Fantalia Online

by Jason Krew

  Pretty cheap.

  Being a student had its perks.

  He pulled his beanie on, in such a way that his hair fell across his face and covered his features. People were used to folk walking in and out of the Fantalia building now, but he wasn't going to take any chances. The glass doors closed behind him, and he was swallowed up by the silence.

  He entered the pod room, thinking that if he had just been walking through a department store and wandered into a room like this, he would find himself rather disturbed. The glowing pods awaited, most open and ready for use, though many were clearly occupied. Roger poured himself a glass of water at the cafe. A man was curled up on one of the couches, snoring.

  So inconsiderate. Just go sleep at home.

  A brief toilet stop and then Roger was back in the pod, eyes twinkling with blue light. The door closed, the soothing voice welcomed him, and when he reopened his eyes, he was back in the Cerulean Plains.

  'Hello,' said Soph.

  'Hey.' Roger stiffened. The bandits? He spun around, and his eyes widened. The wreck he had witnessed not days before, broken down, dilapidated, filled with roving outlaws, was gone. Instead there was a town, still as yet in shambles, but filled with people. Normal people. He watched a man in overalls perched on a roof, nails in his mouth as he hammered at a piece of timber.

  'Witness the fruits of your labor,' Soph squeaked. 'This is what happens when you liberate a settlement.'

  Roger stood there for a moment. Whether these NPC's were truly alive or not, this part of the world was better now, and would be safe for other players passing by.

  Soph flitted up to his shoulder. 'In time, this place will become a quest hub. It will grow and expand, and maybe even one day become a city.'

  Roger had to wonder just how advanced the AI was if that sort of thing was possible. He guessed that the developers had to be patching the game in real time. That was the only explanation.

  As usual, he was left with more questions than answers. There was a cloud cover over the plains today, and by the time he returned to River's Bend, he experienced his first Fantalian rain. It was so eerily close to the real thing that he shivered when the first drops landed. He looked down at his arms, watched the little rivulets of water run down them, leaving a trail of tiny droplets on his skin. He looked closer, enticed by what he saw. Tiny little hairs were showing along his arms, no different to those found on his real arm.

  They hadn't been there before. He knew that for a fact, and what he had suspected was coming true before his eyes. The illusion was growing ever more strong, with each subsequent visit to this world. Now that he saw it on his own virtual body, he could see it in all other things. The wooden boards of the town were more finely detailed, the unique grains, bends and twists and knots in the wood, to the subtle ripples across the water denoting the various currents.

  The interior of the inn was much the same. Was it just his imagination now, or was the smell of salt that much more convincing? Was the pungency of the fish and the smoky scent of ale on the air more refined than it had been, or was he simply more used to the sensations of this place? If he stayed here for long, would it then affect the way he perceived with his five senses in the real world? These questions troubled him.

  He walked over to the counter, jingled the little bell that signaled the innkeeper. He nearly gasped. The man that walked out, though his face was more fresh, his eyes were not so red and his appearance far less disheveled, was the drunkard he had met here the last time.

  'Greetings,' he murmured. If he recognized Roger, he did not show it, whether from shame or simply having been drunk, who could say?

  'The head of Rayne Ristretti,' said Roger, and Soph emptied it onto the table with a wet belching sound. Sinbad's head followed.

  The drunken man looked down at the pair of heads with a fair degree of surprise. 'I'm sorry, boy. Someone already came along and turned these in, days past.'

  Roger blinked.

  'Huh?'

  'Unique NPC's can only be turned in once,' he said.

  'What do you mean?' Roger's eyes narrowed, and he looked over at Soph.

  The pikshenes arms were folded behind his back as he stared bashfully at the floor. 'Characters like Rayne, they don't respawn like other creatures do, such as the Kobold Chieftain.'

  'So that was all a waste of time?' Roger felt like slapping the heads off the table, but before he could even finish the thought, he saw that they were gone.

  'Duplicate items ensure that at least one person receives the job credit, should the other fail to turn them in.' Soph's eyes hadn't left the floor. 'I'm sorry, Roger. I forgot to mention.'

  'It doesn't matter.' Roger made to stalk away, but something made him stop. 'He looked at the strange old drunk, sober now, but with yet a streak of madness somewhere inside him, like a glitch in his code.

  'Altaria,' he said. 'Where is it?'

  Recognition flared up in the back of those eyes, and it made Roger shudder.

  'Come with me,' said the man.

  They stood outside, and there was yet enough light peaking through the cloud cover to afford a full view of the plains and the mountains beyond. The innkeep held out a shaky finger, gnarled and weather beaten. The hand of a sailor.

  'Over this range, known as the Condor Peaks, lie the Satyr Woodlands. If you make it through, on the peninsula you will find what you seek.' The man gave a low, long chuckle then. 'If you make it through.'

  'I'll make it through, alright,' said Roger. The man stared at him, and Roger watched the dark smile begin to drop from his lips. He wasn't exactly sure where this anger came from, but it felt good. Something about this old fool's words rubbed him the wrong way. 'I'll make it through, and I'll say "hi" to that little fish that sunk your boat, too.'

  The man's eyes widened ever so slightly, and the mirth was all but gone from his face. With bowed shoulders, he turned away, back into the darkness of the inn. Roger stood there for a moment, as the rain once again began to pitter forth.

  'To Altaria,' he said, looking towards the mountain range.

  'Ah, Roger.' Sopherus's squeaky little voice quavered.

  'Yes?'

  'What about your gear.'

  Oh, right. He clenched his fists, suddenly becoming aware of himself. I'm a mess.

  'Gear first,' he said loudly. Thank goodness every town so far had a blacksmith, because every scuffle he got into seemed to deplete his durability right down to zero. It was expensive to get his stuff repaired, but he had made quite a bit of money in Sandcliff.

  'The Condor Peaks are cold,' said Soph. 'I recommend you invest in some warm clothes for the journey.'

  'Do you take damage from the weather?'

  'Yes. It is not simply cosmetic.'

  He did buy himself a cloak, the nicest one that they had, in fact, which looked like a combination of wolf and squirrel hide. It was over long, the sleeves coming all the way down to his knuckles, and had a funny smell to it, old and stale, like the dankest corners of the school library, but he liked it. It made him feel imposing.

  He gathered as much as he could for the journey, and though his coins were dwindling, he felt more prepared than he ever had. Back on the road. He had time and he had resources, but most importantly, he now had a goal.

  ***I hope you're enjoying the journey. Thank you for reading.***

  Chapter IX Part 1

  The air grew ever cooler as the mountains closed in. Foreboding had not yet come over him, but Roger had the sense that this may be his biggest adventure yet. It wasn't excitement. It wasn't fear either, but it rode the valley between the two, like the point between the rising and retreating of the ride. It was energy, and Roger was filled with it.

  At some point in his walk, he looked down upon the weapon on his left hand. He always kept his right hand free, for these fist weapons were cumbersome, and yet easy to put on in the midst of battle. In the palm of his left hand, carved into the leather, was a strange little symbol, that looked somewh
at like an eye.

  It reminded him of something he had seen a long time ago, though he could not remember where. It resembled an eye, with one long stroke for the brow, and three lashes for each eyelid. He had not noticed it before, right at the point where his fingers touched his palm in a balled fist. It was curious, for he had not seen the symbol elsewhere.

  More curious were the weapons themselves. He thought back to his encounter in the smithies shop. The almost quizzical look the blacksmith had given him when he enquired about such weapons.

  'I am looking for gauntlets,' he said, taking in the wide array of arms and armour set on the walls, and heaped in piles in the corners.

  'I think we can find what you need,' said the smith, a beefy man with a thick moustache, precisely what Roger would envision were you to ask him what a blacksmith looked like.

  'That's not all,' Roger said, feeling sheepish to ask. He looked down at his fingers, almost perfect simulacrums of his real digits. 'I want to know if you can make them into weapons.'

  'Weapons,' said the smith after a pause. 'For your hands?'

  Roger nodded.

  The blacksmith looked at him over fleshy cheekbones, red with exertion and heat, and then proceeded to walk out the back. He did not return for several minutes, and Roger stood there wondering if the man thought he was just wasting his time. He was about to call out when the smith returned, holding in each hand a battered metal gauntlet.

  'These are quite rare,' said the smith, 'and the only ones I have.'

  Roger looked at them, eyes widening. 'They're perfect.'

  They were already well used, and it cost him more to repair them than it had to purchase, but they survived tremendous punishment in the town of Sandcliff. He reckoned they had double the durability now, returned to working order by the smith in River's Bend.

  The spikes were all odd, for some had fallen off, and the new ones were freshly forged, but they were dangerous looking, and to Roger's eyes their appearance spoke of pure violence. There were heavy slabs of metal on each knuckle, with just enough give to make a fist, supported at the wrist by heavy leather straps so that the hand formed a tight, steady cast as you threw each strike.

  He felt stronger with them, and lesser at the thought of travelling into the unknown without. He was here now, fully. Fantalia was all he knew, and he was eager to explore it. The mountains closed in all around him, and the mists came with it.

  Howling through the pass, they swept over him on the breeze, and icy droplets burst upon his skin. He could see no more than twenty feet in front of him, and he kept his eyes sharply ahead as objects appeared out of the murky white fog. Soon, a tower began to materialize ahead of him, and he tensed up.

  His fears were quickly allayed. These were not outlaws but armed guards, and they bore the same sigil that had appeared over Sandcliff. The mark of some king or queen, Roger supposed, or whatever power claimed ownership to this land.

  A female guard approached him as he rounded on the tower, a look of concern on her face. She was dressed for warmth in furs and leather, and she gave Roger the up and down.

  'Take care,' she said, voice cutting through the moaning wind. 'This way is perilous, and you will find few friends in the woods.'

  'Understood,' said Roger. 'Will this take me to Altaria?'

  The woman nodded. 'This is the shortest route, yes, but if it is Altaria you seek, there are safer paths.'

  'I don't care for safe.' He found the words rang true in his own ears as he said them, and what followed was a warm rush of pride.

  The soldier only shook her head, and waved to her companion at the top of the tower. 'Silly outsiders,' she muttered. 'Go on then, if you must, but do not stray from the road.'

  'Thank you,' said Roger. The woman walked back to the tower, and Roger could see fire within as she opened the door. It closed with a heavy thud, and the finality of such a sound spurred Roger on, deeper into the mountain pass.

  He was grateful for his cloak, for it kept out most of the fierce gale. Sopherus was nestled inside, clinging tightly to his shirt. In this cold and gloomy canyon, Roger was grateful for his companions presence.

  The mist did not lift, and Roger waded through it for what felt like hours. Occasionally he caught glimpses of what looked like rock effigies, standing guard at various junctures in the path. He damn near tripped on one, lying on its back in the middle of the road. It was the carving of something like a small child, only squatter, and more thickly boned. The head was cracked and broken open, but the torso and upper legs were wide and heavily muscled.

  So, people hadlived here once, and Roger's imagination ran wild at the thought. He had always loved chancing upon things that made a games world seem old, or as though it had existed before the player ever arrived, and would exist long after he had departed. It sucked him in, and a part of him hoped Fantalia Online would facilitate this experience for him. It had. He wanted to learn about whatever culture had peopled this canyon, even if it was merely the creation of a team of human developers.

  He wondered if that same dev team were watching him now, observing his path through the mist as he navigated the tumbled remnants of their lost civilization. He supposed they did. They kind of had to, if they wanted feedback on the game for future patches.

  Though the road had been descending for some time, down weathered and cracked stone steps, winding around the side of a mountain whose surface was shrouded in the mist, eventually it leveled out. Roger could see a large, dark shadow on the horizon, and moments later, he stood before it.

  It seemed to beckon him in, though the dark path into the woods yawned agape like a toothless mouth, and was anything but inviting. His eyes narrowed in on something, and it set his heart aflutter.

  It was a skull, but there was nothing even remotely human about it. The smiling head was brown with age, as were the two horns protruding from its scalp. He stood there for a moment, heart thudding in his chest.

  It triggered an old memory, in a simpler time, in another world entirely. He was falling asleep on his uncle's couch, watching him play games. It was late, and yet Roger was so enthralled by what he was seeing that sleep could not yet take him.

  The game was horrifying. If his father or mother knew what he was watching, they would certainly be upset, but his uncle never cared for anything like that. He watched as his uncle's character shot at horrors leaping out at him in the dark, mouths twisted in inhuman screeches. It made Roger tremble as he lay there, and he looked up at his uncle who, after a moment, noticed Roger's gaze and returned it.

  'How do you play such scary games?' said Roger with the voice of a seven year old.

  His uncle took a moment to respond. There was a thin sheen of sweat over his forehead, and his brow was furrowed and tense. Then a small smile teased his lips.

  'Whenever something scares me,' he said, 'I run towards it.'

  Roger took one last deep breath, listened to it swell his lungs, and watched it escape from his mouth in a fine mist. He pulled on his other glove, fastened the leather strap nice and tight, and strode into the darkness.

  Chapter IX Part Two

  The forest swallowed him whole. It was dark, and the space between trees revealed only more trees, with coiled vines wrapped around thick, gnarled trunks. The vines were as wide as Roger's torso, appearing as a snake strangling its prey. In fact, the whole forest was as some titanic battle between tree and vine. Mist swirled in the upper boughs, following its own unseen trails.

  The cloying smell of damp and decay met his nose, as his feet crunched in the undergrowth. Though it was yet day in Fantalia, it may as well have been the middle of the night in these woods. The further Roger walked, the harder it became to see, and the colder it grew.

  Roger's nerves began to rise, and he started at every small sound. Even the crunch of twigs under his own boots was enough to set his pulse to jumping. He fought the persistent urge to turn around.

  The path meandered, and Roger paused. There was light a
head, and his breath caught in his throat. His ears strained for any sound. Nothing. No voices, if anything, the barely imperceptible sound of crackling fire.

  He continued onward, and before him was a torch, bracketed on a short pole. Further ahead there were more, lighting the path at certain intervals. The mist deepened, and Roger began to feel afraid.

  Then the rustling started. It was so quiet as to make Roger wonder if he'd heard anything at all, but the further he went, the more he could hear. The crackling of twigs, the swishing of leaves, the soft creaking of a bough.

  Then movement, in the corner of his eye.

  It's just a game.