by Kevin Murphy
[Killing players does not award experience points.]
As though lobbed to him, through the mist, an item bounced over the stone ground and landed at Dakkon’s feet. It appeared to be some sort of obsidian-black bowl. On its side, the bowl poured out, and up, wispy tendrils of a deep red which licked over the upturned side of the bowl.
After a quick prod to ensure he wouldn’t scald himself, Dakkon lifted the bowl, righting it. As he turned the bowl, its crimson, tendril tips unbent but remained pointing toward the cieling, and continued to do so no matter how he oriented the item.
A prompt appeared:
|The unique class: Edgemaster cannot be overridden.
|You may consume the Crucible of the First Flame, unique class change relic for the Tyrant of Fire class, for a permanent buff.
|Class-change relics which have been destroyed will be elsewhere re-introduced into the world.
|Would you like to consume the Crucible of the First Flame?
|Yes No
Dakkon selected ‘No.’ So, he could consume class change relics. Was this some hidden ability of the edgemaster class?
The dropping of that relic meant that their goal had been completed. As the fog screen dissipated, Merri could be seen sitting on the floor near the center of the room. He was badly burnt, no doubt, but he was breathing.
Lina beelined it straight to the corpse of the fire mage, looking around frantically. When Dakkon walked up to her, holding the precious relic, Lina’s eyes nearly bulged out of her head. She snatched the item away, greedily.
“Why…” she started, but then stopped herself. She appeared confused by Dakkon’s choice not to betray her for an easy boost in power. Perhaps that would have been her move.
“I like my class better,” Dakkon said with nonchalance.
Lina hugged the artifact defensively against her bosom while she accepted the prompt it gave her. The relic’s faux flame spread to her chest and arms that held it in place, the tendrils dancing wildly as though introduced to dry kindling before the fire faded away.
Merri was the MVP in the confrontation, and he sat rewarded with burns all over his body. Lina produced a salve from her bag and lathered it liberally onto Merri’s face, shoulders, and chest.
Dakkon was pleased that the trick he’d picked up from the wolf spirit boss, freezing someone’s feet to the floor, could be practically applied. Sure, he didn’t have a cloud of low-hanging magic mist, but he could rapidly freeze a puddle from a distance. The effect was similar. It was clear that Chronicle was the sort of environment where one’s listed skills would only be a fraction of what they were truly capable of. A clever player would always be able to adapt and create.
The justice meted out by Merri had been swift. Their task there had finished. Now they simply needed to wait awhile for the giant man to recover enough to head back.
After Lina had finished the generous application of salve to her satisfaction, she turned to Dakkon and paused to consider the situation as it had played out. Then, with no great ceremony she held out a pouch to Dakkon.
“What’s this?” Dakkon asked dubiously, though he accepted the pouch without hesitation.
“Payment for your part in the hunt,” Lina said levelly. “We don’t accept many into our fold, but the way things played out here…” she trailed off.
Dakkon listened expectantly. He felt he deserved a few nice words from the cynic before him.
Lina re-gathered her thoughts. “I’m willing to vouch for you. In our organization that means a lot,” she said. “I’ll ask you once again—without the snark. Would you like to join us as a relic hunter?”
Dakkon was tempted to refuse given the last conversation on the matter. He weighed the satisfaction and the pride he’d feel to turn down her offer against the sack in his hand. It was a heavy little pouch—and in a world where coin weight was negligible.
“I’ll be a relic hunter,” Dakkon answered as though it were unshakable fact. To him it was, regardless of her endorsement.
“Good enough for me,” Lina said with a grin which could just about pass for friendly. “Welcome to the Full-Purse Antiquarians.”
Chapter 28: Prophecy
Dakkon’s journey back to Tian was less helpful than he would have hoped. While he was provided cursory information on the faction he had just joined, the Full-Purse Antiquarians were more of an enigma for him to look into later, on his own time.
What was divulged to Dakkon was that the Antiquarians were not a guild, a clan, nor any formal in-game organization. They were a collection of like-minded individuals who supported one another only in their pursuit of magic items and fortune hunting. The group worked through posts on an out-of-game forum where vetted users posted information which was expanded upon and ultimately completed by other members. When a user found a relic which they were led to by a post on the forums, they would split the rewards of sale for that item or pay a bounty to each member involved if they wanted to keep it for themselves. Within the Antiquarians, one could make a tidy profit from a life of research, or profit from the research of others depending on their own tastes.
Lina made it abundantly clear that the roles of every member pursuing relics were equivalent. In fact, this may have been a concession of the original founder who preferred research. In Lina’s mind, picking up on the traces of rare items was far more valuable than the ability to slog through a quest chain. Many of the most respected Antiquarians dedicated their efforts to speech-craft and poring over books.
Aside from Lina’s endorsement, the next most useful thing she gave to Dakkon was a link to the faction’s forums. After a moment’s pause, Dakkon created a favorited link to the website from his media console. Lina explained that it would be no use for him to go now, as updating information did not happen instantly. The system was old-fashioned and he would not be granted access until her request was reviewed and accepted. Before she submitted her request, Lina gave Dakkon the one-time opportunity to choose a different alias on the forums. Dakkon decided that a simple shortening of his own name, to Dak, would suffice.
Before they had made it all the way back to Tian, Dakkon had also managed to inspect the purse handed to him by Lina after they defeated the fire mage, who had first been a server at an inn in Turlin where he slipped a fast-acting poison into Lina’s and Merri’s drinks. The purse’s perceived heft was the result of 50 platinum coins—the equivalent of 5,000 gold or 5,000 real-world credits. That sum alone would be enough for four months’ living expenses on the other side. The allure of money trickling to him more easily than any he’d ever known was more than enough to buy his loyalty to the Antiquarians—for now, at any rate.
As the three walked back into the town of Tian, Lina reminded Dakkon to hide his dagger from prying eyes. She would tell Gullen that his contract was not completable, mentioning that she did not believe Dakkon still possessed the dagger. It was a lie which she entrusted Dakkon to not reveal for now. Dakkon, Lina, and Merri exchanged information to show up on each other’s friends lists and parted ways. Lina and Merri had business elsewhere, a healthy distance away from Gullen’s anger.
Alone again, Dakkon looked over his statistics. With 45 free stat points remaining, Dakkon had quite the hoarded stockpile to distribute. Perhaps it was due entirely to his dagger, but he had yet to hit a wall he couldn’t overcome. Certainly, more health would prove useful, but after having twice seen the destructive potential of magic, he knew that he wanted his next class to be an offensive caster of some sort. This was the only consideration preventing him from immediately dumping his points into his various stats. Still, he decided that it probably wouldn’t hurt to put 10 points into both strength and intellect. The choice would undoubtedly prove useful. After all, he planned to become proficient in a wide variety of martial and magical attacks thanks to the special circumstances afforded him by his edgemaster class. Besides, had he not waited so long to round out his dexterity score, then perhaps the battle with the fire mage wouldn’t
have been quite so close. Conceding that the unallocated points wouldn’t help him once he was dead, he increased his strength and intellect scores. Then, remembering how consistently and embarrassingly terrible his aim had been with his ice daggers, he decided to assign an extra five to dexterity.
Dakkon could feel the change immediately. It could be a placebo effect, he supposed, but he was under the impression that he could think more clearly. What he was certain of, however, was the tightening sensation he felt in his muscles as two levels worth of stat points transformed into lean muscle in a way that would make bodybuilders and protein-shake companies alike green with envy.
|————
|Statistics ( ][][ ) ( ][][][ )
|————
|Strength: 23 — (20 + 3 Equipped) ( ? )
|Stamina: 25
|Agility: 64 — (50 + 14 Equipped)
|Dexterity: 48 — (45 + 3 Equipped)
|Intellect: 23 — (20 + 3 Equipped)
|Luck: 50
|Free Stat Points: 10
|Hit Points: 675/675
|Endurance: 363/363
|Mana Points: 625/625
|Level: 25
|EXP Until Next Level: [_____3,366/6,660 ]
Ten free stat points still made for a fair stockpile. If he managed to obtain a caster secondary class quickly, he’d happily empty the remaining points into intellect and see what he could accomplish. Until then, though, he still felt more comfortable having some points to assign in a pinch if he desperately needed the extra speed or accuracy for an unexpected trial.
|————
|Traits ( ][ ) ( ][][][ )
|————
|Appearance – 8 (Equipped)
|Climber – 2— 49% [___________ ]
|Disciplined – 12— 62% [______________ ]
|Heroic – 3— 27% [_____ ]
|Hunter – 9— 42% [________ ]
|Rider – 3— 27% [_____ ]
|Steadfast – 2— 14% [___ ]
|Stealthy – 4— 80% [_________________ ]
|Thick – 2— 15% [___ ]
|————
|Classes
|————
|Primary Class: Edgemaster
|Class Level: Null
|EXP Until Next Level: [||||||||||||||||||||N||||||||||||||||||||||]
|Skills:
|+Mastery – 1— [||||||||||||||||||||N||||||||||||||||||||||]
|+Edge – 1— [||||||||||||||||||||N||||||||||||||||||||||]
|Special: Edgemaster is locked as your primary class.
|Special: Classes may not be changed or removed.
|
|Secondary Class: Thermomancer – 80% Power (from multiclassing)
|Class Level: 30
|EXP Until Next Level: [ 240/8,160 ]
|Skills:
|+Thermoregulate – 29— 92% [___________________ ]
|+Heat (Touch) – 26— 13% [__ ]
|+Chill (Touch) – 25— 77 [________________ ]
|+Hotspot (Area) – 22— 80% [_______________ ]
|+Condense – 1— [______________________]
|+Thermal Sight – 2— 70% [__________________ ]
Though he felt like he had already come a long way, it excited him to think that everything thus far was only the tip of the iceberg. He was, after all, still a beginner completing low-leveled quests and missions—but Chronicle had managed to make even the early stages of his experience feel like more than a simple game. Still, he knew that the real magic would be what the future had in store. He wondered what the epic, high-level side of things would be like.
\\\
After lifting his neck up and off the proverbial chopping block, and landing a new source of potential income through relic hunting, Dakkon felt like he deserved another short stint of downtime. With some padding for his upcoming expenses and no job to call his own, for the first time in as long as he could remember, he was free of obligation. While he led Nightshade through the city streets looking for a tasty new local delicacy to try, a game-wide announcement stamped itself onto his vision:
[The Tournament of the Gods has begun.]
Players froze in the street. Everyone with a blue name hovering over their head stopped moving to investigate—they had all seen the same bold text. The stares of non-player-controlled citizens drew Dakkon’s eyes to a pair of distant, motionless players. Each wore some sort of matching mark on their forehead. He had a bad feeling about what the marks might entail to cause such a stir. An icon for his quest log had appeared to the right of his vision. Before he had a chance to examine it further, he was addressed from his left side where he was certain no one had been.
“Dakkon,” said a hooded figure of medium stature and broad frame in a voice that was melodic and a little more than human. “You have been chosen to participate in our tournament.” The speaker’s face was fully obscured by a hood and something more—impalpable. His cloak appeared to be spun from impossibly fine filaments of charred, dark gold and accentuated by a mild sheen which moved like ripples on the surface of a pond. A strange pressure settled itself around Dakkon. He felt restricted, as though he were being hugged by thick blankets of sopping wet cotton.
Before Dakkon had the chance or wit to reply to the enshrouded figure’s abrupt appearance, the hooded one continued. “You have amused me, Dakkon. On your first day in this world you gained my notice. It was for my amusement in your wretched start that you received new clothes and a fitting blade. Since then, your journey has found a knack for exceeding my expectations. For that, you have received my boon.” The robed figure held out what looked like a pendant. “Continue to surprise me and perhaps I shall find suitable surprises for you as well.”
The robed figure stretched out his hand, palm upturned. Dakkon found himself unable to look away from the area where the hooded figure’s face should have been—at least somewhat—visible. Dakkon’s tongue felt leaden, his brain struggled to make sense of the situation. The encounter seemed calculated to catch him off guard. So, he listened. He reached out and accepted the item given by the cloaked stranger, but with his gaze focused intently forward, he could only tell that it was round in shape and cool to the touch.
After his gift had been accepted, the avatar continued. “You’re the only man who knows Cline’s secret. The boy is our son in a sense—an experiment in another. Though I know the odds are not stacked in your favor, you must watch after Cline during this trial of my brother’s design.”
Dakkon heard a scream from behind him, breaking the spell of the stranger’s gaze. With the thickness that suppressed him forgotten, he whirled to find the cry’s origin. A man lay dead in the street with a crimson marking on his forehead. A non-player mother was fleeing the scene of the confrontation—young son clutched tightly to her chest—while the broad-daylight murderer ran in another direction.
“Good luck,” said the harmonic voice from behind him. Dakkon spun back, but the gold-draped figure was nowhere to be seen.
In his hands, Dakkon held a new trinket bestowed to him by a voyeuristic god. He had a notification to comb through and a street to get well away from until he figured out what the hell was going on. But, before he could act, he received a panicked communication from Cline.
“Dakkon!” thought Cline—attempting to establish a telepathic link. “I’m in big trouble.”
“What’s going on?” asked Dakkon as he turned off onto a side street.
“After that announcement, an icon popped up explaining an event. Have you read it? There’s a sigil on my forehead, Dakkon,” thought Cline, sounding stressed. “I’m a target.”
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