The Kobold nodded, rummaged through the pile of skins on the table and pulled out a ready-made pouch the size of two palms.
Warmed Flask Case
Durability: 20/20
“Perfect. And fasten a lace, so I can wear it around my neck.”
Still silent, Lail fished out a leather cord from the same pile and, after spending a few seconds finicking with it, handed me the final product. I offered to appoint a fee, but Lail just waved it off in response. The system reacted to this by raising my reputation with the Kobi to a neutral 5/100. Far from a trusting relationship, but it was a start.
“Thank you, Lail,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
The Kobi stared at me for a moment, seemingly not understanding what I was grateful for, and returned to sewing.
Reputation with the Kobi: +5 (10/100)
Mashta was right; even Kobolds were used to rough treatment as the Okhtans had no excess of politeness.
“Apparently, you amuse it,’ Mashta smiled. “Lail never made anything for pets before. Consider it a gift. Your head is still a mess, isn’t it?
“You promised to show me the Service Center.”
“I always keep my word.”
Mashta skillfully jumped off the table, unceremoniously grabbed my sleeve, and, with strength unexpected from a creature of such a small, unheroic build, dragged me away. It felt like a tractor was pulling me. There was no stopping her. Eight levels of difference that were between us were clearly visible. A minute later, we were already in the armory, a spacious room on the other side of the hall. The walls were hidden under the wide selection of piercing, chopping and cutting weapons. The missing, fourth, Dalrokt was sitting at a stone table and keeping the order.
Chzher
Level 29
I froze, dumbfounded, staring at what the giant was doing. Quill creaking on the yellow parchment, the focused Chzher was writing something down on a page of a huge book that complemented his size. In my opinion, writing did not match the martial look of a powerful creature like a Dalrokt that was more fit for swinging swords.
“The Lunar Rainbow Chronicles: Fortress Madogost,” highlighted the system.
Next to the book lay the curved Signal Horn of Madogost — a simple, one and a half foot long device without any decorations. So, Chzher was the one responsible for the wake-up calls. I wonder where they got such a horn. Did they yank it off some Demon’s head, or what?
“You are looking at the weapons in vain,” Mashta whispered, interpreting my surprised expression in her own way. “There’s only trash left. It’s all just for show. Everything useful is long gone. Chzher? We won’t stay long, we need to visit the Service Center.”
The Dalrokt raised his massive head and stared at us with dimly lit eyes.
“Proceed,” the warrior grumbled softly, then dipped the quill’s tip into the stone ink pot and returned to writing.
“See that stand?” Mashta jerked her chin toward it and pointed her finger at the obsidian pedestal that was sticking out of the floor in the middle of the room. It was a smooth, three feet tall, polished pillar. “Click right on the Appearance Correction. You won’t have access to the rest of the menu as you still have nothing to pay with.”
Chzher’s presence made me want to become smaller and less noticeable, but I forced myself to straighten my back and move toward my goal with a feigned sense of confidence. As soon as my palm touched the surface, polished by thousands of touches and without the slightest sign of any sort of controls, a holographic screen with green lines of text appeared in the air at an arm's length.
Madogost Fortress Service Center
Appearance Correction: free of charge (one-time service)
Name Change: 10 Essence Crystals (one-time service)
Profession Choice: 20 Essence Crystals (reusable service)
Race Correction: 1 Soul Crystal (one-time service)
Mausoleum: 1 Soul Crystal
Unable to resist, I still tried to use the Profession Choice, but the menu didn’t respond.
“Wise, what did I tell you?” Mashta sarcastically reminded. “You’ll activate a couple of more options when you get some escs. Stop wasting time! Just do it already!”
Yup, Mashta loved bossing people around. Naturally, she was the ringleader of the Lowlings. Despite being the lowest level one among her crew, she obviously had both wisdom and leadership skills. I realized that yesterday, as she had the guts to stand in the way of the four Okhtans, fearing neither their blades nor high levels. I remembered it well. However, making hasty decisions that could impact your avatar’s further development was not a smart thing to do. My newly gained charisma helped me resist her pressuring. I grinned and asked with demonstrative calmness:
“Would you kindly enlighten me on the professions?”
“What a stubborn man, you are...” the girl narrowed her eyes in disgust, but then, as if remembering herself, tamed her anger and smiled once again. “As you wish. Only entry level profs are available for us outcasts. That is — Skinner, Herbalist, Prospector, and Cook.”
“Both Skinner and Herbalist are understandable. The Cook, too. But what’s a Prospector?”
“They search for gems and minerals that are used to enhance the properties of jewelry, weapons and armor.”
I took a careful look at the girl’s hands; the skin on her thin and dirty fingers looked coarse. She had to work a lot and every day. There were no rings on her fingers however, nor was there anything protruding from under the neckline of her leather jacket. Her clothing was simplistic, without any decorations, and her daggers didn’t shine with jewels.
“You have neither rings, nor earrings, nor...”
“Well, there is something,” she moved a strand of curly hair from her right ear and revealed a simple looking earring that gave her +20 agility points. “Getting it is very difficult, however. And it's easy to lose. Do you remember yesterday's brawl in the Fortress?”
“There was a quarrel or something, yeah...” I raised my eyebrows inquisitively, not understanding the reason for such a rash topic change.
“It’s even simpler than that. Something like a battle auction is held here almost every day. One third of the raid loot is deposited into the Fortress Vault to be used in the trade with the locals. The raiders get to keep the second third. What remains is then gambled away among those who are less lucky than the others... The best items are turned into battle rewards, for everything else you can simply draw straws or something like that. Play dice or cards, whatever comes to mind.”
“I get it. Were the Lowlings that I saw in the crowd also participating?”
“Chula and Phage, yes. A nice little ring with an increased chance of critical damage was being auctioned off. But, alas, we didn’t get anything yesterday.”
“One more thing. Since this is a reusable service. Can one learn all the professions or...?”
“No,” Mashta vigorously shook her head. “You can learn only one but you can change it if you change your mind. Wise, you don't need all those professions. Trust me. You’ll understand later.”
Her intense tone was hinting that she was beginning to lose her patience. The Dalrokt, too, got distracted from his writing and raised his head. His voice made an icy cold chill run down my spine.
“Human, you linger. Finish it.”
Chapter 12
“Damn you. I clicked Appearance Correction.” A hologram appeared almost immediately and started revolving around my head; under it was a panel with a wide selection of hairstyles. One could also change their facial features and the color of their eyes... But I didn’t need any of that, my own phiz suited me. After some experimenting, I increased the scarce growth that outlined my cheekbones and chin, and got myself a decent beard. I then gave myself a neat mustache and “grew” my hair into a luxurious, shoulder-length, black mane. I then remembered that bathing wasn’t an option here so I cut my hair in half. Walking with dirty looking hair was an acquired taste, and I coul
dn’t stand hair getting into my eyes. This is acceptable. I thought and confirmed my choice. Upon leaving I mechanically ran my hand over my still bald nape.
Noticing my gesture, Mashta laughed.
“Did you expect this to happen right away? Wait a couple of days. Now, let's go!”
Leaving the hall, we returned to the dark, underground passages that penetrated the mountain. Mashta led confidently, choosing directions without hesitation. Our path, like yesterday, was illuminated by a flashlight attached to her shoulder. Tinnie and Fury galloped forward. The darkness didn’t hinder the Direcat that, like any other feline, had no problems seeing without illumination. Tinnie decided to save her energy and cease flying for the time being. Push comes to shove, I’ll borrow a Crystal from Mashta. For now, I’d rather avoid asking for unnecessary favors. I had to gather resources on my own, otherwise I wouldn’t earn a drop of anyone’s respect.
I despised the beggars that I occasionally met in past games. Most of the time, the gameplay is designed in such a manner that there is plenty of opportunities to provide for yourself; you just need to study the possibilities the game offers you and slightly strain your brain. But freebie lovers who didn’t want to lift a finger were plenty. Such people would much rather steal or even beg, hoping to invoke pity in some soft-hearted passerby; they’d do just about anything to avoid doing work themselves. By the way, that’s a true test of one’s moral integrity and maturity; if a person, being incognito and hiding behind a character, allows themselves to use dirty tricks that they wouldn’t dare use in real life, then they truly were the lowest of the low. I firmly believed that, in the long run, respect is never earned through self-seeking and pursuing short-term profit with no regard for the consequences that come after everything is done or decided.
I was getting off track... There were more pressing matters to attend to.
“The Mausoleum,” I said thoughtfully, following the girl’s hastily moving figure. “Listen, Mashta, I’m not yet sure how the whole resurrection system works...”
“I was waiting for you to mention that,” she said derisively, not slowing down. “I’ll ask you about something personal... You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. Do you have at least one save left after the sandbox?”
After a worried pause, I decided to her tell the truth.
“Yes.”
“‘Then forget about The Mausoleum for now” Was that a sigh of relief just now? “If you die, you will be reborn in the Cradle, with the very equipment in which you saved yourself for the first time.”
“Cheers for not making us resurrect nude. But I still don’t understand how it all works. We used sarcophagi for the replication process in the sandbox. But here... Does one just respawn out of nowhere?”
“Yep, that’s exactly what it looks like. In fact, the technology here is more advanced. The Replicator is already built into the Respawn Point, that's why it is called the Cradle. But it’s better not to die, of course. Do you know why?”
“The Replicator is located in a safe place in the sandbox,” I smiled. It was barely a riddle, really. “That’s what was bothering me, actually. If there is always a feud in the valley, how do players return to the Fortress after they respawn? Do you guard them near the Cradle, or what?”
“We actually do, when possible. Generally speaking, there’s a treaty between the outcasts and the natives. Naturally, skirmishes happen, but the agreement is more or less valid. The Raksh respawn in the morning, the Dions during the day, and the outcasts in the evening. By the way, that’s when the valley is the safest. The phases of the Inner Sphere are unstable and it’s impossible to predict exactly when the next one will begin, so all the warring parties prefer to stay away from the ruins when there is less than an hour left before the ‘shift’. That’s why you got dragged there immediately after arriving at the Fortress. The timing was good.”
“It really was; couldn’t have picked a better one even if I wanted to. Especially when one is left at fate’s mercy without the slightest idea about what’s going on.”
“Don’t grumble, Wise. You're still alive. It could be worse.”
“Agreed. You said that respawn can be calculated. How so?”
“Have you already forgotten? Even with all of my explanations? Losing each save increases the resurrection interval by six hours. The rules here are the same as the ones in the sandbox. The resurrection timer is always displayed opposite the names of the dead on The Mausoleum’s list. The Dalrokts carefully monitor each resurrection and make sure that our players revive during the phase reserved for the outcasts.”
The tunnel curved like a convulsing serpent, turning left and right, but I was so focused on the conversation that I didn’t pay attention to it. Mashta never turned to me, but her voice, bouncing off the walls, was crystal clear.
“Got it,” I replied after a second hitch. “Knowing when you’ll respawn in the Cradle helps you arrange an escort.”
“That's right,” she said. “But there’s more.”
“Don’t be shy, cheer me up with something extreme,” I smiled. “I like it when things are difficult.”
“Got a sharp tongue, huh? Good. Means you’re becoming a part of the crew,” she joked back.
“Well, you Lowlings are not the only wisecrackers here.”
“Look who’s talking,” the girl snorted like a cat. “With your nick...”
“Mashta, keep to the topic.”
“I hoped that you’d be making your own conclusions by now. Using your brain is good, you know?”
“Actually, I’ve reached some conclusions. As it turns out, respawning at The Mausoleum is more beneficial when one has already run out of saves. Right? After all, when you have a spare save, an accidental death leads to an unpredictable respawn, and only God knows if someone will come to help you out.”
“See? Thinking is good for you," Mashta nodded approvingly, making another turn. “If you respawn during Raksh or Dion time, there’s a chance of getting back to the Fortress. But if you happen to respawn during the Flame phase, you’re as good as dead... Chaosites won’t let you leave alive; they’ll send you right back to the afterlife. Or onto The Mausoleum's list if you are out of saves. And that's not all.”
“It’s as if I looked into a crystal ball. Anything else to amuse me with? Spit it out, don’t be shy.”
“Looked in a crystal ball?”
“Hmm ... It’s a saying. Like, I foresaw it.”
I wonder what language we spoke here? It was obviously not Russian, but some kind of universal language. We would hardly be able to understand each other so well otherwise... But Russian idioms, even if adapted, didn’t fit into this language. I could either be mindful of what I’m saying or pay no heed to it at all. I liked the latter more, as I had no wish to impoverish my self-expression. Let them adapt to it. I had nothing against explaining myself to them. Learning something interesting about each other was a nice way to bridge the differences between cultures.
“Ah ... I told you that the Dalrokts are in charge of respawning back in the Fortress? They also determine who should be resurrected, and who shouldn’t. That is, if you are no good as a fighter, leader or craftsman, you can easily die a final death. So, try not to die, Wise, at least until you prove yourself worthy somehow. Is that clear?”
“Crystal clear. How did those four become in charge of the Fortress?”
“It’s because they’re the best. The Dalrokts are a race of warriors and born rulers. Initox is considered the head of the Fortress and assigns duties, as you’ve seen during today's parade. Chzher oversees the Service Center in the armory and writes the Chronicles. Drahub manages the Vault, oversees trade and timely deliveries of necessary supplies. Well, Keriks is something like the chief of security, keeping a watchful eye over the situation both inside and outside the Fortress. All of them take turns keeping watch and patrolling the caves.”
“Are four Dalrokts really enough?” I was rather skeptical.
&nb
sp; “Dalrokts and idleness are incompatible. They’re constantly in motion. I say, they were born for such work. They rule harshly, but rationally, leave nothing unattended and don’t let anyone slack off. If Okhtans were in charge... I think that the Fortress would have fallen a long time ago.”
“I didn’t know that Okhtans are such couch potatoes’.”
“What?”
“Loafers. Tell me, these lists that are in The Mausoleum... Do only players who died here end up there, or...?”
“Are you talking about someone who perished in the sandbox?” Mashta instantly figured out what was going on. I wasn’t the only "smart guy" around it seems.
“Yes. I met a good man there. He was a healer. He would be useful here. As far as I understood, you don’t have any healers at all.”
“No such thing around here, I’m afraid. I haven’t heard of such resurrections.”
“Got it. I better shut my pie hole...”
“Do what? Is that some kind of a human saying again?”
“Yeah. It means that you are talking too much. Like way too much. Ugh... Just forget it...”
“I should remember that. It sounds funny. You’ll give me ten minutes, I need to harvest.”
Fascinated by the conversation, I didn’t notice when we arrived at the underground reservoir that was suspiciously similar to the one from yesterday. Mashta took off her backpack, pulled out an empty leather bag, squatted, and quickly began to thin out the mushroom thickets with the help of deft fingers and a sharp dagger. Like yesterday, she was selective about which mushrooms she picked. Wincing from the heavy and thick smell, I stepped aside and leaned against the wall overgrown with pale moss. I could only envy Fury and Tinnie as the smell didn’t bother them at all. They walked among the mushrooms in utter delight. Naturally, there was some vegetation in the snow-covered world. Following their curiosity, they would sometimes disappear from sight among the especially dense growths.
Chapter 13
“I guess I won’t be wrong assuming that you’re a Herbalist,” I said, breaking the silence.
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