by C. M. Carney
He looked through his other skills and while all of them would be useful. He knew he had to get the most bang for his buck. His eyes gleamed as he read the perks for Dodge.
Counter Attack: Upon a successful Dodge is the percentage chance to land a Counter Attack. This ignores all other attack bonuses and defenses. Damage is applied as normal. The weapon skill used must be equal to or greater than the opponents Dodge skill.
Enter Stealth: Upon a successful Dodge the percentage chance to enter Stealth. The user’s Stealth skill must be of a higher level than the opponents Perception skill to successfully enter Stealth.
Push Off: When Dodge is successful, a specialty attack that provides separation from the attacker.
Gryph dumped a Perk Point into Counter Attack and grinned at the possibilities. He loved Enter Stealth as well, but at his current tier the percentage chance was so small he didn’t think it was worth the cost. Yet, at later levels, he could load the branch with points and quickly power up. In the end he put another point into Push Off. Sometimes the best defense was distancing oneself from an enemy. Push Off could literally put space between him and death.
Dodge Perk Tree
Stamina
Tier
Counter Attack
Enter Stealth
Push Off
30
B
20%
20%
5 ft
25
A
30%
30%
(10 Ft)
20
J
40%
40%
(15 Ft)
15
M
50%
50%
(20 Ft)
10
GM
60%
60%
(25 Ft)
0
D
75%
75%
(50 Ft)
This left him with a single Perk Point to spend. Light Armor, Air Magic and Small Blades all had their appeal, but it was Stealth that made him feel like a kid on Christmas morning. His real-world experience had taught him that being upon an enemy before they knew you were there was an amazing advantage. He greedily read the perks.
Backstab: A sneak attack launched while Stealthed. The attack automatically succeeds and does multiple times damages depending on the tier. The attackers Stealth skill must be higher than the opponents Perception and Dodge skill to land this attack.
Invisibility: While in Stealth the percentage chance to become invisible. While invisible a character can still use Stealth to initiate a Backstab or other attack, but the attack nullifies Invisibility.
Speed: A character can move at a percentage of their normal movement speed while in Stealth. The normal max is 20%.
He debated both Backstab and Speed. Each was incredibly powerful. An automatic hit that did twice as much damage sounded fantastic even though Gryph didn’t think of himself as an assassin. Moral qualms aside, the Speed perk was likely to be far more useful, if less sexy. He dumped his last point into Speed.
Stealth Perk Tree
Stamina
Tier
Back
Invis.
Speed
30
B
2X
15%
50%
25
A
3X
25%
60%
20
J
4X
35%
70%
15
M
5X
45%
80%
10
GM
6X
55%
90%
0
D
10X
75%
2X
Satisfied with his choices and feeling like a guy who'd just spent all his Amazon gift cards, Gryph closed out the perk sheet.
19
Life is a stubborn force and even here, in the Barrow, it thrived. Perhaps thrived was too strong a word. It would be more accurate to say even here beings of all kinds clung to life. From mosses to rats, creepers to insects, wyrmynn to human, life was everywhere. One just had to know where to look.
Wick looked down from the hidden outcropping nearly fifty feet above the floor of the large chamber. From this high up, the reptilian humanoids scuttering around their settlement seemed no bigger threat than an anthill. But Wick knew differently. Wyrmynn had long been a scourge in the darker realms under the surface of Korynn. He remembered tales told to him as a child. “Behave, Wick, or the wyrmynn will take you away,” his mother always said.
Wick had learned that no matter how badly he behaved, the wyrmynn never came for him. That had just egged on his bad behavior, heightening his youthful arrogance and smugness.
Perhaps this is Mother’s revenge, Wick thought. The idea that he would likely never see his mother’s head of purple hair again filled him with sorrow. You sure screwed your life up, bud. He gripped his staff in white knuckled hands as thoughts drifted to Tifala and the rest of his group. He hadn't just screwed up his own life this time. I’ll get us out of this, Tif.
He wished he believed his inner voice. Something had changed. Everything in the Barrow knew it. A surge of malevolence had risen, covering the entire area in an oily miasma of evil. Something had awoken. Were the legends true?
The wyrmynn sensed it, too. Their village, if a collection of muck covered tents, fire pits and cesspools could be called a village, had been a hive of frantic activity all morning. Random outbursts of violence, so common in the cold-blooded creature’s world, had increased. Wick adjusted the lenses of his maker goggles and the largest wyrmynn came into sharp focus.
The huge reptile hissed at his fellows. Wick could sense the massive creature's fear, and it knotted up Wick's guts. Thick muscles rippled under the wyrmynn’s skin, and he towered over his fellows, reaching nearly six feet in height. On his back, her carried a huge two-handed sword of questionable quality but obvious deadliness. A mouthful of sharp teeth barked orders to his cowering underlings. The large wyrmynn snapped a taloned hand out and grabbed his smaller brethren by the throat.
Wick did not understand the beast's words. There was no way he could know their language. Until recently, the wyrmynn had been a myth. Wick knew one thing, though. Something was happening, and it was bad.
The wyrmynn leader, who Wick dubbed Scarface due to the jagged white line that bisected his face from the fringe of horns to his mouth, barked orders with a whip snap of his tail. He pushed and shoved his people into a line near the entrance to the passageway leading further down into the Barrow.
A welcoming committee, Wick thought. What are they welcoming?
Wick felt it long before he saw it. A chill crept into him, starting from his bones and flowing outward. The hair on his arms stood on end as if his body was desperate to expel the unnatural sensation.
Scarface felt it too and a low, guttural bark erupted from him. The wyrmynn knelt as one. Even Scarface lowered his head in supplication. Wick’s heart thundered in his chest as darkness flowed from the tunnel. The flowing blackness moved with purpose and intelligence, swallowing any nearby light. The Barrow was always dark, but this was something altogether new.
Wick adjusted the lenses again as a shadowy form emerged from the tunnel. Spectral energies flowed around the creature. The oily black of death magic mixed with a silver shimmer that Wick did not recognize. His heart jumped at this. I’ve seen most types of magic, he thought. So, what is that?
The cloaked form stopped and said “rise” in the common tongue. The voice sounded like old bones scrapping together. Scarface shot to his feet. He was much taller than the apparition before him, but there was no doubt who was in charge.
“Something new has entered my Barrow,” the apparition said. “You will find him and bring him to me.” As the apparition spoke it walked up and down the line of kneeling wyrmynn, s
mall squeaks of fear and involuntary jumps and spasms trailed in its wake.
“Yes, master,” Scarface hissed, his tongue struggling to form the words so unsuited to his physiology. “I will send my best warriors.”
My Barrow? Wick thought. This is the Barrow King?
The apparition paused and stared down upon one of the wyrmynn, a wyrmynn scout. It lightly caressed the side of the scaly creature’s face and Wick felt the beast’s fear. The bone white hand eased the wyrmynn’s chin up to face it and a tendril of silvery energy erupted from the shrouded hood of shadows. The energy speared the wyrmynn’s mouth and its body stiffened. Globules of white energy gilded by sheens of silver flowed from the beast back into the apparition.
Are my maker goggles malfunctioning? Wick wondered. His father had spared no expense on Wick’s Day of Choosing gift. His father knew, as did the rest of the clan, that Wick would follow in his footsteps and become a Master Tinker. The look of betrayal on his face when Wick announced he would pursue the path of chthonic magic was one he would never erase from his mind’s eye. His arrogance that day led him on the erratic path to the very spot he now stood.
Below, the apparition finished what Wick could only guess had been some kind of feeding, and the corpse of the scout collapsed in a heap. The husk fell to the ground like old tinder and the lizard folk trembled.
“Find this newcomer and bring him to me,” the apparition said, turning to Scarface.
“Yes, massster,” Scarface said, his tongue battling his teeth as it forced the words from his mouth.
“Do not fail me,” the shadow said.
It was then that Wick saw the tendril of energy, silver mixed with black and white pulsing from the apparition back into the tunnel that led deep into the bowels of the Barrow. The energies drained from the wyrmynn were being siphoned somewhere else, to something else. Soon the pulses slowed, and then stopped altogether.
The shadows surging around the apparition dissipated revealing a bone skeleton. The skeleton trembled for a moment before collapsing into a clattering pile. Whatever malevolence had animated the ancient bones had faded.
With a relieved exhalation of air, Scarface stood and nudged the pile of bone with a tentative foot. Satisfied that it was just a pile of bone, Scarface hissed at his people, and the entire tribe rushed into motion.
Wick pulled the goggles up to his forehead and exhaled, not realizing he'd been holding his breath. He needed to get back to Tifala. Whatever was happening, whatever the Barrow King wanted, no good would come of it.
Wick eased back into the tunnel behind him and gripped his staff. He closed his eyes. He spoke in barely heard murmurs as magical energy surged inside of him as he began a summoning.
Pulses and shimmers split the air as a rift to another place opened. Wick formed an image in his mind. The rift expanded to the deep crimson color of blood and a small demonling stepped from the portal.
The imp stood a foot high. Its skin was the color of a furious sunburn infused with veins of crimson fire. Its body was rail thin, all ribs and gangly limbs. A prehensile tail slid back and forth, cutting the air with knifelike movements. Atop an unnaturally thin neck sat a triangular shaped head. The head was mostly mouth, and the mouth held more teeth than logic suggested was natural. Beady, hungry eyes glared up at Wick.
“Watch the wyrmynn camp,” Wick commanded with precise words. “Stay quiet and do not move from this spot until they move out. Then come to me and tell me all you have seen. Only then will I release you.”
The imp hissed in annoyance and held a hand out. Wick pulled a slab of meat from his pack and passed it to the imp.
“Human?” the imp said with a hopeful screech.
“Rat,” Wick said.
The imp’s face went from joy to anger and it spat venomous words of the chthonic realm at Wick. Wick ignored the imp’s ire. He had dealt with this foul creature on many occasions.
“Xeg want a something more tasty.”
“The bargain is sealed, Xegreb Kurhrn Zaqaai,” Wick said, forcing the imp’s true name past his lips with a sneer. The language of the chthonic realm was not meant for mortal tongues. Speaking the words always made Wick’s stomach surge with acid. “Now do as I command.”
The imp hissed at its true name but nodded in assent. It shoved the rat meat into its mouth and tore a chunk off, swallowing it nearly whole. It took a seat on a small rock and looked down upon the wyrmynn camp. With one last glance, Wick pulled his cloak around him and moved into the tunnel.
“Xeg maybe taste gnome soon,” the demonling muttered to itself as Wick disappeared. “Roasted. Grilled. Raw,” the imp said, a forked tongue snaking from his mouth to pick bits of rat flesh from his teeth.
Wick dipped into Stealth, ears straining for any sound. It would take some time for the wyrmynn to get anywhere near his current location, but he wasn’t stupid enough to drop his guard, ever. He might stumble across a wyrmynn hunting party, run afoul of an umber beast or get caught in a trap. And the Barrow held worse things than wyrmynn.
It was just over a month since Wick and his group had first become trapped in the Barrow. What started as an adventuring group of six was down to two. Wick blamed himself for the deaths. He’d been the one who found the ancient map among the brick-a-brack in the mage’s lair. A few of the others weren’t convinced that the Barrow was any different from any other run-of-the-mill dungeon.
Wick's mind drifted back to the fateful conversation that led him here. Led his group to death.
“If it is as rich as the map claims, won’t it be picked clean by now?” Zelyanna, a regal wood elf archer said in her melodic voice.
“Not if it’s been lost these last thousand years,” Tifala countered. “It used to be on a major trade route near Ryneeria, here.” Tifala pointed to the Barrow’s location on a map.
“Never heard of it,” Hugarn, a half orc barbarian said.
“I’d be surprised if you had,” Wick said.
“You calling me dumb?” Hugarn said with threat in his tone.
"No, he isn’t," Tifala said, a hand resting on the massive warrior's arm. "The city was razed by zealots who worshipped one of the New Gods. If nobody remembers the city, it is highly unlikely that they’d remember the Barrow."
Hugarn nodded and his anger abated.
"I dislike entering a dungeon so ancient. Who knows what devils may call it home," Thaardik, the mountain dwarf priest countered.
“Isn’t that the point?” Jebbis said. “According to the map it was home to a wizard known only as the Barrow King. The only reference to the name is in an 8,000-year-old text.”
“I don’t put much stock in books,” Hugarn grumbled.
Wick held back a snarky response. Hugarn was more than twice his height and he’d seen the barbarian slay a dozen enemies all by himself. He was a raging inferno that could not be contained, only pointed. Wick was not dumb enough to point the barbarian at himself.
“You remember the last wizard lair we plundered?” Wick said. Everyone nodded, and their eyes filled with gleams of greed. Hugarn even hefted the axe he’d acquired on that dive. “Well, that dungeon was barely 400 years old.” The greedy looks multiplied. “This will be our biggest payday ever.”
The group agreed with little more persuasion.
So far, they’d found very little treasure, yet quite a bit of death. Only Tifala and he still lived. Wick had been right about one thing. The Barrow was unlike any other dungeon they’d ever encountered. Once they’d entered, they learned that there was no way out. It wasn’t a dungeon so much as a prison.
20
Gryph descended deeper into the Barrow. He dreaded the entire idea, but he knew sometimes you need to go down to go up. He reeked like week old roadkill and despite his Stats being at 100%, he didn’t feel much better.
Low-level light infused everything. His high elf racial ability Night Vision amplified ambient light, a magical version of the night vision goggles he'd used on Earth. True darkness would
likely blind him, but iridescent moss spotted the walls like streetlights on a lonely road providing ample light to fuel the ability.
The tunnel was large and descended at a comfortable angle. Every few feet he had to step over a shard of bone, a reminder of the beast that had called this place home. Ten minutes later his stamina bar started blinking. His constant use of Stealth was draining his reserves quicker than it was regenerating.
Gryph continued downward. He brought up his map and saw it gave him an advantage. The map generated the area within the range of his vision. Not a line of sight, mind you, but a sphere of sight. Details illuminated the explored areas. The unexplored areas remained shrouded in shadows but gave hints of what was to come, like a virtual fog that retreated with each step.
Now, if I can only find a full map of this place. Accurate intel was often the difference between life and death on Earth. The Realms would be no different, Gryph thought, making a mental note to search fallen foes for maps.
He hurried down the hallway with renewed confidence, almost letting Stealth drop. As he approached the junction he paused, ducking behind a boulder. Something was coming from the right-hand tunnel. The confined space made fighting with a spear difficult at best, so he eased the long-shafted weapon to the floor and drew his daggers. If he needed it, the spear was within reach.
He fidgeted, spinning the daggers in his hands like a gunslinger. He slowed his breathing and waited. A few moments later, he could sense more than see a shadow pause in the darkness at the edge of his Night Vision. Gryph froze, willing every muscle in his body to pause. Was this what seeing a Stealthed opponent looked like?
Eyes passed over him several times as the moments stretched to eons. Then a small figure emerged into the dim light of the junction. It was a small man, maybe three and a half feet tall. He was wiry and gripped a short staff topped with a red jewel. A crazed frock of electric blue hair plumed upwards at an improbable angle. Fierce gold hued eyes scanned the area. Gryph used Analyze.
