripp.

  Jobst shook his head. “Way I see it, there are two types of people who might go into the tower. One, are those unfortunates who’re looking for the end and want the tower to do it for them. Because nobody gets out alive.”

  “I plan on being the first.”

  “Then you’re the second type of fella. You can’t stand being beaten, can you? I heard about you, Tripp. I heard about the orc who got his arse handed to him in some kind of dungeon over in Godden’s Reach. Although, no idea what you were doing over there. Way I see it, there are two types of men who go to a place like Godden’s Reach…”

  Tripp sensed a dialogue loop, which even the smartest NPCs fell into sometimes. He hitched his bag around his shoulder and he left the mines, thinking about what Jobst said.

  Was he looking for the end? No. The opposite. He came to Soulboxe because it was a place where people could feel alive.

  But the tower…mysterious, unconquerable. He’d seen plenty of players find their way in, then get carried out by the monks.
r />   All he could imagine was the glory of reaching the top. The rush of adrenaline.

  After all the stuff back in Godden’s Reach, he’d become a minor internet celebrity. Course, people didn’t get 15 minutes of fame anymore. They got 15 seconds.

  For a while, Tripp browsed the Soulboxe forums and saw people discussing him. Well, about his orc persona. Maybe he wanted that feeling back. Maybe it made him feel like he mattered.

  Or perhaps he just wanted to kick the tower’s ass.

  Whatever the reason, the means of doing it were the same. He had his crafting metals, and now he needed to use what little gold he had left to get more artificery supplies.

  After leaving Jobst and the mines, he skirted by the refuse area. This was where the miners left any materials that weren’t worth selling, and he picked up five handfuls of stone. This was something he’d learned as an artificer; if you found materials lying around, you took them. It wasn’t as if he was anywhere close to filling his inventory yet.

  He headed back to the center of the city, seeking out the merchant district. The shops were covered by storm-resistant roofs, and players ducked in and out of doorways, selling their loot and taking quests.

  Tripp visited a potion maker. She was a goblin-elf lady who always smiled wide and said, “Here’s my favorite customer!” whenever she saw him. At first, Tripp thought he was special, but he soon saw that she greeted everyone this way. Oh well. It still felt nice.

  After bartering with her, and then visiting a weapon vendor where he bought as many cheap blades as he could, Tripp left the district. He had spent the rest of his coins, but he possessed the final items he felt he needed for the tower.

  Items Received:

  Firebolg essence x2

  Ice troll essence x2

  Greenwind Fae essence x2

  [Poor] Iron swordsx6

  [Poor] Leather chest pieces x5

  While he could use the metals he’d bought to make new weapons and armor, the essence was what would make them special. He’d barely had any coin left, but it was worth it. With the firebolg and icetroll essence, he could give an item fire and ice resistance or damage. The greenwind essence was a healing dust. Though he didn’t have a specific use in mind right now, he was sure he’d need it in the tower.

  As ready as he could be, Tripp went to meet the others.

  Rolley knew where he was going as soon as Tripp told them to get ready. He weaved through the merchant district, along Leatherwork Row and onto Cobbler’s Pass. He couldn’t help glancing in the shop windows where he saw rows and rows of shoes and boots. Some of them had treads that looked so soft that if he were wearing them, he’d be able to sneak past a dozen hungry wolves.

  Taking a right turn, he found himself on Mana Street. He’d never, ever seen more dorks wearing robes in his life.

  Seriously. There must have been thirty wizards here. It looked like a casting audition for a Merlin movie. Most of the mages had taken themselves way too seriously, of course. They had gruff beards. Their robes were tight and had buckles and straps, resembling rogue leathers. The old classic wizard look wasn’t cool enough these days. Wizards were the hipsters of the fantasy world.

  That was what Rolley loved about Barnard. His bright yellow robes that flowed around him like a princess’s wedding dress. His stupid staff with a chicken head carved on the tip. Barnard did not give a damn what he looked like or what people thought of him. It was refreshing.

  Thinking of his buddy, Rolley headed into a shop on Mana Street. It had a wooden sign on the front of it, the hinges whining in the breeze. There was a staff carved into the center.

  The proprietor was a man wearing a hat that was crumpled around the edges yet dagger-straight at the top. It was twice his size so that it brushed the ceiling. Rolley looked around the shop. He marveled at the staffs with demons carved at their tips, with shocks of light running through the wood.

  “If you’re looking for Coinsnatch Alley,” said the shop owner, “You took a wrong turn on Haskell Avenue. Just head back, take a right, and then you’ll find all the rogue shops.”

  “Coinsnatch alley?”

  “Where rogues like you buy their boots, daggers, that sort of thing.”

  “Street names in Windborne are quite literal, aren’t they?”

  The wizard grinned. “The original settlers here were the Mhyg people. An entirely mystical race who built the first dwellings, but were wiped out by a storm. Out of respect, when new streets are named, they are translated into Mhyg language. We then translate them back into our tongue, where it becomes quite on-the-nose in the process. But like I said; just head back a little and you’ll find your way to Coinsnatch alley.”

  “Thanks, but I’m here for my friend.”

  “Your friend? He isn’t here. I don’t have your friend. What do you think I am, some kind of kidnapper?”

  Rolley gave him what he hoped was his most disarming smile and approached the counter. “I want to buy something for my friend.”

  The wizard beamed wide, revealing two rows of blinding-white teeth. “Ah, now that changes our encounter entirely, young rogue. What are you looking for?”

  That was a good question.

  Rolley had come here with the vague idea of buying something nice for Barnard. A gift to get his spirits up a little. He hadn’t thought about what.

  “My buddy and I are going on a quest,” said Rolley. “He already has a robe, staff, and he knows more spells than you could count. What would you buy for him?”

  The wizard drummed his fingers on his chin. There were little wisps of hair on it, as if he had tried to grow a more wizardly beard but couldn’t. Though, Rolley didn’t know why he didn’t just cast a beard spell on his face. That had to exist, right?

  “Let’s see. A gift for a friend…already has robes and a staff…ah. Yes. I know.”

  Rolley felt excited now. He couldn’t wait to give Barnard his gift. “What is it?”

  “One second.”

  The wizard walked into a room at the back of the shop, leaving Rolley alone to look around. To his right, there was a poster on the walls.

  It showed a demon wearing black wizard robes. His face was leathery and his eyes burned bright red like hot coals. Yet, he had a pleasant grin on his face. Not only that, but there was a puppy in front of him with a bandage on its paw. The demon mage was pointing his staff at it, and there seemed to be a yellow light coming out.

  Underneath were the words, find your true purpose.

  Rolley laughed to himself, but before long he started thinking of his own purpose.

  Why did he even want to go into the tower? To help Barnard fix his dice mage character without having to start a character from scratch. Help him avoid losing hours and hours of hard work, sure.

  Was that the only reason? If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t sure.

  He just hoped that he didn’t let them down by being stupid. If the tower was like the puzzle dungeons in Soulboxe, Barnard would have to do the heavy lifting. All Rolley could do was sneak and kill, but he didn’t want to just be that guy. He’d tried really hard to get better at it.

  After their last dungeon, he’d practiced puzzles in real life, in between his day job in the car rental office. He’d tried to get his brain purring like it was an engine and practicing riddles and quizzes were oil. He didn’t feel any smarter, but he was going to try.

  “Ah, here we are,” said a voice.

  The wizard was back, having placed a strange item on the counter.

  Rolley stared at it, trying to see what was so special about it.

  Nope. Wasn’t working.

  “Why would I want to buy this? What’s so good about it?”

  The wizard smiled. “Now that’s the question.”

  Barnard didn’t want to let Rolley down. That was all he was bothered about. Course, it’d be nice if he could find some good loot in the tower. Maybe pawn it for enough gold to get admitted to the mage college in Loskeet.

 
; The thought made him laugh. In the real world, his days were concerned with building and maintaining databases. In Soulboxe, his worry was mastering his spells without killing himself.

  He couldn’t tell which problem worried him more.

  After leaving the group he took a route through the streets of Windborne. He kept his map open in front of him so he didn’t get lost. That was one way he always let Rolley down in dungeons; he was useless at following maps. Luckily, he had Rolley around. He was a rogue, and he could detect traps before Barnard lumbered into them. It meant that getting lost didn’t get them killed.

  There was no danger of dying here in the streets of Windborne, but as he found the street he needed, he felt out of place.

  A sign on the stone wall of a house to his left read, Dagger Crescent.

  What was with the entirely unimaginative street names around here, anyway? Had the devs just run out of ideas?

  Ahead of him were half a dozen shops, three on either side of the street. There must have been twenty or thirty players here. Some were standing in crowds outside the shops and bartering items and just chatting. Others walked out of shops doorways and then down the street, disappearing out of view.

  Whatever their purpose here, they all had something in common. They looked nothing like Barnard. There wasn’t a bright yellow robe or chicken staff in sight.

  No, around here the players all wore leather armor and metal chest pieces. Some of them had swords almost as tall as Barnard. Others had collections of daggers in sheaths on their belts.

  He scanned the signs above the shop doorways until he saw one depicting a set of leather boots.

  “That’s the place.”

  Entering the shop, he found that it was owned by an old man with short stubble that was flecked with grey. He was missing fingers on both his hands, and his skin was covered in scars.