First Login (Chronicle Book 1)

by Kevin Murphy

  The player sighed, “Yeah, we’re all DPS here,” then he walked away without another word.

  The strength of a damage dealer was usually attributed to their damage output—Damage Per Second, or DPS for short. It was likely that the local creatures would be of a much higher level, and since he didn’t have any abilities that were practical for combat, Dakkon didn’t know if his DPS would be any good here. He supposed he’d find out shortly after joining a group.

  Tanks and healers traditionally had the easiest time finding parties in other games Dakkon had played. That was because most groups worked best when they had someone who could take a hit and someone else who could keep them alive to continue fighting. There were, of course, other successful group compositions. Some killed enemies so quickly that they didn’t have time to do much damage, but that tactic could fall to pieces in an instant if too many enemies attacked at once, or if a few unlucky strikes got through. People preferred parties with a tank, a healer, and at least one dedicated, heavy-hitting damage dealer. The combination is so commonly sought, that gamers have affectionately dubbed it, ‘The Holy Trinity.’

  Dakkon was not a tank and he certainly wasn’t a healer. After hearing from the vendor at the stall that krimmer glands went bad quickly, he wondered whether he should attempt to sell himself as a novelty class which could keep the krimmer parts chilled in hopes that they would fetch a higher price. It was an extremely realistic world, after all. Perhaps something like that might actually be beneficial enough to a group to earn him his keep—but he didn’t exactly see anyone selling, buying, or carting ice around, so perhaps keeping the meat and glands cool wasn’t worth the trouble. He had never been hunting, but could recall seeing photos of proud hunters standing next to large bucks, which apparently didn’t need to be kept cold as they dangled, suspended from cords. He decided to try his hand advertising himself as a DPS class and he’d conduct his own low-profile tests on refrigeration when he had the chance to. He didn’t relish the idea of looking like an idiot, after all.

  Dakkon walked up to a group. “Need another DPS?” he asked.

  “We’ve got too many already, if you ask me. We’re just waiting on our healer,” said a man clad in chain with a battered shield.

  “All right,” said Dakkon, turning back to continue the search. Dakkon asked four groups in total, each conversation as brief as the one before it. Two turned him down because of his low level, 14, and the last also had nothing but DPS classes already—so it turned him away with no other considerations. Dakkon began to feel somewhat dispirited until he was approached by a short, dirty blond haired player named Ramses.

  “Looking for a group?” the player asked him in a casual tone.

  “I am. I’m DPS, though, if that matters,” Dakkon said.

  “Honestly, we’ve been trying to get this group up and running since morning with no luck. There are already four of us with no tank, so other players have been holding out for an ideal group,” said Ramses. “At this point we just want to get something going.”

  “That suits me fine,” said Dakkon. “Send me an invite.”

  |You have been invited to a group by: Ramses

  |Do you accept?

  |Yes No

  Dakkon accepted and found himself the fifth member of the group. He followed Ramses back to the other members and exchanged pleasantries. Aside from himself, there were Ramses, a rogue, an odd choice for a party leader if one was to go by class alone; Zelle, a young, blonde shaman girl; Benton, a skinny, dark-skinned man—an aeromagus, as he’d recently taken up the art of wind magic; and Hebbeson, an older man with several blade scars peppered over his face and arms who preferred archery over fighting up close and personal. When asked what Dakkon did, he took a page from Hebbeson’s book and gave an indirect answer: “I’m pretty good with a knife.”

  The group was restless to get started. On the way to the hunting grounds which Ramses and Hebbeson had decided on, Dakkon learned that they had indeed been waiting for hours, switching out group members as other players got impatient. The group walked towards their destination, pulling along a small cart with a single large spear which had two prongs branching out beneath its point.

  While they were still familiarizing themselves with each other, Dakkon figured it would be a great opportunity to learn about some of their class strengths and abilities. Starting where he was most in the dark, he asked, “So Zelle, I’m pretty unfamiliar with shamans. How do they work here?”

  The fair skinned Zelle was happy to share, “Shamans are like mages in a sense,” she began. “We can cast all sorts of spells. Unlike mages though, we get our spells through forming pacts with ancestor spirits. You’ve probably seen a few of their shrines already. There are quite a few in the countryside around Tian.”

  “I did see a shrine with nuts and squirrel statuettes on it, on the road from Derrum,” said Dakkon.

  “Yes! That would be the shrine of Che, a squirrel spirit who is a touch on the possessive side,” said Zelle.

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Dakkon.

  “Ancestor spirits have very different—often polarized—personalities, and Che was somewhat jealous to have my affections shared with other spirits, so I decided to end my pact with it,” said Zelle.

  “So, you can only have so many spirit pacts, and that limits your spells?” Dakkon asked.

  “No and yes,” Zelle considered the best way to explain the trade-offs of playing as a shaman. “A shaman could, potentially, create a pact with every ancestor spirit. That seems unlikely though, since many spirits have conflicting personalities. If an ancestor spirit disapproves of the shaman it has formed a pact with, then the pact can grow weaker. If the pact grows too weak, the spirit may abandon the shaman in its time of need.”

  “So, shamans are like mages, without guaranteed magic?” asked Dakkon.

  “Not exactly,” interjected Benton, the aeromagus. “Mages have to hone and practice their magic. Shamans are granted the power by a spirit. For example, it would likely take years of training before I could form a tornado even though I specialize in wind magic exclusively. If Zelle were to appease an ancestor spirit capable of letting her summon tornados, she could summon a tornado today.”

  “Wow. Ancestor spirits are really powerful, then?” asked Dakkon.

  “They can be,” said Zelle “But then, like Che, they may only grant the power to do something small such as locate fallen nuts, making those contracts more… expendable.”

  “How do you know if a spirit is powerful?”

  “Some are known to be weak, and are used to teach new shamans how to go about performing a pact ceremony properly, such as in the case of Che. If a spirit is angered, it may become inconsolable by the shaman who angered it, and a pact may no longer be possible,” said Zelle. “But I have not answered your question. I do not know a way to tell for sure if a spirit is indeed powerful, but my shaman trainer told me that the greatest spirits will not enter into a pact through a simple ceremony. Some must be appeased, while others must be subjugated.”

  “Shamans sound…” Dakkon paused to find the words that properly conveyed his sentiments, “very complicated, but very interesting.”

  “I feel the same way,” said Zelle with a nod.

  “So, then the benefit of going a traditional mage is—” Dakkon was cut off by Benton.

  “Yup. It’s consistency in growth,” said Benton. “There are many classes in this game that take longer to develop—such as a military class—but then have a more consistent role. In the case of a soldier, they may be promoted to higher ranks, earn a salary, and command subordinates… Though it would take quite a bit of time to get to that point, and you’d need be in constant service to your superiors.”

  “So then do mages just keep getting stronger and stronger?” asked Dakkon, curious. “If so, then after a few years, would a hardworking mage be unstoppable?”

  “That really remains to be seen,” Benton said. “The world is still fairly
new to us after all, and this game is a lot deeper than anything else I’ve ever played. If I had to guess, though, there is no hard limit to a mage’s power.”

  “Could a shaman do everything a mage can do, if they had made the right pacts?” asked Dakkon.

  “Maybe,” said Zelle, “but shamans do have access to some of the magics exclusive to faith based casters, too. And some shamans even specialize in imbuing spirits into themselves or others to increase combat capabilities.”

  “Shamans do sound really interesting,” said Dakkon.

  “That’s true,” said Benton. “But they are fairly unconventional to level up. I read a guide and couldn’t make heads or tails of it.”

  Zelle looked like she was considering something, then shrugged. “I don’t understand it very well, either. Raising one’s character level is easy, but getting my shaman level up has been inconsistent at best.”

  Dakkon knew he couldn’t afford to get tied down to a class he had no idea how to level up. After hearing that it wasn’t straightforward, he’d have to get some solid details on how to progress before he’d even consider becoming a shaman.

  “Ramses, how do you like playing a rogue?” asked Dakkon.

  “Oh, it’s great,” said Ramses. “Sure, I don’t control the powers of dead animals or the winds or whatever, but I can stick a dagger in someone and there are several…” he cleared his throat, “opportunities if one is keen to look for ‘em.”

  “Does it pay well?’ asked Dakkon.

  “I figured you’d know with that dagger strapped to your hip,” said Ramses. “But, the class itself doesn’t get you anything. A clever rogue will, however, always manage to make enough to keep playing at the very least.”

  “How about you, Hebbeson?” asked Dakkon. “How’s archery in Chronicle?”

  “You aim at something, then you shoot,” said Hebbeson. “There’s not a whole lot else to it.”

  “Fair enough, I guess,” said Dakkon. The terseness of Hebbeson’s reply put a temporary damper on the conversation, but soon it was rekindled with discussion of their roles for the upcoming battles.

  “Zelle can heal and summon a small swarm of bees, but that’s about the extent of her combat prowess at the moment,” said Ramses. “Truth be told, I’d rather not be covered in bees, so I’d prefer you just stuck to healing.”

  Zelle nodded. If she was offended, she didn’t let it show.

  “Benton will use sharp gales to slash at the eye and snout area,” Ramses said. “If we’re lucky, that’ll cause the oversized boar to flinch instead of rampaging and trampling us.”

  Benton spoke up, “If we’re in dire straits I can expend the rest of my mana to push the krimmer away as we try to run.”

  “We’ll hope it doesn’t come to that, but good thinking,” said Ramses. “I’m going to sneak up behind it and poke it in the rump—or the underbelly if it’s not thrashing about too much. That leaves the position of acting meat shield to go to one of you two.” Ramses looked between Dakkon and Hebbeson.

  Hebbeson touched his bow and began to open his mouth, but before he could say a word, Dakkon spoke up, “I’m unreasonably squishy right now but I do good damage. I’ll try to flank with you, Ramses, so if one turns on either of us, the other can still get him.”

  Hebbeson sighed, let go of his bow, and grabbed the lone spear that the party had been hauling along from the cart. “Fine,” he said. “But you’d better be quick about killing the damned thing.”

  It wasn’t much longer until the group of five was at their destination. There, Dakkon saw a krimmer in its full glory for the first time, gnashing at and rolling over a fallen tree with some sort of green and brown fungus growing on its side. The beast was large. Several times the size of a man. “That thing must weigh a ton,” Dakkon thought. It had large yellowed tusks, black matted fur, and could be smelled from where they now stood, downwind a good hundred meters away. And gods, did it ever smell. Dakkon decided the scent smelled like a concoction made from burnt hair, stale urine, and raw chicken left to spoil. It was decidedly foul.

  “People eat that?” asked Dakkon as they moved in towards their quarry.

  “Try to keep quiet,” said Ramses. “As soon as that pig notices us he’ll charge. We want to be as close as possible, so he doesn’t have a chance to build any speed or he’ll tear right through us.”

  The five approached with Dakkon and Ramses farthest forward, each off to a side and moving silently in an attempt to flank the powerful black beast. Next in line came Hebbeson, spear ready to be braced against the ground should the creature draw on him. Behind him trailed Zelle and Benton, moving cautiously forward, holding any further action until they were discovered.

  Dakkon and Ramses passed by the boar without notice. Hebbeson, despite or perhaps because of his building anticipation of the fight, failed to notice a particularly dry twig in his path—which snapped loudly—causing the beast to whirl and face him. Hebbeson was about 15 meters from the beast, which would surely charge him, so Dakkon made a decision.

  Dakkon shouted, causing the krimmer to spin once again. Despite stepping on the twig, Hebbeson was unfazed by the near calamity, and used the distraction that Dakkon provided him to run forward and stab the boar in its backside. Hebbeson used only enough force to break the skin, pulling back his spear, lest it be caught in the krimmer and wrenched from his hands as the beast twirled to face him once again.

  As Dakkon and Ramses rushed forward to capitalize on the situation, the krimmer threw Hebbeson to the ground tumbling with a mighty whip of its head—Hebbeson’s spear had been set, butt into the ground, to meet the creature’s assault. The krimmer impaled itself on the spear which, remarkably, held together in one piece, but was lodged irrecoverably inside the gigantic hog.

  The krimmer staggered, but was resilient. It moved to gnash at the downed Hebbeson, but a blade of air cut at its eyes, courtesy of their wind mage, Benton. Just then, a translucent blue, flittering, and luminous butterfly landed on the downed Hebbeson, giving him the strength to pull himself to his feet—a heal thanks to Zelle, their shaman.

  Ramses arrived at the boar a second before Dakkon, striking twice in rapid succession at the beast’s hind legs to hamper its mobility. Dakkon imitated the motion of Ramses’s two strikes, but aimed his for the creature’s underbelly.

  [You have slashed a krimmer in a vulnerable location for 522 damage.]

  [You have slashed a krimmer in a vulnerable location for 440 damage. Krimmer has been slain.]

  [You have gained 520 experience! EXP until next level 2,466/3,960]

  The krimmer dropped right beside Dakkon, nearly crushing him. The party looked from member to member, confused by what had just happened.

  “Did we find an injured one?” asked Benton.

  “It didn’t look injured,” said Ramses. “Do animals get sick in this game?”

  “Not that I’ve seen,” said Benton.

  Dakkon was sure that the krimmer was a higher level than the goat men he had fought during the quest in Greenburne, but he didn’t receive nearly as much experience. Before, his group had been receiving double experience gain from being the first to discover that particular dungeon, but he was still hoping for more from the krimmer than what he received. It was possible that he was losing some experience due to a level difference between himself and his group members as well.

  “… Dakkon?” asked Ramses.

  “Ah, what’s that?” replied Dakkon. “I was a bit lost in thought.”

  “I could see that,” said Ramses. “Did you see anything particularly odd about that krimmer? They don’t usually go down that fast.”

  “First time I’ve seen one,” said Dakkon. “Maybe we just got the drop on it?”

  “Thanks for the distraction, Dakkon,” said Hebbeson. “And the wind and heal were a nice touch, too. Honestly, I thought we would be run over the second the pig saw us from that far away.”

  “If this thing weighs so much, do we only kill one be
fore heading back to town?” asked Dakkon, looking a bit disappointed.

  “Haven’t done any gathering, I take it?” asked Benton. “In Chronicle, tasks such as skinning and butchering an animal, picking herbs, mining ores and gemstones, and the like have an assist mode just like melee skills do.”

  Dakkon’s form of gathering had been to wrench fangs from wolves and stuff full animal carcasses in his bag. He had no intention of mentioning that. Furthermore, he wasn’t aware that attack skills had any sort of combat assist. He didn’t want to reveal that he had no real combat-ready class skills in his arsenal, as he didn’t want to draw any attention to the fact that all of his damage was coming from his precious and covetable dagger.

  “When you go to harvest parts from an animal—or rather when Hebbeson does it for us, since he actually has some class skill dedicated to harvesting which will yield better results—the game will determine and generate the quality and amount that is harvestable,” explained Benton. “Supposedly you can actually butcher an animal yourself and can get much greater yields for doing so, but it takes a lot of time and skill to get anything at all, so almost everyone prefers the auto-assist harvesting skills.”

  “Neat,” said Dakkon. Maybe his previous methods weren’t that odd after all. “But even then, that carcass has to weigh as much as a car. Won’t we get a full cart-load from just one?”

  “Unfortunately,” shrugged Benton, “the creature may have that much meat, but the auto-harvesting won’t get us a whole lot. Don’t worry, the meat is nice, but the real money comes from selling the glands.”

  Dakkon decided to hold off, for now, on trying to keep the harvested krimmer parts cool. He needed a control, after all. He wanted to know what the haul would be worth as-is so that he could compare it to one which he tried to preserve with a little magic. He could also do without more people knowing that his class excelled at heating and cooling things, but not a whole lot else.

  Dakkon watched as Hebbeson quickly swiped a small dagger through the krimmer’s massive body. In a flash of light and practically no time at all, the harvester had—laid out before him—a pile consisting of neatly assorted meat, tusks, glands, and some amount of dark fur where the boar had once been.