by James Hunter
I didn’t have much to my name, though. Rough tunic (shoddy); rough trousers (shoddy); worn fur boots (shoddy). I did have a few copper coins, though, and I also had one minor restoration potion—worth a whopping 12 silver pieces. I wasn’t sure how far 12 silver pieces would go in this game, but I imagined for a lowbie it was probably a hefty price tag. Maybe Cutter was right. Maybe I should put the old lady out of her misery, then collect her scalp and the bounty that came with it.
Put myself first.
That was the smart thing to do. The practical thing to do.
I only hesitated for a moment. I pulled out the potion, popped the cap, and poured the luminescent red liquid into the woman’s slack mouth.
Maybe I was being a sucker, wasting my time and money, but I couldn’t bring myself to murder and scalp an old lady. Call me superstitious, but that seems like a good way to get irrevocably cursed. Plus, what kind of person would do that? A guy like Cutter, I guess. A Thief or Assassin. And though this was technically a game, this was also far more than a game—this was my life now, and I didn’t want to start my new life as a killer.
The potion emptied quickly, but for a long spell, nothing happened. She just lay there, unmoving. Just when I was about to give up hope, she gasped in pain, her back arching as her arms thrashed and hammered against the table. It was like watching The Exorcist in real time.
SIX: Quest Alert
I lurched back as the wrinkled Murk Elf shot up, her eyes wild, her back straight as a board. She stayed that way only for a moment before toppling back to the crude wooden table with a thud. She didn’t look good—the healing potion certainly hadn’t cured all her ails—but she was alert now and her breathing sounded cleaner, easier, less forced. She stared at the ceiling for a long time, her lips flickering open and closed, as though she were talking or maybe praying, but no words came out.
“Good job,” Cutter said, his words radiating sarcasm. “I think she’s worse now. You broke her. On the plus side,” he said with a grin, “look at this.” He smacked an unadorned section of wall with a curled fist, and the stone clicked and disappeared with a shimmer of light. A secret compartment guarded by an illusion. “A secret room is one thing, but a secret room inside of another secret room is something else entirely. And it means one thing. Loot.”
“You go check it out,” I said absentmindedly, waving him on. “Bring back what you find. I need to figure out what I can do for her.”
Cutter stared at me, eyes narrowed, forehead creased, head cocked to one side. “Obviously there’s something wrong with you. I said there’s loot. Free stuff. Like weapons, armor, gold, jewels—the things that help you to not die. But you’re going to let me, an obviously dishonest thief, go poke through the goodies on the honor system?”
Cutter was right—I was being a moron—but I still edged closer to the semi-lucid woman. “You do what you need to do, Cutter. This is what I need to do.”
He shrugged and muttered a halfhearted “have it your way, idiot,” before disappearing into the secret room. Vanishing from sight.
I placed a hand on the woman’s neck, checking for her pulse. It was there, but reedy and erratic—always a bad sign. “Can you hear me?” I asked, reaching up and gently slapping at her cheek. “Hello, can you hear me?”
She sputtered for a moment longer, then turned her head, fixing me with rheumy, clouded eyes. “You stopped for me,” she said breathlessly. “Why? This is a bad place. An evil place. Why risk your escape, your survival, for an old woman?”
“Well …” I stumbled, caught off guard. I wrestled to come up with a good answer, but there wasn’t one. At least not a logical one. “Because I couldn’t just walk by,” I finally finished weakly. “It seemed like the right thing to do, I guess.”
She regarded me, her cataract-covered eyes boring in, holding me firmly in their steely grip. The strange spell was broken as she fell into a fit of violent coughing, her body tensing as frothy blood dribbled from between her pale lips. “Very well,” she said as the coughing fit subsided. “Regardless of your reasons, I thank you for your generosity, traveler. I fear your efforts are too late for me. The black priest of Serth-Rog has been thorough in his work, and I won’t leave this place. Not alive. Perhaps, though, you would do an old woman a final mercy?”
She reached a shaky, arthritic hand toward her throat and pulled out a leather-corded necklace from beneath her stained and tattered shirt. A strange bronze talisman the size of a quarter hung from the end of the necklace. The coin burned with a subtle, shadowy light—emanating from the image of a raven gouged into the metal. “Please help me,” she said with a grimace as she worked to sit. “Help me get it off.”
As gently as I could, I used one hand to lift her and the other to slide the leather strap over her head, ruffling brittle hair. I dropped the necklace into her wrinkled palm.
“This”—she held up a shaky hand, the talisman dangling from the leather strap—“is a sacred artifact of my people. The mark of a Maa-Tál. Please return it to the chief of my clan, Kolle of the Ak-Hani. Of all the six named tribes, my people are the wariest of outsiders, but you are one of us—even if you are of the Lost Tribe—and with my talisman around your neck … well, they will spare you.” Despite her reassurance, she didn’t actually sound all that sure they would spare me. “Take them the talisman and tell them what you saw here. What the black priests of Serth-Rog are doing. What they did to me.”
“I’d be happy to let them know,” I replied, “but I don’t have a clue what they’re doing here. Can you tell me anything that might help? Why these people captured me? What they want? Why they’re doing these awful experiments?”
She smiled sadly, her eyes fluttering closed, her breathing labored again. She shook her head, the effort clearly a terrible strain. I bent over and urgently checked for a pulse again. I found it—barely there and fading fast.
“In truth,” she wheezed, visibly fighting to open her eyes, “I cannot say what designs Serth-Rog has, because I do not know. But his intentions are truly insidious, this much is plain. Perhaps, if my people know about this place, about the experiments, they will be able to discover Serth-Rog’s purpose. Put an end to the abominations being committed against all the people of Eldgard. Please, do this for me. Take the talisman.” She thrust it toward me, the metal coin bobbing from the tremor in her hand. A prompt followed:
<<<>>>
Quest Alert: Plight of the Maa-Tál
Help a dying Murk Elf Shaman by delivering her sacred talisman to Chief Kolle of the Ak-Hani clan in the Storme Marshes. Deliver the news concerning the shaman’s untimely fate as well as the experiments of the black priests of Serth-Rog.
Quest Class: Rare, Class-Based
Quest Difficulty: Moderate
Success: Deliver the Talisman and survive Chief Kolle
Failure: Fail to deliver the Talisman or be killed by Chief Kolle
Reward: Class Change; Unique, Scalable Item; 15,000 EXP
Accept: Yes/No?
<<<>>>
My jaw almost hit the floor. This was one heck of a quest for a level one player to get fresh out of the gate. In most MMOs I’d previously played, the only quests you got early on were common, generic quests that revolved around killing rats, running pointless errands, or gathering asinine amounts of ingredients for various NPCs. And the rewards for those quests were just as generic and boring. Marginal experience bumps, some common items, and access to other, slightly harder quests.
The quest the old Murk Elf had offered me was an absolute home run compared to the normal lot. I accepted immediately and grabbed the talisman from the woman’s outstretched hand.
“Thank you,” she murmured, smacking her lips, working moisture into the dry skin. I selected the talisman and saw it offered a few bonuses: +5 to Spirit, +1% Spirit Regeneration, +5% to Shadow-Based Skills. I wasn’t sure what Shadow-Based skills were at this point, but I knew this amulet was bound to be better than any of the loot Cut
ter was turning up in the back room—certainly worth more than a gold mark, which is what I would’ve received for killing the Murk Shaman.
I felt a flash of hot joy—my act of kindness had already paid major dividends.
“My time is short,” the old woman rasped, blinking her eyes open, complete exhaustion evident in every line of her frail body. “But let me offer you one more parting gift—a final thanks for your mercy. Within you, boy, is the Shadow-Spark.”
Her hand lashed out, uncannily quick, and latched onto my arm. “I’ll awaken it inside of you.” Her fingers pressed down into my skin like drill bits, her flesh growing cool, then downright cold. Arctic, even. Icy power soaked through my skin, into my bones, and spread through my body like wildfire. Running along my nerve endings, my body shivering, my teeth clattering in response.
SEVEN: Loot
The chilly energy grew painful, and my flesh cried out in protest as my head began to ache, to pound. Then, in a flash, the hurt was gone, snatching the bone-searing cold with it. The woman’s hand dropped away, her muscles slack, her face lifeless, her eyes clouded with death. I glanced down—on my forearm was a black handprint, branded directly onto my skin like a tattoo. Another new notification popped up, drawing my gaze away from my burned flesh:
<<<>>>
Ability: Shadow-Spark
Only a handful of Eldgard’s natives possess the inborn Shadow-Spark needed to harness the ancient power of the Umbra. Fewer still have that inborn talent unlocked. With Shadow-Spark unlocked, you now have the ability to draw on the Umbra and learn a restricted class of Shadow-based skills.
Ability Type/Level: Passive / Level 1
Cost: None
Effect: Umbra unlocked. All Shadow-based skill stats are increased by 3% per Shadow-Spark level.
<<<>>>
I read and reread the notification, then dismissed the screen and pulled up the in-game wiki. This couldn’t be normal, could it? I quickly scoured logs and forums, rapidly scanning heading after heading, but so far the information available was severely limited. Not totally surprising, since the game had only been online for a handful of days, and the material world was also on the edge of an extinction-level event. Plus, I had a sneaking suspicion that Osmark Technologies might be suppressing info in a bid to prevent metagamers from taking an unhealthy advantage of the apocalyptic situation.
The scrape of boots over stone floated in from the secret room, and I immediately dismissed the notification before quickly slipping the woman’s talisman around my neck, tucking it beneath the rough fabric of my simple tunic. As helpful as Cutter had been so far, he seemed like the type of person that’d knife me in the back if he thought it would benefit him. He strode out of the narrow opening a minute later, a big grin splitting his face. A wooden shield lay across his forearms, and piled on top were weapons and gear.
He scooted through the doorway and set the precariously balanced pile of loot on a nearby worktable, then let out a groan of relief. He turned, his eyes tracing over the body of the dead woman. “Didn’t work out so well, eh?” he said with a nod to the Murk Elf. “I tried to tell you, kindness is a surefire path to being destitute and dead. But cheer up, friend.” He turned and swept out an arm toward the pile with a flourish. “Maybe your venture in altruism turned out to be an utter pile of rubbish, but I hit pay dirt. Almost didn’t find this stuff. Someone stored it in a chest behind a false wall, but I am damned good at what I do.
“Now obviously,” he continued, regarding me through squinted eyes, “I’m not going to let you claim everything, what with you being a do-gooder dupe, but I’ll let you select a weapon and some armor.”
“Gee, how generous of you,” I replied offhandedly, heading over to the pile.
“Think nothing of it,” he said with a sniff. “Literally. In truth, I’m not doing it to be generous. If you’re equipped, there’s a better chance you’ll make it out alive, which means there’s a better chance I’ll make it out alive.” He tapped at his temple. “Remember, I’m always thinking of number one.”
I grunted noncommittally, otherwise ignoring him, and accessed the gear pile, which immediately brought up my inventory screen on the right and a list of lootable items on the left.
The pile of gear on the table looked deceptively small, especially considering the gigantic number and range of items I could choose from. There was something for just about everyone: bows and arrows, blunt-headed maces and spiked flails, swords and daggers in an assortment of flavors, plus armor. Everything from fur-lined leathers to rusted scale mail. None of it was good, just the crude junk beginners usually got, but it was better than running around weaponless and in tattered linens.
“We don’t have all day,” Cutter said, folding his arms. “Those guards are gonna come back, and it’d be best if we were equipped and long gone by then. Personally, I’d suggest a pair of daggers and some light leather armor. The very best for sneaking and backstabbing, but that’s just me. Which is to say, someone who is smart, capable, and much better looking than you. But you pick whatever you want, friend. You do you, as I always say.”
I regarded the weapons for another second.
True, light armor and daggers would be great for a thief, but the more time I spent with Cutter, the less I thought I’d enjoy his profession. Besides, the idea of taking on one of those massive halberd-wielding [Lesser Fiends] with the equivalent of a kitchen knife wasn’t comforting. My hand hovered over a single-handed bastard sword; the sword was the epic-fantasy weapon. The weapon of heroes. Of knights and warriors. I didn’t know much about Viridian Gate Online, but I knew there’d be some awfully cool swords later on in the game.
Guaranteed.
I frowned and finally decided against it—swords took skill to use, and that was something I didn’t have. Instead, I picked up a one-handed warhammer with a meaty, blunt face on one side and a cruel spike on the other. The warhammer looked brutal and rather straightforward: smash the blunt end into someone’s skull. Not much skill involved in that.
Exactly my speed.
Next, I selected a simple wooden buckler the size of a large pizza, which slipped over my left forearm with leather straps. Not much of a defense, really, but if one of those guards came swinging for me, I wanted something to shelter behind. For a heartbeat, I considering picking the heavy armor for the same reason—better protection in case I got hit—but eventually opted for light brigandine armor with a pair of worn leather boots and a shoddy black cloak. So far, the Stealth ability seemed pretty beneficial, plus in light armor I’d have a much better chance of outmaneuvering and outrunning a big, lumbering opponent in battle.
I certainly wasn’t above running if that’s what it came down to.
Cutter looked at me quizzically, gaze flickering between the light leather armor and the heavy warhammer and shield. “Yep. You’re an odd one, alright,” he declared. “First that thing with the old woman, now this. Are you sure I can’t talk you into something …” He trailed off, lips pressing into a tight, judgmental line. “A little more practical?”
“I’m good,” I said, equipping the items in my inventory screen. “Now let’s move. I want some answers, and I want to get out of this nightmare factory.”
“Fine.” He shrugged and ambled over to the table, retrieving the rest of the gear, then donned leather armor similar to mine. “But if you die horribly, don’t say I didn’t try to warn you.”
We both dropped into Stealth and headed out of the secret room, pausing momentarily at the entrance to the circular room with the large pool of water at its center. Once we were certain there wasn’t a guard patrol in the immediate vicinity, we stole forward, clinging to the shadows and hugging the wall, which turned out to be a smart move. As we neared one of the two sandstone hallways leading away, a fat black tentacle, studded with barbed hooks, broke the surface with a ripple, before dropping back into the black waters.
Cutter and I moved just a skosh quicker after that.
We t
ook turn after winding turn—stopping twice to hide from roving patrols—and eventually found ourselves crouched in the entryway of a rectangular room. On the far side was an exit. Probably. I couldn’t be sure without getting closer, but I’d played enough MMORPGs to know a freestanding portal shimmering with cerulean light had to be important. Unfortunately, the room between me and freedom looked to be a guard barracks. Massive beds of wood and straw lined both walls with crudely made footlockers waiting at the end of each.
Worse, the room was occupied.
EIGHT: Brawl
A trio of guards—Lesser Fiends identical to the menacing goat-hoofed creatures we’d seen on patrol several times—milled about.
Two sported heavy mail shirts and held beefy poleaxes topped with wicked, curved axe heads, which looked equally well suited for blocking an incoming blade or goring an enemy, spilling ropes of intestine to the ground. I blanched at the thought of going up against those monsters, even if this was only a game. The third guard lingered in the back, near the portal. Instead of mail, this one wore rough-stitched robes, a deep cowl drawn up around its inhuman visage. It held a short bronze dagger in one hand and a gnarled staff in the other.
A spellcaster of one variety or other, then.
As formidable as the two poleaxe-wielding creatures looked, I knew the sorcerer in the back was the biggest threat. If we could get to him, he’d probably go down quickly, but at a distance he’d lay down some serious firepower. Maybe literally, if he had access to any flame skills.
“Ready for a brawl?” Cutter whispered, his mouth inches from my ear.
“Can’t we just sneak around them or something?” I asked, quiet as I could manage.
He squinted and rubbed at his chin. “Naw. We need to take this lot. No way around it. So how do you want to play it?”
I stared at the scene. With the heavy beds lining the walls, it would be awfully tough to slip past the poleaxe sentries and take out the caster first … Unless, of course, I caused a distraction, opening the way for Cutter to make a move.
