by G. R. Cooper
“There are two main ways to prevent that from happening. First, throttle the amount of currency coming into the system. Thus, we don’t really get chest-loads of cash as loot. Second, the system needs to have drains, money sinks that take currency back out of play. Item insurance is one.”
Wulfgar nodded. When he’d signed into the bank today, he’d agreed to insure each of his valuable items at a price determined with the banker. If he died, the items would be in his inventory when he resurrected. If he didn’t have the money in his account to cover the cost, the items would remain on his corpse and he’d have to trek to wherever it was to recover his things.
“Another is item degradation. You pay to have smiths and tailors,” he nodded to Lauren who did a little seated bow, “repair items. That moves the money around in the case of player craftsmen, removes it from the system in the case of NPC’s. Most spells, potions, and healing activities require agents or reagents. While you can find them in the wild, you’d spend all of your time just picking flowers or rooting around for nightshade just to find enough to adventure with. So folks buy them from herbalists or magic shops. That removes currency from the system.”
“Basically,” he concluded, “for every copper, silver, and gold piece coming into a closed system, you need to have a drain to take it back out eventually, otherwise the system will rapidly spiral out of control and, essentially, become meaningless.”
“That’s a lot of words to simply say “shut up and take your two gold pieces, newbie!”, isn’t it?” Wulfgar laughed.
Rydra smiled, then looked up as the door to the inn slammed open.
The group froze mid-chew and mid-drink as two large, pole-arm wielding men advanced on the table. They came to attention, just behind Rydra and, in unison, slammed the butts of their long spears onto the wooden floor of the inn, silencing the crowded dining hall.
Rydra looked up, a worried expression falling over his face, “I guess I wasn’t away long enough,” he muttered, “the fuzz found me.”
A small, thin man pushed his way through the two guards. He was dressed in a long, fine, embroidered purple robe. He walked to the table and pulled his right arm out from beneath his robe and thrust a rolled scroll forward.
Toward Wulfgar.
“The king,” he began in a steady, level tone, “requests your assistance.” He handed the parchment to Wulfgar and, without waiting for answer or reaction, turned and left as quickly as he’d arrived. His two companions turned in lockstep and began marching after him. The entire episode lasted just a few seconds.
Wulfgar heard an excited whisper from one of the near tables, “The king’s Chamberlain!”
His friends looked to Wulfgar expectantly, a slight wave of relief washing over Rydra’s face.
“Well?” asked Lauren excitedly, “Open it!”
Wulfgar smiled and snapped the wax seal and rolled the scroll out.
He began to read, making a show of squinting as his eyes moved through the words.
“Aaaaahhh! Out loud!” laughed Lauren in mock pain.
Wulfgar chuckled, “It seems,” he began, “that King Clive requests my,” he looked up momentarily, “our, assistance in a little problem he’s having, out on the frontier.” He scanned further down the page, “One of his outposts hasn’t sent any messages in weeks, and the last missive contained dire warnings of massing bands of,” he looked up, rolling the scroll, “miscellaneous bad things. Et cetera. Et cetera.”
He pushed the scroll into his belt, “So, who’s in?”
Lauren smiled and Snorri laughed, “You have to ask?” Then they all looked at Rydra.
The little man shrugged, “The little run to the Baen Si’s home only took a couple of days, and the guards are still probably looking for me. For at least a few more days.” He smiled, “And it is the king, after all,” he shrugged again and nodded, smiling.
The other three raised small cheers and their mugs in salute.
“You have accepted the quest Western Marches I from King Clive.”
Snorri leaned back in his chair, sighing in happiness, “Tomorrow?” The rest nodded. “OK, I’ll take care of getting us some mounts and a pack horse or two. Is there anything else we need to take care of first?”
Wulfgar nodded quickly, “Oh yeah, plenty. First, I’ve got to bind at a church or something.”
“Have you thought about what religion you’ll follow?” asked Snorri.
Wulfgar shook his head, “I don’t know enough about them to decide. Maybe there are some that will help my sneakiness,” he looked to Rydra who nodded, “Or maybe I’ll want to choose something that helps with magic.”
He shook his head again, “And that’s another thing I’ve got to look into. I’ve got two skill points to spend, and I need to figure out how to use them to get started in the magical arts. I should probably do that before I decide on a religion.”
Wulfgar smiled a little, sadly.
“What?” asked Lauren.
“I was just thinking,” he said looking up, “about what a friend of mine use to say. Shannon. She always said that in the universe where she was god, when you died you were placed upside down in a barrel. All of the alcohol that you wasted over your entire lifetime was poured into the barrel and if you drowned, you went to hell. You were allowed to drink as the booze was poured in, and bartenders went into the barrel feet first.”
He smiled again, “She called it ‘Valhalcohol’.”
His friends laughed, Lauren said, “She sounds pretty cool.”
Wulfgar laughed, “I think she added that last bit about bartenders because she was one. But, yeah, Lauren, Shannon was pretty cool. I think you and she would be great friends.” He paused, “Would have been, anyway.”
“Anyway,” he repeated, “I have to look into a few things before deciding on a religion.”
“If you’re serious about making magic your profession, you can take a quest from the Magic Guild,” said Rydra, “and that will get you a good boost. I took one from the Thief’s Guild.”
Snorri nodded, “Same with the Warrior’s Guild.”
“And Blacksmith’s Guild,” added Lauren.
“OK,” responded Wulfgar, “Tomorrow morning I’ll head over to the Magic Guild and see what they have to say. Snorri will get us some mounts, and you two,” he pointed toward Rydra and Lauren, “make whatever preparations you think necessary for a trip into the western mountains.”
“Maybe,” he continued, “the magic users will have an idea of how I can use the Heart of the Revenant.”
After the group had returned Tane to his parents, they had, on their way back to the ship, paused to bury Doe’s body on top of a small grassy knoll that stood above a sheer seaside cliff. After they finished and stood over her in a moment of silence, Bael had given Wulfgar the last of the Hearts of the Revenant. Bael had used two and Tane one in their efforts to subdue the lichling, and one had been left over - one of Tane’s. Bael had indicated that Wulfgar would be able to find a use for it in his forthcoming magical career. Wulfgar didn’t know anything about the item or what it could be used for, but he thanked Bael gravely, then the humans had taken their leave of the Fae and made their way back to the ship.
“So,” asked Lauren, pushing open the door to her shop, “how did you enjoy your first week?”
He smiled down at her as they went through the door, Bear in tow. “Like I said earlier, it feels like a lot longer. It sure has been packed with a lot of information. But I feel like I’ve really gotten to know you guys, pretty quickly.”
She grinned up at him, “Me too. Oh, hey,” she said moving quickly to her forge, “I almost forgot. I’ve got to get you re-armed.” She reached onto a cloth lined shelf and pulled down a twin to the long knife she’d given him before, then pumped the bellows a few times, stoking the fire that didn’t seem to ever go out.
“Let’s try imbuing it,” she said as she thrust the blade into the fire.
“I got a new skill after the lich fight
. Cure poison. Can we try that?”
“Sure!” she said, “Given how imbuing works, that should cause the blade to inflict poisonous hits.” She smiled and started humming a song, familiar but Wulfgar was unable to place it. She pumped the bellows again, turning the blade, as Wulfgar rooted through his pack, pulling out the ingredients for an anti-poison potion.
As they worked, Lauren spoke, “Tomorrow morning, on the way to the Magic Guild, I’ll show you where a church is we can bind at. It’s not out of the way,” she nodded to herself, turning the blade again, as she resumed humming the tune. Wulfgar bit his tongue, wanting to know the song but not wanting to ask. Not yet. He wanted to try to work it out for himself first.
Instead, he asked, “What do you think of the quest?” He ground the potion ingredients into the little stone bowl.
“The Kings of Edonis seem to take a special interest in you, Wulfgar,” she said smiling up at him. She looked to the bowl and raised her eyebrows questioningly. He nodded and she pulled the blade from the fire and took a step to the anvil, grabbing and raising a regular hammer above her head, putting the blade onto the anvil’s horn.
Wulfgar turned the contents of the mortar onto the blade where they began to hiss and sizzle.
Lauren brought the hammer down once, twice, then began tapping along the entire length of the blade.
“Yes!” she hissed happily, “Houston, we have an imbuing!”
She turned, stepped back to the fire and pushed the sword back in, pumping the bellows twice with her free hand. As she worked, she started humming the song again. It started to drive Wulfgar to distraction, trying to remember the tune.
He reached back into his pack, putting away the potion ingredients.
“Now,” Lauren said happily, “let’s try your healing poultice. I’ve got a good feeling about this.”
“Really? OK.” Wulfgar began pulling new ingredients out of the bag, mixing a new concoction.
She turned the knife again, and began whistling. The same tune. Wulfgar gave up thinking about it and shook it off, focusing instead on the task at hand.
“Ready,” he said after a minute and Lauren turned and returned to the anvil. This time, however, she pulled out her new hammer, the hammer she’d received from the Aos Si.
“Whoah,” said Wulfgar, “hang on. I don’t want you to use one of your five tries on my sword.”
“Oh, shut up,” she said smiling, “I really want to give it a try. You just happen to be around to benefit from it,” she winked up at him, then nodded toward the contents of the mortar.
He shrugged, then dumped the healing mixture onto the blade.
Lauren’s arm came down and the blade and hammer rang out, louder, more musically than before. A glow, bright and blue, enveloped the pair, hunched over the small shop’s anvil. Light sparks flew from the blade as the hammer made contact.
“Holy shit, holy shit, HOLY SHIT!” Lauren screamed, laughing, “It worked! It worked!” She stood, looking at Wulfgar, her face lighting up the room. “It really, really worked,” she whispered, turning and putting the hammer onto the top shelf next to the forge. “It really worked.” She shook her head, starting humming the tune again, and pulled another item, a jar, down from next to the Aos Si hammer.
“This stuff,” she said returning to the anvil, “will temper the blade. At least, that’s what they call it. It’ll make the sword much stronger,” she looked up at Wulfgar, “meaning it’ll give it more hit points, but, importantly, it’ll also give the blade an identity. You can name it. That won’t add any special properties, except one. It’ll be like any other identified item. Folks will be able to examine the object and read its properties.” She opened the jar, sprinkled a good amount of powder along its length, then returned to the fire.
As she once again began pumping the bellows, and once again began humming the same song, the fire roared and crackled. Sparks flew from around the blade as the tempering agent burned off. After a minute, she pulled the blade back out, turned to the anvil and placed the knife again on the horn. She raised the hammer.
“Name?”
Wulfgar was flustered, unprepared. He’d always hated trying to think of new names, and had always just thrown out the first name he thought of. His ship, in the Omegaverse, he named Shepherd Moon simply because he happened to be in the vicinity of just such a moon in the orbit around a ringed planet. From that followed Shepherd’s Crook, his space station, and Shepherd’s Cross, the colony he’d founded on a nearby planet.
“Argh, uhm,” he muttered frantically, trying to think.
“Hurry.”
“Shepherd’s Bite,” he said, instantly hating the choice as her hammer rang down.
She looked up, smiling, handing him the blade. He took it, thanked her, and examined the blade.
Shepherd’s Bite. Fifty percent chance on successful attack of inflicting poison damage for one to four damage per second for one to six seconds, plus one half of the user’s Small Blade level. That damage is then applied to the player as healing in a one to one ratio.
He looked up at Lauren, smiling hugely, and mouthed “Whoah!”
She laughed a little, resumed humming, and returned the powder to the shelf.
“It’s been a long day,” she said, “and it’s going to be a long day tomorrow. I think it’s time for bed.”
“Tired?” he asked, sheathing his new blade.
“Not in the least,” then turned to the dog, “Bear. Go to sleep.”
Wulfgar watched as the dog walked next to the fire, turned twice and dropped into a sighing heap.
Lauren took Wulfgar’s hand and began walking him toward her room, still whistling.
That’s when he recognized the song.
It was by Cheap Trick.
I Want You to Want Me.
Epilog
Ness’a leaned heavily on her walking stick as she pushed her way up a game trail through the eastern foothills of the Far Mountains. She looked back, the way she’d come, to the valley that lay eastward toward Edonis in the far distance. She sighed; to have walked so long and still be able to see her starting point. The starting point for all of her journeys. Each time she left, she just began walking, letting some whim of the day choose her direction - as long as it wasn’t a direction that she’d taken previously. She sighed again, turned and once again began moving her bulk up the initial climb into the mountains.
“Maybe next time not so fat,” she thought. An ascetic’s duty to shy away from ideals of beauty was one thing, but a missionary who relied on foot travel didn’t need to be slowed by unnecessary weight. Each time she was born again, she was born again anew. Keeping only her name, she rejected all of the temptations of narcissism. She changed herself until she was satisfied that nobody would look to her for her comely visage - all that mattered was the message.
She sighed again and turned back to the trail, to the west, and again began climbing into the mountains. Her stomach, ever empty, rumbled a little. Ness’a had decided, long ago, never to eat or drink. Unnecessary for continued existence, they only provided comfort and buffs for skills she would never raise, abilities she would never use. And comfort was a luxury which detracted from the never ending reminder her of her mission. Every hunger pang, every dry, thirsty breath reminded the pilgrim that she was doing God’s work. His will.
Ness’a turned a corner and froze, face to face with a jet black tiger; its head easily larger than her own. It looked into her eyes, its face level with her own as it sat on its rear haunches, studying her. A low growling purr sounded from deep within the creature.
Ness’a mentally shrugged. Death was nothing new to her. Sometimes it came more quickly, sometimes less. She would soon, she knew, be resurrected in one of the false idol churches within the city of Edonis. A flash of pain, then she would recreate her character - this time leaning more toward simply ugly than hefty - and once again begin her trek out into the wild, proselytizing to those she met.
“Hush, Schwart
zie,” said a soft female voice.
Ness’a looked up, to the boulder she’d just circumnavigated, and saw a beautiful woman, long red hair that draped to her lap, sitting on top of the rock, cross-legged. Her hands, folded in her lap, glowed from the light of some spell, unknown to Ness’a.
“Hush, Schwartzie,” the woman repeated, “Be nice, you asshole.”
The tiger, its stripes a darker black than the rest of its body, stood and prowled slowly around Ness’a, moving onto the trail behind her, where it once again sat and began cleaning itself.
“Sorry,” the woman said, “my cat is kind of a dick.”
Ness’a shrugged off the apology, “It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t afraid. I’m Ness’a,” she concluded importantly.
“RaNay,” responded the red-head, “And you really should have been afraid. Schwartz is kind of a bad-ass.”
“It doesn’t matter,” repeated Ness’a, “death holds no meaning for me, here. Only heaven.”
“Heaven?”
“Heaven,” repeated Ness’a, “where we truly live, at the right hand of God. That,” she said, working herself into excitement, “is what the Church of the Sacred Self teaches us. All of this,” she spread hands, indicating the world around them, “is but an illusion. We are but illusions. We are really, truly, standing in heaven. Our true selves are all that matters.”
Ness’a dropped to her knees, “Oh, Ness’a, please help me to spread the word of the truth. Find RaNay. Convince her to speak to this one, to show her the light, to teach her the Truth.”
RaNay just sat, open mouthed, and raised one eyebrow.
“Wow. Really?”
Ness’a put her palms against the boulder, looking up at RaNay, pleadingly, “Yes. You must believe. Look into your heart, you will know it’s true. If not now, soon. Ask yourself, your true self, to visit you in your dreams. To explain the logic of it.” The big woman struggled to her feet, pushing off the boulder. She bent and picked up her staff, using it again to shift her weight.
