by Arthur Stone
“Why would they want to roll someone’s levels back?” the girl kept going.
“Well, they’re Russians. They often do that if they catch you bound to a point off the beaten path,” explained one of the noobs.
The warrior who had appeared first grumbled:
“I lost eleven percent because of them. I’d like to get my hands on that hero nincompoop who’d started the whole thing and corpse camp his ass until he loses his bind point, and then make sure he doesn’t leave the village or wherever he ends up. Make the bastard delete his character.”
“It’s a special forest raid group—I’ve heard of them before,” said the dwarf. “They’re from the Red Partisans clan—natural born troublemakers, that lot. They can waste fifty players in the woods with just a force of ten. That’s cheating. If we could draw them out into an open space, we’d show them.”
“What the hell are they doing here, anyway?” asked one of the noobs in outrage.
“It’s all because of the dude that’s made a splash in the worldwide chat,” replied another noob.
“Yeah. This whole mess is that mother’s fault,” one of the defeated party’s players chimed in.
“They say that noob is Russian, too,” said the dwarf.
“Get out of here!”
“Word,” one of the respawned players nodded. “These rumors have been circulating for a few days now. They say the Russians came to extract him.”
“I wish they did, and then screwed off to wherever they came from!”
“What were you tops thinking, anyway?”
“We are no tops, we’re a run-of-the-mill clan. There are few of us, and we don’t have that many serious players.”
“Where are the tops, then?”
“They spent a few days bleeding each other dry at that damn mine. The mercenary guilds all ran out of fighters—everyone who didn’t die fighting has been injured. Everyone ran out of steam, and the Russians appear to have found out. They timed their assault perfectly, the swines.”
Already listening with full attention, Ros pricked up his ears even more. That just might be true, after all. Someone with plenty of pull had found out everything about him, and came to the conclusion he would surely surrender to his fellow countryfolk. Then again, it might be a simple coincidence. The players he had run into on his way here killed him without attempting to find out anything.
Nothing else of interest was said. Half an hour later, a party of thirty fighters of different sorts arrived along the path that led away from the field and disappeared in a copse of deciduous trees. Having joined forces with the fighters waiting at the respawn point, the host of the clan dubbed The Inquisitive started toward the forest where the Russian raiding party had been having so much fun.
Ros watched them depart, suspecting that if the Russians were still there, the brave Inquisitive would soon find themselves respawned near the slab of stone, full of outrage, and join in the Russophobic sentiment.
One of the noobs rose and said gruffly:
“Screw this. I’ll head for the village and get some elixirs from the shopkeeper.”
“He doesn’t have any left—I saw him this morning,” a petite elven archer girl told him.
“Aw, snap. Well, it’s not like there’s anything to do here, anyway. I’ll go and check.”
Ros got up and said:
“I’ll come with you—might as well stretch my legs a bit.”
He didn’t know where the village was, let alone the shop, so he couldn’t miss the chance to find out. He could ask the players, of course, but that would expose him as an outsider. And Ros would prefer to be considered one of the local noobs—there were so many of them that no one could keep track of everyone.
Chapter 33
As they approached the copse, the player with the cryptic name ANSVT displayed over his head in white lettering asked him:
“Have you unlocked Alchemy yet?”
“No, I’ve only been gathering herbs—I haven’t managed to raise it yet.”
“Pity, I need a few potions. I’d buy a couple off you.”
“I haven’t even purchased any equipment for alchemy.”
“Want a portable table of your own?”
“Yeah, it’s a lot more convenient that way.”
“Sure thing—you’re no mage, mana’s a scarce commodity, so it’s better to avoid it altogether. But you’re going have to carry extra weight.”
“Well, I’ll get rich someday and buy me a fancy bag with weight reduction.”
“That’s gonna cost you.”
“Well, those are my plans for the future, anyway.”
“What’s with the name?”
“The name is fine, what’s wrong with it?”
“Just imagine how many archers out there are called John. See, you even had to add a number.”
“Well, my real name is John, so what should I do?”
“You could have come up with a cooler name.”
“Yours doesn’t seem all that cool, either, come to think of it.”
“They usually just call me Ans. My girlfriend likes it.”
“Does she play, too?”
“Yeah, I met her here, in the game. She’s so beautiful.”
“They’re all beautiful here.”
“She’s the best.”
“Same appearance as IRL? An icon next to the name?”
“No, she doesn’t have one. But what do I care about the way she looks IRL, anyway? She’s the best one here, and that’s what counts. Hey! Look at that! The Russkies are done for!”
Ros looked on, making out the outskirts of a small village just ahead. Twenty houses altogether, lined up along a single street. A party of conspicuously high-level players was marching through the village in three-rank formation, led by a standard-bearer and with a drummer somewhere in the back, laying down a tight funky beat instead of a battle march.
“It’s the Black Brotherhood,” said Ans.
“Are they tough?”
“Yup. It’s a pity they’re racists, though. Only take characters with black skin.”
“What if you’re white IRL?”
“You can be purple for all they care—as long as you’re black here and behave accordingly. Even T-Son plays in their clan.”
“The white rapper?”
“Yeah. I mean, there are lots of rappers, but even black guys say he’s the best. The Russians are done for—if the Brothers get to them, they’ll all be flying back to their icy homeland.”
“Is Russia really that icy?”
“Nah, I don’t think so. It must be the same as everywhere—just the north and tall mountain ranges. I was just joking. You want to see the shopkeeper, too, right?”
“Sure, I’ll pop inside.”
“Might as well, though he’s out of everything more often than not. This village really blows. If you level up your Alchemy and decide to trade here, you’ll be up to your ears in clients. Guaranteed.”
“Good idea.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it if it wasn’t. Duh, someone’s already figured it out without my help,” Ans pointed in front of him.
A level ten player was sitting with his legs crossed in front of a tall porch leading to the double doors of one of the biggest houses in the village. He had a piece of rough cloth spread out in front of him with shiny little potion bottles upon it: blue potions for mana, red ones for health, and green ones for vigor.
“I’ll stock up here, bypassing the NPC shopkeeper,” said Ans. “The archer girl said he had nothing, anyway.”
“Sure, suit yourself. I’d still like to pay him a visit, though.”
It was easy enough to realize the house in question was the shop. Ros ascended the porch and pulled on the door. Someone inside reacted instantly, and in an irritated voice:
“Make sure you shut it tight! I hate draughts!”
Ros examined the house. There was a large room with a tall counter dividing it in two. A human NPC stood behind it with a par
ticularly sour look on his face. A girl aged about ten, also an NPC, was rummaging in a box of sewing thread.
“Have you chosen yet?” asked the shopkeeper petulantly.
“I have. These, these, and these. And I think these will come in handy, too.”
“Well, are you buying them? Don’t keep me waiting—can’t you see I have other customers?”
“All right, I’ll take these, too.”
“Four bobbins of linen thread. One silver piece and twelve pennies altogether.”
“But mom only gave me a single silver piece.”
“Well, tell your mom to drop by with the coppers, or send you over.”
“Of course, Uncle Skhor, I’ll tell her.”
NPCs traded with each other as well as players? That was interesting. They must be a lot more like players than he’d thought before. The complexity of the economic system was just dawning on him—nothing was ever done without a purpose, and no exceptions were made, not even for software-driven characters.
“So, what is it you want, then? Or did you just come to browse? The likes of you do that a lot.”
“Have you got any potions? Health and mana?”
“None. Your fellow folks have depleted my stock. No matter how many I get in stock, they buy up everything instantly.”
“You have a competitor who’s set up business down by the porch.”
“A competitor? My competitors are long crayfish feed at the bottom of the river. What kind of a competitor is that? He’s an alchemist, and a total idiot to boot. He’s made a bunch of level thirty potions, and the players we get here are between levels ten and twenty-five. You don’t see many higher than that. So he’ll sit there with his bowed legs crossed until he freezes his ass off, without selling a single vial to show for it.”
“I get it. No demand.”
“And that’s a fact, Jack. Had he brought some potions for level tens, or at least twenties, he’d have sold off his stock before getting a chance to sit down. I sell out in minutes of replenishing my stock—you wouldn’t believe the demand.”
“I need an archer’s glove, or something else to protect my hand. The bowstring hurts.”
“Why didn’t you buy one in the city?”
“I did. But I got killed by the Russians today, and dropped the glove,” Ros found it easy to fib.”
“They’re a bunch of rascals all right. Everyone’s had it up to here with them. They burned two cows with their evil magic yesterday, just for kicks, as they were passing by.”
“The glove was nothing special, so I can’t say I miss it. But it isn’t very convenient to wield a bow without it.”
“I have nothing. I could give you a piece of thick cloth to wrap around your hand, and that should serve until you find something better.”
“What about your bowstring supply?”
“I only have buffalo sinews.”
“That’ll do.”
“How many?”
Ros showed his bow to the shopkeeper.
“Enough for a few times.”
“Anything else?”
Ros felt a desperate urge to show the NPC one of his less rare trophies and suggest an exchange, but decided to skip that for the time being—it was a cheap little shop, and the shopkeeper may have never seen the likes of his stuff before. Though Ros was attired in plain, well-worn and dirt-cheap items, he had a veritable treasury in his bags.
Incidentally…
“I’d also like to find a bigger bag.”
“What about yours? All filled up?”
“Yeah. Almost.”
“What have you got in there? Talons, fangs, and pelts of all sorts, eh? I can buy them off you for a good price. I need a lot—I send all this stuff to the city with my nephew. Your kinsfolk would buy them for a higher price there, of course, but we could lighten your load right now. How about it?”
“Sorry, but I’ll need all that stuff myself. So, how about that bag?”
The shopkeeper drew a disappointed sigh and slapped two dusty bags down onto the counter.
“That’s all I have for small fry like you.”
The first was the well-familiar novice’s bag, and a rather threadbare one at that. The second was a tad better—a common bag with thirty slots. Also rather beaten-up, and, unsurprisingly, without any weight reduction.
“Anything better than this?”
“You can find better stuff in the city.”
“Would you happen to have an alchemical set or any empty vials?”
“Do I look like an alchemist to you?”
“No, not really.”
“Ding ding ding! I’d brew my own potions if I were an alchemist. I’ve never even had such sets in stock. I do have a few vials that I got on the cheap, but there’s not much demand. I shouldn’t have bothered. Your kinsfolk are reluctant alchemists.”
“All right—I’ll take the bag, the bowstring, and some cloth for my hand.”
“Sure—that’ll be eighty silver pieces total.”
“How much?”
“Don’t be so surprised. I’m a generous guy, so I’ve given you a small discount.”
“A discount? I could stuff my bag full of legendary items for that much money!”
“Well, why don’t you? It’s not like I’m in your way. Also…” the shopkeeper stopped suddenly, scrutinized Ros’ face, and shook his head dejectedly. “With those flyblown windows it’s darker than inside a necromancer’s coffin. Didn’t recognize you. Why didn’t you introduce yourself at once? What with you being modest as a young maiden and all. How about a glass of wine? Or something stronger, perhaps? I’ve got everything.”
Ros shook his hand in confusion.
“No, thanks. All I need is a bag, some bowstring, and a piece of cloth.”
“Oh, you don’t want to run around with a piece of cloth on your hand like a hobo. Come back in the evening. My nephew will return, and I’ll give you his hunting glove. He’ll get another one in the city.”
“What about the rest?”
“All yours for twenty-four silver pieces. With all due respect, I can’t sell it any cheaper.”
“Including the glove?”
“I’ll give you the glove for free. It’s well-worn, and fixing them costs a lot, but you should be fine for about a week. And you’ll probably get something better by then. Take your wares, don’t just stand there.”
Ros got an inkling that the NPC could see his achievements somehow, or it might have been the effect of his beefed-up auxiliary stats. The shopkeeper had changed his tone drastically, after all, and had slashed the price by two thirds. Otherwise he’d have to pay nearly all of his cash for this old junk.
He wondered if NPCs could reveal his identity to the players. If so, he wouldn’t be able to hide anywhere, his changed appearance be damned.
“If you need a place to stay the night, you needn’t go further. You can take the terrace that faces the yard, or the hayloft if you like fresh air. That includes supper, and I also have the best milk in the village. You can drink all you want—won’t cost you more than a silver piece.”
Ros nodded, remembering the skirmishes around the village.
“I accept gladly. Another thing—I have time until the evening, but not much to do. And I don’t feel it’s safe to leave the village. Are there any instructors around here? I wouldn’t mind learning something useful.”
When browsing the forum, Ros had found out there were lots of NPCs out in the world that helped you unlock new stats. Experienced players asked about them in every city and village in their search for instructors capable of teaching them something rare. It made sense to try it here, too, especially with carnage taking place outside the village.
“In this backwater hole? Who could teach anything here? There is the herb lady, but I believe you’re familiar with that art already.”
“I am, a little.”
“Well, then, she won’t be of any help. Actually, there’s this old man, too, one of the newcomers. He like
s his privacy and keeps bees. No one knows where he’s from. We shared a few glasses of wine one day. The old man’s cheeks reddened right away, and he offered me to try his mead. And I don’t like to decline any good offers. After the mead, I returned the favor, and we tried some of my wine again. Then it was back to mead, of course. That’s when the old codger started to spill the beans. Turns out he’s a former royal jeweler. His eyes are weaker than they used to be, and he’d gotten tired of it all to boot, so he decided on our little neck of the woods to retire. It’s a good life here—the village is peaceful, and no one ever bothers him. He may have embellished his stories here and there—you know what a drunken man’s talk is like—but he couldn’t have fabricated all of it. You might want to see him if you want to study the jeweler’s art. He may tell you off right away, but he might also hear you out and help you.”
“Thanks a lot. I think I should pay him a visit.”
“Of course you should—what have you got to lose? Oh, and take this bottle along. Tell him it’s a gift from Skhor and a token of my respect. The sight of wine might make him mellower, and he may recollect a few things from his past. We had quite a party between the two of us back then—they say he looked so scary in the morning that half his bees died of fright. Or maybe they smelled his breath, I’m not quite sure.”
“How much do I owe you for the wine?”
“Nothing at all. I wanted to give it to the old man, anyway, so you’ll be doing me a favor.”
* * *
“The management of the project does not interfere with the player’s actions inside the game, nor does it have the capacity for such interference. A player can only be disconnected as a result of court ruling or the decision of an administrative council. None of the players’ complaints concerning cheating, insults, violence, loss of property or money, racial, gender-based, or other kinds of discrimination are taken into consideration if the above took place inside the game.
