by Kevin Murphy
After 25 minutes of poking around forums and wikis in search of ways to make money in Correndin, Dakkon had found a plethora of information on how others had made some starting money, but also learned that a good portion of the time these methods weren’t repeatable. What worked for one player wouldn’t necessarily work for another. Some quests were performed once, and then they were completed. This world evolved, after all.
One promising lead mentioned the location of a bulletin board in town where NPCs posted small jobs. There weren’t any follow up comments, which Dakkon found curious, but with a job board he would have his pick of work, be able to quickly earn some money, and then he could afford to buy a sword or bow which should open new doors for him.
“Well, then. Random grunt work is my specialty,” Dakkon thought as he made his way to the aforementioned bulletin board.
Chapter 3: A Hard Day’s Work
There it was. A large bulletin board stood off to the side of one ‘Brass Badger Inn.’ The inn was not at all charming, if one were to rely on its outward appearance. There were clear holes in the wall, some unceremoniously stuffed with rubbish and cloth rags. The building leaned in a way no structure should, especially considering it housed a business that aimed to attract people inside. Judging it by its surroundings, however, made The Badger out to be the shiniest penny in the pile. The area looked like it might have once been poor and shoddy, but had since become far less habitable. Nearby houses were crumbling to the point of inaccessibility; people lay—dead or drunk—on the sides of the road, and the whole area was host to a minefield of scattered trash and animal droppings.
“Pleasant.” Dakkon thought he might have a good idea why the bulletin board hadn’t been explored thoroughly by forum goers. Nevertheless, he had to start somewhere. “A job’s a job.”
Dakkon walked up to the bulletin board and his eyes settled on a flashy looking flyer:
[Want to make EASY money? Want to make money FAST?]
“What’s with that formatting?” Dakkon examined the odd, fully-capitalized words written using a different, louder, color of ink.
[Why waste your time earning a few measly coppers when you could be making cold, hard PLATINUM?]
[Wait by the lamp post on Gadwick Bridge at ANY time after noon.]
[I’ll COME to YOU!!!]
Dakkon, in a fit of inspiration, combined the off-colored words into a single sentence and was left with: ‘EASY FAST PLATINUM ANY COME YOU.’ He sighed. “… I suppose I was expecting too much.”
As chance would have it, Dakkon had already passed over Gadwick Bridge while making his way to the message board. The old bridge acted as a sort of barrier between the respectable and disreputable sections of the city.
“I get a feeling this is going to be a waste of my time,” thought Dakkon. In the real world, this type of request would be, at best, a scam. Despite how odd it appeared, he reigned in his suspicions. He was in a game, after all. “This must be some sort of low level quest to get players acclimated to the environment, right?” Dakkon figured it wasn’t worth pondering over too much. If it turned out to be a waste of time he could always try another job. “Right. I’ll check it out.”
After having waited a good 12 minutes underneath the rusted, unlit oil lamp hanging above the center of the half-story-tall, arched bridge, a gangly, beanstalk of a man swayed his way up to Dakkon.
“Hello there, friend!” guffawed the lanky NPC—evident by his lack of nametag—with freshly slicked back hair.
“Ehm—hi?” Dakkon tried.
“You’re here because YOU know how to spot a GREAT DEAL, and have I got an OPPORTUNITY for YOU!” the walking stalk exclaimed.
“Gods. He talks just like he writes. This could get tedious.”
And so, it did.
“I can take your WORTHLESS copper, silver, and gold and turn it into cold, hard PLATINUM.” The greasy pole continued. “All you need to do is invest your spare CHANGE with me, and in only two weeks you’ll get back over DOUBLE or even TRIPLE your money! Now how does THAT sound?”
“Well,” Dakkon said with knitted brows, “setting aside the lack of information that you, a complete stranger, have given me regarding what you’re going to do with my money—and taking into consideration that I’m the very definition of penniless at the moment—THAT sounds GREAT.”
The bamboo shaft replaced his friendly countenance with one of indignation. “Look here ya little pissant—” His tone had lost its feigned joviality, and he advanced a step toward Dakkon before being interrupted by two patrolling guards.
“Barnaby, you lying bastard!” one of the metal-clad guards hollered while barreling towards Dakkon’s potential business partner from one side of the fifteen-meter-long bridge. “You won’t get away from me today!”
By the time the guards were only a stride away from Dakkon, showing no sign of slowing their pace, Dakkon jumped back out of the way and realized that the pulled-taffy man who was just by his side had already fled.
“Where’s my money, damn you!” one of the guards yelled as they clanked away in pursuit of the fleet-footed Barnaby.
“What the hell was that?” Dakkon was befuddled. The scene was entirely irregular. “I’ve been in the game for about an hour, and already someone tried to scam me?” He shook his head. “No. An NPC tried to scam me! And what was with those guards? They didn’t come to lend me a helping hand. They had their own matters to settle with that swindler. Just what kind of game is this?”
It is worth noting that coming from another game to Chronicle was, for anyone, a big leap. In other games, the guards are your sworn protectors providing you aren’t up to no good, and it is practically unheard of to have an NPC attempt to swindle a low-level player who is fresh off the boat. But Chronicle isn’t like other games. There’s no set progression. There is no main objective that everything nudges a player toward. Content is created automatically, and the game evolves. Because of that, the world is alive, and the AI have whole existences outside of player interactions. Dakkon was only beginning to realize what he was getting himself into.
Dakkon walked slowly back towards the not-so-distant bulletin board, pushing the events that had just happened to the back of his mind. Once he had arrived, he pulled the flyer starting with ‘Want to make EASY money? Want to make money FAST?’ off the board, crumpled it into a tight ball, and cast it amongst a heap of fresh droppings. “That’ll be my good deed for today.”
Dakkon wanted to make some money and had learned a valuable lesson. Not just any job will do here. He’d have to be more discerning. Scanning the remaining contents of the board, he saw:
[Looking for the right help]
[Small hands and large eyes preferred]
“Some sort of crafting gig that requires good dexterity, perhaps?” Dakkon wondered.
[Large assets are a plus]
[Pay is negotiable]
[Must be as haughty as you are naughty!!!]
Dakkon promptly began reading a different flyer:
[Lab assistant wanted]
[No experience necessary]
[Hiring immediately]
[Inquire at Pontificus’s Potions (and salves) on Ryne Street]
“A lab assistant sounds about as innocuous as I can hope for, I reckon,” Dakkon thought with a sigh. He had no clue where Ryne Street was, and there didn’t seem to be anyone in the vicinity who would more likely give him directions than stab him for his cloth booties, he suspected, now that he had gained some sense of caution. “I’d better head back across the bridge.”
After a bit of wandering through safer parts of the city—with breaks here and there to ask for an update on where he was versus where he needed to go—Dakkon had traveled much further north into Correndin, the slow way, before arriving outside of a gray stone building with a large sign above the entrance engraved ‘Pontificus’s Potions (and salves).’ From a separate, smaller building constructed of the same gray stone, a door was flung outward and an old man dressed in p
icture-perfect, stereotypical blue wizard’s robes walked out, coughing, trailed by a cloud of unhealthy looking green smoke.
“Pontificus, I’d wager?” Dakkon asked.
“Yes. And you’re here to buy salves,” the comically dressed old man barked.
“Salves? Well, no, I—”
“Salves, salves, salves. That’s all anyone ever wants from me. I’m an alchemist, dagflabbit! I toil to advance the alchemical arts! Be a man and buy a potion, why don’t you,” Pontificus challenged.
A player passing by, out of the old man’s field of view, locked eyes with Dakkon and shook his head meaningfully.
“Ah. I’m…” Dakkon refocused on Pontificus and the objective at hand, “I’m here to inquire about the lab assistant work.”
“Oh?” Pontificus’s demeanor transformed within a single syllable. “Good, Good! That’s splendid. Two in one day! Well, if you’re not some lollygagger, then let's get started!”
The robed old man twisted his form as he fiddled with the sash on his waist and pulled out a palmable, round, glass-stoppered bottle swirling purple with the mysteries of alchemy. “Drink this,” he demanded, “and I’ll give you five copper.”
Dakkon, remembering that pain and suffering were as real in this game as debuffs and stat penalties were in all games, looked doubtful. Gripped by sensibility, he made no motion for the potion.
“Don’t just stand there. Take it and quaff it down, already!” Pontificus held out the bottle expectantly.
Just then, from behind the old man, Dakkon’s undivided attention was captured by the form of a player dragging himself slowly out of the side-building which Pontificus had arrived from.
“Huuu… Huuelp Mee… ehhhhehhhhk.” The body oozed out words just as it oozed out yellow, foul-smelling—whatever it was.
“Oh, back inside! The potion has to run its course if we’re to learn anything of value.” Pontificus stepped towards the pudding-like man and encouraged him back inside with his foot. Then, after getting some yellow gunk on his shoes, decided instead to use the agape wooden door to leverage the player back inside.
And with that, Dakkon decided he wasn’t cut out for the life of an alchemist.
\\\
After making the long trek back to the bulletin board again, Dakkon decided he’d pick up a job only if it appeared safe—and, only after playing devil’s advocate—twice.
Postings on the board read:
[Parcel delivery]
“Contraband that will put me in jail.”
\
[Feed our pet]
“That’s a man-eating cat.”
\
[Rear my babe]
“I don’t even know where to start with that one.”
\
[Escort me while I buy groceries]
[I’m a frail old man and the neighborhood isn’t what it used to be.]
[I can’t offer much, but I’d be grateful if you’d help me carry my bags.]
[I live right around the corner on Bridge Street, in the house with the ceramic piggy.]
“…” Dakkon stared at the post near the bottom of the board, at a height where a frail old man could have indeed left it. “…” He had become jaded from his experiences over the day, but he couldn’t give in just yet. “Well, I can scope it out, and if anything seems suspicious I can just bail,” he reasoned.
Dakkon walked around the corner and found the little hovel featuring a porcine statue. He walked up to the door, rapped on it three times with the back of his knuckle, and stepped back a couple of paces. After about a minute, the door opened quite slowly, and an ancient, harmless-looking, little old man, no higher than four feet tall, stood before him.
“Hello? Can I help you?” The old man asked.
Reassured at last, Dakkon offered his assistance, “I’m here to help. I saw the message you left on the bulletin board, and I’m here to pick you up for some grocery shopping. What do you say, would you like to head to the market?”
The old man looked up at Dakkon and replied, “That’s swell. What a good boy you are to help an old man out. Let me just grab my bags and wallet.” The elder then slowly turned back inside the house and disappeared for a solid five minutes. When he emerged again, he asked, “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes. Oh yes. Yes, indeed.” Dakkon was bored of the task already, but had a soft spot in his heart for the elderly which, for reasons unknown to him, didn’t waver from the knowledge that the old man before him was a simulation instead of an actual person. The old man slowly waddled out next to Dakkon and the two walked side by side, at a snail’s pace, in the general direction of the marketplace.
After an eternity of walking, and not having yet arrived at their destination, the old man began to lead Dakkon down an alleyway, suggesting it was a short cut to save time. Dakkon was all for it. After a few steps into the remarkably well tucked away alley, however, four bandits appeared, blocking any avenue of escape for the two of them—or just for Dakkon, rather, as the old man continued walking past the barricade with a silent nod to the biggest of the four ambushers.
“Give us yer money, boy!” The largest one spat after the old man had passed him by. “Don’t make this harder on yourself than it needs to be.”
Something in Dakkon snapped. “What the hell is wrong with this place!” he yelled.
The four brutes were surprised by the outburst. “Come on, your purse,” the smallest one demanded, in a higher pitched voice.
“What purse?” Dakkon shook his head. “All I’ve done since coming here is try to make some damned money, and what do I have to show for it?” He shot a fiery glance to the two mid-sized thugs, who had been silent. “Nothing! I haven’t got a single copper to my name! Not. One.”
The four thugs looked at each other, unsure about the unusual emotional state of their mark.
Dakkon continued venomously, “It’s not for lack of trying, either! No. It’s not. And before you ask, no, I don’t have anything else of value unless you want these beggar threads off my back.”
The largest thug, put his hands on his hips in a manner Dakkon would later suspect must be fairly uncharacteristic during an ambush and the thug grumbled, “Well what’s in the bag, then?”
“Oh?” Dakkon fumed. “You want to know what’s in my bag? You want to know what’s in my bag?” He paused for a second to study the large thug’s disbelieving face. “Traveler’s Tack! All. You. Can. Eat. Get it while it’s rock hard and horrible, boys.” Dakkon pulled out a piece of tack and belligerently began offering it to each bandit in turn.
“What the hell, man? Why don’t you have anything of value?” One of the clearly slow-witted, mid-sized bandits asked.
“Why don’t I have more? Why did you set up an AMBUSH targeting someone who’s so goddamned poor that they’re spending hours helping an old man buy groceries for copper pieces?” Dakkon logicked angrily while making impudent and grandiose gestures with his hands. “Couldn’t you pick a better target? Maybe—I don’t know—a merchant or a noble. Someone with guaranteed wealth?”
“You know,” the little thug said in the direction of the largest, “he’s got a point, boss.”
“Shut up!” The thug boss snarled back. The large man lifted his foot and kicked Dakkon to the ground.
A message flashed towards the bottom of Dakkon’s screen:
[Gettysburg has kicked you for 6 damage. Remaining HP 44/50]
Dakkon unceremoniously landed on his backside and, as he looked up and around him he saw the thugs trod of, one muttering, “You can keep your damned tack.”
Dakkon lay on the ground for a few minutes, frustrated. Then, after a bit of calming down, it finally dawned on him how his actions had been those of an insane person. It was a miracle they didn’t gut him in the alley and walk off with his bag and cloth booties. He’d insulted an ambush party to their faces and had gotten away with a simple kick.
The thought cheered him up by a measure. Dakkon picked himself up and s
trolled out of the alley.
Chapter 4: Typical
The events of his first day had not, so far, left Dakkon with a lot. What it did leave him was hungry. Not particularly wanting to chow down out in the street, and since overhearing some banter might give him a clue on how he should proceed, he headed back to the barely standing Brass Badger Inn and pushed in the door. Inside, the atmosphere was better than he had anticipated. Better by far. The bar interior felt warm and refreshing. It was lively with people having drinks after work. Dakkon seated himself on a table that was a bit out of the barmaid’s way, where he pulled out one of his two canteens and some Traveler’s Tack. After taking a bite, Dakkon knew the tack was undoubtedly the blandest and driest thing he’d ever tasted. While trying to chew the tack all of the moisture in his mouth forsook him, and he drank from the canteen greedily.
*Bhnnn*
[You are satiated.]
[HP/EP/MP will restore itself over time.]
[You are resting in a bar.]
[Restoration speed is increased.]
“So, if I don’t eat, I don’t regenerate,” Dakkon appraised the situation. “Fair enough.”
The barmaid, who had been busily serving other patrons, made her way over to Dakkon.
“Hello there, honey,” she said. “What can I get for you?” The barmaid was stunning to the point that she seemed out of place. She was tall, strong—but not thick—willowy, with blue eyes, swoopy blonde hair…
“And she’s stacked,” Dakkon said aloud while nodding. When he realized his mistake, he stiffened and began to closely inspect the surface of the table.
“Hah! Don’t worry yourself about it. That’s practically gentlemanly compared to the usual bunch,” the barmaid said as she flicked her hair towards her regular patrons. “Now, what will it be, Mr. Gentleman?”
