by Kevin Murphy
Even then, they held no illusions about the longevity of their solution. If they had found this method to conceal their sigils so easily, then plenty of others must have already found it, too. It wouldn’t be long before everyone knew the trick, but the two hoped that the information might still be scarce enough to justify an excursion. They would need to go into town soon and use their advantage while it existed. As long as the predators were busy singling out those who covered their foreheads with clothes and accessories, there would be a window where errands in the city just might be possible.
The most pressing matter for Dakkon was that he needed a new secondary class. His edgemaster class skill ‘Edge’ allowed him to use an additional active class, per skill rank, beyond the usual maximum of two. To rank the peculiar skill up, he needed to keep getting classes to level 30. The main downside to his edgemaster class was that, unlike all other players in Chronicle, he couldn’t simply deactivate a class when it wasn’t useful. No matter what classes he had, he was stuck with them. If he wanted to learn a new class, he was forced to level up the ones he had. With two ranks in Edge, he had a total of four class slots. One was used up by edgemaster, and another by thermomancer. This meant that, thanks to his diligent leveling of the thermomancer class—despite its apparent shortcomings—upon gaining a third class he’d still have room for a fourth should a rare opportunity present itself.
The other downside to edgemaster was that he was forced to multiclass early. Multiclassing, as useful and powerful as it could be in Chronicle, carried a penalty which made both classes function at just 70 percent of their normal strength. Dakkon did have a trick to offset the burden of multiclassing, though. Every rank in his other edgemaster skill, ‘Mastery,’ increased the power of all his classes by 10 percent. Since his class started with a rank in Mastery, he would be able to completely negate the multiclassing penalty by the time he’d managed to train four separate classes to level 15. After that, every two classes he managed to get to level 15 would continue to increase his power by an additional 10 percent for what seemed like limitless growth. As promising as that sounded, the problems, of course, were how much time he’d need to invest into training and his limited class slots. If he managed to get a couple of classes which were difficult to level—and he knew the sort existed, since he’d spent time grouping with a shaman who’d been happy to share her opinions on the matter—his progress could grind to a halt. Since he needed to get three more classes to level 15 to be at 100 percent power, his base classes would remain crippled for some time.
Fortunately, in a big city like Turlin, there were dozens of new combat-focused classes to choose from. The first time he sought out a class trainer, Dakkon had made the mistake of picking up a weak class because he wanted something rarer than what the average player began with. This time he wasn’t going to make the same error. He’d now had opportunities to watch a bevy of other classes in action, and one shone more brightly than the others: Lina’s fire magic was awesome. Not only was it insanely powerful, but it had the added effect of making her look like an implacable badass. He knew she got much of her power from a relic, but even a portion of her strength would be welcome. Dakkon would never be content with only the tiny, low-damage ember he could create through thermomancy. He wanted to be powerful, respectable, and—if he could manage it—cool.
“Say, Cline,” Dakkon grabbed his friend’s attention. “Qirim makes a good point. Maybe hunting for ruins away from crowds of people—”
“Huh? Are you trying to sell me on an adventure that’s actually the safer option this time?” interjected Cline. “Of course I’m going. I’ve already updated the others.”
Dakkon couldn’t suppress his smirk. “I wasn’t sure you’d be up for it after last time.”
Cline shrugged. “Things have a tendency to escalate when you’re around, sure, but when the alternatives are hiding out doing nothing or tempting fate by grouping up with near-strangers, I’m down for a little risk and reward.”
Cline’s demeanor was surprisingly calm. Over the last two days, he’d seemed shrouded by a cloak of almost-tangible stress. The news of an alternative to hunkering down like a scared rabbit while hunting dogs draw ever nearer seemed to lighten his burden somewhat. At the very least, it would be another welcome distraction.
“Well then,” said Dakkon. “You still want to head into town to run errands?”
“Definitely,” Cline said easily. “Time is of the essence, after all, and we’ll need supplies. What sort of place do you think our mysterious destination will be?”
“A cryptic mark on a cryptic map in a cryptic location? Sounds like ruins to me,” said Dakkon.
“Make that adventuring supplies, then,” said Cline. “Well, what are we waiting for? Help me get my face on.”
“I wouldn’t put too much faith in that disguise,” interjected Qirim. Merri nodded his agreement.
“Then we’ll simply need to make it quick,” Dakkon said as he stuck a squared-off band of cloth to Cline’s forehead.
Chapter 2: Shopping Trip
Dakkon and Cline were cocktails of apprehension and feigned nonchalance as they walked into Turlin, but they found avoiding players to be much easier than expected. Recent attacks in the streets meant both players and NPCs were giving anyone and everyone a wide berth. In order to make their way through town without being too-closely scrutinized, all they needed to do was stay well away from anyone with blue names floating above their heads—a sure sign that they were players rather than NPCs. While in a town, even their own names would appear to hover above their heads. It was a design choice which seemed intended to facilitate trade and fraternization in town. Names could be hidden by obscuring facial features, but—given the circumstances—that seemed like the worst course of action.
The pair decided it was paramount that they finish quickly, so they split up for speed. Each had their own errands to run. Dakkon’s first priority was to find a local fire master. Cline’s was to learn fletching so that he could create his own arrows as he traveled—a necessity should avoiding towns become a long-term inconvenience. Whichever of them finished first would message the other then stock up on supplies for their upcoming trip. Afterwards, they’d both return to the safety of Qirim’s cottage.
Though they were short on time, Dakkon wasn’t completely unprepared. Forums had already given him an idea about where he needed to go. Turlin’s resident fire master always resided at and taught in a long-standing temple known as the Flickering Fane. The city boasted a proud history of celebrated flame adepts, each of whom led their school for years until a successor was chosen to replace them. Then, after serving their term, retired masters would refuse new students in a show of support for the new head of the order.
The previous master of fire had been beloved beyond his station. He was seen as both good-natured and down-to-earth. It was said that his successor, however, had a superiority complex so insufferable that it was driving potential initiates to seek out different callings. The good news, for Turlin, was that the old master would resume control of the Flickering Fane after a month should his successor prove himself inept. The bad news for Dakkon was that he didn’t have time to wait for the order of fire magi to get their act together. If he wanted access to fire magic before hitting the road, he’d need to receive his instruction from the lesser teacher.
If circumstances had been different, Dakkon would have greatly enjoyed his first trip into Turlin. The main streets were wide and long, and roadsides were often devoid of structures—conditions which made the area ideal for scores of traders to peddle assorted goods from stands, carts, and wagons. Though far from clean, the streets were cobbled together using smooth brown stones which had begun to look charming in their old age. Despite the excellent conditions for a marketplace, there were only a few merchants to be found. Dakkon could only explain the apparent vacancy as a reaction to the recent chaos brought about by the tournament. The market’s sparsity could not have been its normal
state. Even the shops which had been prosperous enough to secure permanent storefronts were closed for business, save for grocers and a smattering of restaurants.
There were few trees in Turlin, but beyond and between the roads were small, grassy knolls abundant with shrubs, flowering vines, and covered lounging areas made of sturdy stone pillars supporting thick, wooden rooves. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of solemn lampposts lined the walkways. The abundance of the posts unnerved Dakkon. The sight of such a vast number of light posts without the crowds which they’d been erected to serve felt eerie to him. Combined with the considerable lack of merchants in an environment which was so clearly designed for them, the area seemed wrong and hollow.
Dakkon walked toward the center of town, carefully scanning other players while they looked him over, in turn. The tournament had destroyed much of the excitement Dakkon might have found in exploring a new area. Instead, he felt like he was walking through some lawless prospecting town in the heart of the wild west where a few had struck it big, and the rest were becoming desperate enough to try taking what they wanted. Luckily for him, he didn’t appear to be carrying a large sack of gold—he didn’t seem to be stamped with a tournament sigil.
When Dakkon arrived at the Flickering Fane, he could see how it had gained its name. The building was ablaze. It was shaped like a black marble hour glass with one large bowl resting atop another rounded dome. From the bowl at the top, an unconcerned flame flickered with the influence of a mild breeze and dared any birds to attempt to roost. While the bulk of the building was made of smooth, dark marble, its supports and doors were forged from starkly contrasting, well-polished bronze.
Dakkon approached the large metal doors of the Flickering Fane. The building’s location in town was indicative of its importance—or its age—or the guild’s wealth—he wasn’t sure precisely which. Even before opening the door, he experienced a fleeting sense of grandeur which had him convinced that he was about to enter somewhere distinguished.
The left door of the temple swung open violently and from it marched a player so deeply agitated that he shook his fist as he walked. The man could hardly be bothered to notice Dakkon, let alone to shut the bulky door. Had the player cared to gaze critically upon Dakkon’s forehead, then he might have noticed the odd, slightly off-color bulge which hid his tournament sigil. It was lucky for Dakkon that the angry man had something else to devote his thoughts to.
“What a load of crap,” the stranger muttered as he passed by. “As if anyone would be willing to put up with that!” The passerby placed an emphasis on his final words as he stormed off, cradling his left arm tenderly.
With the door open, Dakkon peered into the Fane. An older man with a full, gray-streaked beard shook his head while he slowly approached the entryway.
“Oh, another guest?” the robed man said, surprised. He wore chestnut-colored robes and a prominent yellow sash tied almost flamboyantly around his waist. “Are you here for training?”
Dakkon glanced back to the other player before dismissing the odd display with a shrug from his brow. “I am, actually.”
The man’s eyes focused on Dakkon’s forehead for a moment, then he seemed to half-heartedly shrug.
“Great,” said the older man flatly. He spoke as though suppressing a yawn—as if he’d been given the answer he expected, as per usual, and expected nothing worthwhile to come from it. He gestured to a curved walkway which closely mimicked the room’s perimeter. “Why don’t you step inside?”
Once Dakkon had obliged, the man with the gray-streaked beard closed the door and silently fell into step beside him. The robed man led the way to their unexplained destination as passively as possible.
The interior of the Fane was sectioned into at least two parts, making the only area that Dakkon could see seem quite spacious. The outer edge of the room’s semicircular floor was punctuated like riveted steel with small, rounded pits. Like miniature amphitheaters, the pits might have served a variety of functions. At that time, some pits facilitated chestnut-robed NPCs—wearing red or orange sashes—as they burned wood and charred leather to practice their magics. Curious why the room wasn’t cloaked in a thick haze of smoke, Dakkon’s eyes followed a plume of it to some sort of swirling black disk in the center of the Fane’s ceiling which seemed to draw smoke in toward it without otherwise disturbing the flow of air.
“May I have your name?” Dakkon asked.
“Hm? Oh, sure. It’s Aramon.”
“Thanks,” said Dakkon. After several strides forward without any response from his host, he added, “I’m Dakkon.”
“So you are,” Aramon said coolly, despite the blasts of heat that buffeted them as they passed by an occupied pit.
The two continued to walk through the Fane, toward a door at the end of the pathway. Before reaching the end, Aramon turned to Dakkon and scrunched up his mouth before sighing.
“Here’s the deal,” said Aramon. “Learning fire magic is never particularly easy, but learning the art here and now is… a chore.” The fire mage paused briefly before settling on how he should describe the current state of affairs.
“A chore?” asked Dakkon.
“Well, not a chore exactly,” Aramon revised. “More like… particularly undesirable. You know, where the ends don’t justify the means.” Uninterested in containing himself, he let out a large, eye-watering yawn.
“What makes learning now such an ordeal?” asked Dakkon.
After another muted sigh, as though Aramon was still deciding whether or not he cared enough to drone on about the details, he gave in and spoke, “It’s because of Jitan. When Master Flint retired, he made the mistake of giving the order over to Jitan. As per tradition, the new master will have to prove himself as both teacher and financier. So far, he’s done... poorly… with both.” Aramon lazily punctuated his words for a sort of slovenly emphasis. “Regardless, though, he’s the only teacher available until he proves himself… or until Flint retakes control.”
“You don’t seem too worried about the new master failing to perform,” Dakkon pointed out.
“Hm? Why should I be?” snapped Aramon in a short-lived demonstration of emotion. “He’s rude and he makes me do menial tasks—like fetching newcomers—despite my rank.” Aramon pointed down to his yellow sash as though to demonstrate his point. “Because it pleases him. Pshh.”
“So, he’s a bad teacher?” Dakkon asked, wondering if Aramon’s sash meant that he was a better teacher to learn from.
“Well, to date, he’s successfully taught no one even a lick of fire magic.” Aramon paused and grinned at Dakkon as though he’d made a particularly clever joke—but, when he received no recognition, he restored his scowl. “But, Master Flint says that Jitan will be the best fire mage in 100 years, though I’ll be shocked if he lasts 100 days.”
“As it turns out I’m on something of a schedule,” said Dakkon. “Reservations aside, I’d still really like to learn.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” said Aramon. “You only think so because you haven’t tried yet. You know, there’ve been seven others today who wouldn’t listen to me. You saw the last one leaving as you came in.”
“Still, I’d like to give it a go.”
With a shrug, Aramon pointed to the door. “I’m not even sure why I try. You adventurers are incapable of taking any advice that doesn’t line up with exactly what it is you want to do. He’s back in there. You’ll find him. He ought to be expecting new prospects.” Then, without another word, he walked a couple of meters to sit in a large, wooden chair which faced the Fane’s egress.
Given the green light to explore deeper, Dakkon tugged on the iron ring which served as the next door’s handle. The room beyond the door was smaller than the main chamber he’d just left. The main chamber had appeared to be bisected by a long flat wall, so he had expected to enter into another large room that would serve as the second half of the Flickering Fane. Instead, the area was much more compact. Three of the walls in the new chamber
were flat, while the fourth curved along with the building’s rounded exterior. There were two new doors to choose from, and—while the way forward was not made completely obvious—Dakkon chose the door which would lead him closer to the center of the building. He didn’t imagine the school’s master would sequester himself to some narrow, broom-closet-sized space where the primary feature was outer wall.
The door ahead swung inward this time and Dakkon was met with a wave of warm, dry air. The center of the room was awash in light radiating from a heated-orange metal orb, raised on a stone dais, atop a crucible-like mold. Next to the glowing ball stood a man with long black hair and oversized, tinted-black goggles. The figure was in the process of dipping smelting tongs into the metal sphere. He drew out a tendril of hot metal from the malleable ball and began to curl it to his tastes with his tongs. It looked as though he was near the very beginning of a rather long and meticulous crafting process. Dakkon didn’t have the time to wait around politely for the crafter to finish his work.
“Are you Jitan?” Dakkon asked the craftsman while moving forward into the room. He could see that the smelter’s long hair was even longer than he had originally noticed, running to the small of its owner’s back—considerable length considering it had been tied together once near the middle and again at the end. The craftsman wasn’t wearing an apron, gloves, or any other form of protection save for his goggles. Instead, he wore pristine white robes held tightly in place by a matching white sash. After seeing the one precaution the craftsman had taken, Dakkon looked away from the orb. It hadn’t hurt to look at, but he still came away with a bright splotch in the center of his vision that frustratingly danced away when he tried to better assess the damage done.
The crafter sighed, but he continued to curl the tendril into a shape that pleased him. Dakkon was about to speak up again, when the craftsman set his tongs down on a marble plinth, stepped down from the dais, and raised the goggles to his forehead.
