by James Hunter
“Welcome to Trajan’s Emporium,” he grumbled, his voice gruff, a perfect match for his homely face, “the finest importer and exporter of all your adventuring needs.” He paused and squinted at us, lips transforming into a hard, thin sneer. “Cutter.” He said the name like a curse. “You know I don’t buy your pinched goods, thief. Go to that fence of yours—Jorgen, Jensen, Jabsor, whatever the hell her name is—you’re not welcome here, you uncouth miscreant.”
“Trajan,” Cutter said with a smile and a clap of his hands. “Is that any way to greet an old friend, eh?”
“You, sir, are no friend of mine. You’re a barbaric, foul-mouthed hoodlum, and you’ll leave before I summon the guards and have you clapped in irons.”
Cutter waved off the Dwarf’s protests and pulled me over to the counter.
“Allow me to introduce a friend of mine, Grim Jack.” He stepped aside and waved at me with a flourish and a bow. “He’s a traveler, new to our lands.”
“Then take him over to Poor John’s and see him outfitted there,” the Dwarf glowered, folding beefy arms across his chest in disapproval.
“Nonsense,” Cutter said, “my friend is practically royalty.” His hand flashed beneath his leather armor, and in a blink, gold appeared in his hand. Cutter dropped the pile of glittering coin onto the glowing wooden countertop with a subtle clink-clink-clink. The Dwarf’s eyes bulged, staring at the gold with hungry greed. “And that’s only the tip of the iceberg, Trajan,” Cutter said, one eyebrow cocked.
The Dwarf leaned in. “How much gold are we talking about, you unwashed filth?” he whispered, though not so quietly that I couldn’t hear him.
“His nickname on the street is Grim Jack Money-Bags,” Cutter replied with a shifty wink in my direction.
Suddenly, the Dwarf was all smiles and bows, issuing a host of profound apologies and hasty welcomes. “Please, good sir, come and peruse my wares. I have the absolute finest goods in all of Rowanheath. The absolute finest.”
Hesitantly, I meandered toward the Dwarf. A popup inventory window appeared before me as I drew up to the counter. The Dwarf’s inventory floated on the left while mine floated on the right. I quickly scanned over the Dwarf’s goods and nearly choked at the prices. Not because they were high, but because they seemed rather low. I’d made out pretty good yesterday—even after paying the mercenary Warlock, I’d walked away with a little over 2,200 in gold—and that wasn’t counting the items I still had left to sell, which would probably bring in another 300 gold.
But even the most expensive items the Dwarf had to sell didn’t cost more than a paltry 20 gold.
Mentally, I pulled up a game wiki, trying to figure out how much a gold coin could get you in V.G.O. It didn’t take long before I found a page with a table laying out how V.G.O. coinage compared to real-world currency. Each copper coin corresponded to roughly one US dollar, and there were 10 coppers per silver and 10 silvers per gold, which meant each gold mark was roughly equivalent to a hundred IRL dollars. That meant after I finished selling off the items I’d acquired, I’d have damn near a quarter of a million in my account. That was more money than I’d ever dreamed of seeing back in my old life.
Suddenly I felt faint, my legs weak, my arms shaky. I was rich. Well, relatively speaking. But certainly rich-ish. Despite everything else that had happened, I found myself grinning like a maniac—time for something I’d never been able to do IRL: an impulsive shopping spree. First, though, I needed to get rid of all the junk weighing me down.
I pawned the Ranger’s bow with its +10 to Dexterity and 10% increased chance to evade, netting me 175 gold. The short sword with the +1 Strength modifier and the Heavy Firesteel Gauntlets brought in another 120. The other items, a crappy assortment of starter weapons and shoddy armor, brought in a small bagful of silver; more importantly, though, selling those items relieved me of some significant dead weight. With that done, I started combing through the Dwarf’s wares. I already had a bunch of Health, Stamina, and Spirit Regen potions, so I focused instead on filling in my missing armor items.
Assuming Cutter was on the level, and the Dwarf’s wares really were the best I could find at the moment, I still knew it was likely lowbie crap. Even though I was something of a casual gamer—at least compared to some of my hardcore friends—I knew you only got the really good drops from raids or off the player auctions. Still, I was in desperate need of gear, so this was better than nothing.
After a little strenuous haggling with the Dwarf, I picked up a pair of medium armor gauntlets (superior), a Belt of Agility—which granted me +7 to Dexterity and also allowed me seven quick access slots—and a Helm of the Owl, which increased my Night Eye ability by 15%. That ran me 11 gold and change, not even a drop in the bucket, though the Dwarf seemed pleased as punch, despite the fact that I’d talked him down by nearly half. My Night Blessed Armor and Gavel of Shadows were way better than anything the Dwarf had on display, but my little wooden buckler was desperately in need of an upgrade.
I sold it for a measly 2 silver, but quickly replaced it with a bronze buckler that increased Block Chance by 10% and doubled my total Block Amount from 25 points of damage to 50. Another 5 gold down the drain, which I considered a laughably small amount considering that shield might prevent someone from splitting my head in two.
I already had two rings equipped, but I still had six more ring slots available, not to mention two earring slots and two bracelet slots. Most of the jewelry was crap—generic +1 items not worth spending any money on—but I did find one ring, called the Scholar’s Signet, with a +5 to Spirit and a +6 to Intelligence, which I snatched up in a heartbeat even though the Dwarf flatly refused to drop the price. The little band of iron practically screamed Shadowmancer at the top of its lungs, and somehow the Dwarf seemed to know I wasn’t going to pass on the item. A real huckster, that one.
The rest of the gear was subpar, but there were still a few essentials I needed badly. I closed out of the Dwarf’s gear menu and headed over to his arcane wares.
He had a variety of tomes and scrolls obviously designed for wizards and priests—Fireball, Ice-spike, Lesser binding, Power Word: Barrier—but nothing that catered to my end of the spectrum. Not that I actually expected to find anything. Since Dark Templar was one of the few classes requiring practitioners to actively seek out a trainer, I’d already come to terms with the fact that I wouldn’t find anything in the normal stores. That was fine, though, because the Dwarf did have what I’d been looking for. At the bottom of his inventory, he had a Tome of Return: a permanent spell allowing the caster to teleport to their bind point, so long as they weren’t in battle or surrounded by hostiles.
That would be the Broken Dagger, in my case. In light of Cutter’s suspicions, however, I’d have to figure out how to get that changed. Truthfully, though, I couldn’t really think of any other place that’d be better. Though I’d been playing the game for two solid days, I didn’t really know much outside the Broken Dagger. Another worry to add to the list. Last, I headed over to the miscellaneous items and grabbed a “camp set”—which amounted to a small tent, a cook pot, and a fire-starter kit—then picked up some rations: water, bread, cheese, cold mutton.
By the time I was done, my coin supply had dropped by another 22 gold, leaving my fat coin purse virtually untouched. Assuming Aleixo Carrera or his cronies didn’t disembowel me, I was really going to have to thank Abby again.
Business done, I closed out of the buy menu and took a moment to equip my new gear. I certainly didn’t look all that heroic yet, but I felt much better. Then, before closing out of my interface, I toggled over to the Tome of Return and selected it.
<<<>>>
Using this item will destroy it, permanently removing it from your inventory. Are you sure you would like to learn Tome of Return?
<<<>>>
“Yes,” I said to the empty air. There was a pop and a flash of light, a small tornado swirling around me in a rush of warm air.
<<<>>>
/>
Skill: Conjuration
Conjuration is one of the nine branches of magic: Abjuration, Enchantment, Divination (Divinus), Conjuration, Transmutation/Alchemy, Invocation, Illusion, Light, and Dark. Conjurers are masters at manipulating, distorting, and transforming the Astral Fabric; using their power, they may manifest Astral energies, summon creatures and other beings through the Aether, or rend the Astral Fabric in order to travel great distances in a single step.
Skill Type/Level: Passive / Level 1
Cost: None
Effect: Casting cost for spells in the Conjuration School are reduced by 2%
<<<>>>
I shook my head, dismissing the notification.
Cutter was leaning on the counter, picking his fingernails with the tip of his knife. “Good?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“Good as I’m gonna be. Now let’s go see some swamp folks.”
TWENTY-FIVE: Storme Marshes
I stepped through a shimmering portal and directly into a fetid puddle of ankle-deep water bordered by boggy, squishy marshland. The cloudy sludge, oddly warm, immediately rushed into my boots, swirling between my toes, bringing a grimace to my face.
“Eww,” Cutter remarked as he followed me into the pool with a squishy splat. He paused, looking left, then right. “What an awful place,” he grumbled, continuing his scan of the area.
So far, in my brief relationship with Cutter, there wasn’t a lot I could agree wholeheartedly with him on—but for once we had common ground. Wet, squishy, disgusting common ground. At my core, I was a city boy, far more familiar with the backstreets of L.A. than the backwoods of anywhere, so this place put me well outside of my comfort zone. Something large, green, and covered with eyes buzzed by my face, before vanishing into a swatch of gnarled trees protruding from the water. Yuck.
I turned in a slow circle, splat-squish-splat-squish, surveying the thick warren of trees and waterways stretching off in every direction. We were in a mangrove swamp—a tangle of dense vegetation surrounded us on every side, a host of fat roots plunging into the water. The leafy canopy overhead blocked out the sunlight, casting everything in perpetual gloom and deep shadow. After filling Cutter in on my class quest, we’d headed over to The Mystica Ordo—V.G.O.’s version of a Wizards’ guild—and I’d paid a sorcerer to port us to the edge of the Ak-Hani controlled territory in the Storme Marshes.
I’d expected to end up on the edge of a village or outside the gates of a Murk Elf city. I hadn’t been planning on stepping into a gloomy bog with no sign of human habitation.
Anywhere.
“Perfect,” Cutter uttered again. “This is exactly the way I wanted to spend my day. Tromping around in nature’s version of a toilet. Yes, perfect.”
I waved off his objection as I pulled up my user interface and checked my map. This place was obviously in the middle of nowhere, but thankfully a quest marker populated, giving me a rough idea of which way we needed to head. I turned, rotating slowly until I was facing the marker, then dismissed my interface. The section of swamp directly in front of me didn’t look any different from the rest of the boggy wetlands, but that was our heading. “This way,” I said, setting off, my pace drastically slowed by the treacherous mud sucking at my boots.
Every step was a tremendous effort.
I took the lead, checking my map every few minutes to keep my bearings, while Cutter trailed behind, grumbling disgruntledly with every single step. The walk was torturously sluggish, the endless minutes filled with sludgy goop and a never-ending swarm of biting insects, constantly circling my head like planets orbiting a sun. Their bites and stings didn’t actually deplete my HP bar, but they were still irritatingly painful, and it seemed like no matter how many I swatted into bug paste, there were always replacements ready to fill the void.
After twenty or thirty minutes of hard trekking, we reached a little spit of land extending into the water. Finally, a small break. Not that moving onto land did anything about the awful bugs. If anything, the swarms intensified, a cloud of black, buzzing bodies so thick it was a challenge to see through. It came as an immense relief when the annoying critters finally thinned into a tolerable trickle ten or fifteen minutes later. The shift came as the marsh gave way to a more traditional forest full of twisted oaks, creeping ferns, and squat palm trees with broad-leafed fronds.
The ground here was still muddy, but a spattering of dead leaves and old, decaying vegetation made it a little easier going.
I checked my map again, once more readjusting my position—angling slightly left—then pushed on, deeper into the wood, Cutter following sullenly at my back. We saw our first signs of genuine habitation a few minutes later; unfortunately, it wasn’t human habitation: thick swatches of silver webbing decorated tree branches and trailed down from the dense canopy above, snaring birds and fat, low-flying insects. Maybe there was a good reason the annoying swarms had let us be—this place looked like certain-death incarnate. The webbing even coated the ground in areas, huge patches of silver covering yawning holes gouged into the earth.
“You’re sure this”—Cutter swept an arm toward the expanse of webs—“is the right way to go?”
I nodded and pulled out my warhammer, borrowing courage from the comforting weight of the weapon.
“Yes. Obviously. Of course it is,” Cutter replied with a shake of his head while he drew dual daggers, giving each a nervous spin. “Well, let’s just get it done, eh?”
I nodded again, resuming our trek.
At first, the forest was strangely silent—no chirping birds, no chittering squirrels, just the sound of our muted footfalls on damp earth, the occasional leaf crunching or twig snapping. As we got deeper, though, beyond the point where we could head back for the mangrove swamp, I heard a soft but persistent rustle. The sound of sandpaper sliding over a piece of fabric. The sound of a fall breeze stirring a pile of dead leaves. That noise put my teeth on edge, set the hairs lining my neck to stiff attention.
There was definitely something in here with us, and despite seeing nothing, it wasn’t hard to guess what it was.
“Stealth?” I whispered over my shoulder to Cutter. “Maybe try to slip away while we still can and find a different way?”
“Yeah, Stealth,” he replied, barely constrained fear creeping into his voice.
I immediately dropped into a crouch, subconsciously activating my Stealth. But instead of blurring into the shadows, a notification appeared:
<<<>>>
Stealth failed! You are being directly observed by hostile parties.
<<<>>>
I gulped and shared an uneasy look with Cutter. “I failed. You?”
“Same,” he said, uncharacteristically terse.
So much for that plan.
The rustling increased with every passing minute—at one point something flashed by on my right, a blur of movement too quick to follow. I spun, eyes flicking over the creepy, web-strewn forest, but whatever had been there was long gone, vanished back into the deep shadows cast by the canopy. I did notice, however, that the path we’d just come through was now crisscrossed by thick strands of silvery silk, barring our way back. I gulped, a nervous twitch running through my hand, but at this point we could only move forward.
“Why do you think they haven’t attacked yet?” Cutter asked, his voice a low whisper, his eyes constantly roving.
“They’re afraid, maybe?” I offered weakly, knowing that was pretty implausible.
“Keep telling yourself that,” he replied, dropping into a low crouch, ready to move in any direction. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Grim Jack.”
The rustling increased until it was an almost constant background drone, the noise scratching at my ears; and as the noise grew in intensity, so too did the flashes of movement. Just a half-seen glimpse of a long arachnoid leg, a bulbous belly, or the glint of a dark eye. We were being stalked and hunted, a truly unnerving sensation that left me increasingly on edge. The tension mounting in the air—th
e promise of swift and sudden violence to come—was worse by far than just having something leap out at me.
“Just attack us already,” I finally yelled, my challenge bouncing off the trees, then dying, swallowed by the thick shrubbery.
Nothing responded. But that rustling almost sounded like laughter now. The spidery freaks were mocking us. That had to be it. Or maybe the paranoia was starting to get to me.
Eventually, we broke through the claustrophobic tangle of trees and webs, emerging only to find an enormous concave pit set into the forest floor. The colossal divot was as big around as a subway tunnel and covered with layer after layer of thick webbing. Towering trees—old, dark, twisted things—ringed the pit, and dangling from the mammoth branches high above were silken cocoons. Some the size of small forest animals, skunks or racoons, while others were easily as large as a full-grown man. The rustling seemed to build to a crescendo, the trees shaking and pulsating with the sound.
But I still couldn’t see our enemies.
Quickly, I pulled up my area map and immediately felt my stomach sink: this was a marked location, similar to a dungeon. The marker read Lowyth the Immortal Orbweaver of Hellweb Hollow.
Which is why it didn’t surprise me at all when the ground started to quiver beneath me as something giant dragged itself from the center of the pit. A pair of enormous legs came first, long black things with too many joints, covered in bristling red hairs. More legs joined the first two, followed in short order by an enormous head the size of a slugbug, with about a thousand gleaming eyes and a set of barbed fangs, more closely resembling swords than teeth. After a second, more legs broke into the air, clawing at the sky like monstrous fingers, before the rest of the body finally pulled free.
