by S. R. Witt
I looked around the church for anything I could use and found a small chest set into a narrow alcove beside the front door. There was a box with a slot on its top on the floor in front of the chest , the word ‘ALMS’ written across its front in crude capital letters. I opened the chest and found exactly what I needed inside.
There were cloaks, some heavy trousers, even a few pairs of boots without holes in them. The stuff wasn't high-quality goods, but it was better than my crappy starting gear.
I picked out some things for myself and Bastion, hoping the sizes were at least close to right. The shoes were the toughest part, but even if they were too big or small, they were better than the rags we were wearing.
I plopped down in a nearby pew and kicked off my soaking wet boots. The new pants were just as scratchy as my old shirt, but wearing them was better than leaving my pasty legs exposed to the brisk teeth of the winter wind. The shoes fit, though they weren’t the most comfortable things I've ever worn. I would have killed for even a cheap pair of Converse-Shinkei sneakers. They didn't even need to be the kind that tied themselves. I'd have gladly taken a pair of the stupid slip-ons with the bioluminescent soles that everybody hated.
Satisfied with my stolen goods, I shrugged into the ratty cloak and made a small bundle of the gear I’d taken for Bastion by wrapping it all up in the second cape and tying its corners together.
Then I headed to the alms box and gave it a hard look.
I understood what I was supposed to do here. I mean, it was obvious what the church expected of me in return for providing shelter from the cold and spare clothes to wandering travelers.
They wanted me to take what I needed, but they also wanted me to leave what I could. Nice thought, but this was a game. I didn't need to get on the right side of the church or prove that I was a good person here. My mother needed money, and I was there to get it for her. I’ll keep my money, thanks.
I lifted the box from the floor and gave it a shake. Coins rattled inside and the box was heavy in my hand. I was no expert, but judging by what I had in my own pouch, this was probably 50 or 60 coins. I didn't want to be an ass, but I didn't want to be poor either. We could use this money, Bastion and I, to get better gear. Better gear would enable us to fight tougher monsters and take on bigger quests. That would lead to better treasure that we could convert to cash back in the World.
What I did next wasn’t the nice choice, but it was the right choice at the time. I turned the alms box over in my hand, looking for a way to open it. There was a small, crude lock on its bottom. Not really a keyhole so much as an oddly-shaped switch. I didn't have anything that would fit into it, and I couldn't turn it with my fingers.
After a few moments considering the problem, I carried the box to one of the niches and took down a candle. I pulled the candle free from its base to reveal the spike it rested on. I filled the bottom of the mechanism with molten wax and inserted the candle spike. A few quick breaths caused the wax to harden around the metal.
Boom, a homemade key. I gave it a twist.
The box popped open with an audible click.
SUCCESS! You have learned the rudiments of the Pick Locks skill. (Rank 1)1
Nice.
I scooped the coins out of the box and dropped them into my pouch without wasting time to count them. The last thing I needed was for a curious preacher to wander in while I was counting the loot I’d stolen from his congregation.
I put the alms box back where I found it and closed the donations chest.
A small, square panel in the back wall of the niche caught my eye. It was close to invisible, but one edge picked up the light from the candles. I pressed my fingers against it, and the square slid back into the wall with a low grinding noise.
A stone cupboard door opened in the niche’s right wall. Inside was a glowing blue flask.
You have found a Lesser Healing Potion
That would come in handy. I slipped it into my belt pouch and closed the cupboard door. The panel returned to its original position flush with the wall.
Everything looked much as it had when I found the place. It’d be a while before anyone realized what had happened. Maybe they never would.
As soon as I stepped across the threshold, a yellow message box flashed into view:
Reputation:
+1 with the Shadow faction.
+1 with the Sunmurder faction.
-5 with the Church of the Freehold faction.
-5 with the Priests of Hoald faction.
-10 with Sisters of Merciful Fortune faction.]
Damn. That didn't look good.
Chapter Six
I decided not to tell Bastion where I’d found the clothes. The important thing wasn't where the gear came from, the important thing was we no longer had to worry about freezing to death before we finished the character creation quest.
I'm good at justifying this kind of stuff. It's not that I'm a moral relativist, it's that I'm in desperate need of excuses to survive. Those negative factions? Maybe they weren't such great folks to begin with. Maybe, those priests and sisters and whoever else didn't like me now, maybe they were jerks. Maybe that wasn't a donation box. Maybe they'd stolen the clothes from poor beggars in the village and were selling them to unsuspecting parishioners.
Like I said, I'm pretty good at telling myself stories.
I kind of like the idea of nefarious clergy members robbing the poor and then selling the clothes from the backs of the homeless to their almost homeless worshipers. It had a nice circular logic to it, which made me feel better about the fact that I'd stolen from a church, and then compounded my sin by stealing from the offering plate.
You want to pick a moment where everything started going downhill? Stick a pin in that decision.
Just remember I did it for a good cause. I did it to save my mother. I remind myself of that fact every day. That's the only way I can look at myself in the mirror.
I found Bastion standing in the same spot in the middle of the road, turning in circles and staring at the ground.
“Thanks for the clothes. You’re a lifesaver,” he said as I handed him the ill-gotten clothing. “Find anything else good?”
“Just this.” I slipped the potion from my belt pouch.
“That’ll be good practice for you.” He pointed to the stopper on the flask’s top. “You can open that and drink it to heal your own wounds. I think you can also throw it at or break it on someone to heal them. Good way to get your allies back on their feet in a hurry.”
“Cool,” I said. And it was cool. I was one step closer to fulfilling my part of the plan. Healing superstar, that’s me.
Bastion turned in a slow circle and scratched his chin. “Why would they make it so hard to start the character creation quest?”
I shrugged and scanned the buildings around us for something unusual. The clock was ticking, and we didn’t have a ton of prepaid time left. If we didn’t get a move on, we were going to end up getting booted out right in the middle of the quest. Leaving empty handed was not in my game plan. “What should I be looking for?”
Bastion grumbled. “I don't know. There should be some kind of marker. Maybe a special NPC? A trail of some kind? It’s usually obvious so newbies don’t miss it and spend hours wandering around with their thumbs up their butts.”
A thread of worry wormed its way into my head. I counted on my brother to know how things worked. If he was already admitting he was clueless about how this game worked, we were in trouble.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and then emptied my lungs in a long, slow exhale. It was an old trick my counselor taught me to help center myself and focus my thoughts.
I’m not athletic or particularly smart, but I was raised by a drunk man with a bad temper. The easiest way to avoid beatings was to keep an eye out for those subtle clues that the storm was on its way. My old man hadn't taught me much, but he had taught me that being observant was critical to my survival.
The buildi
ngs all looked the same as they had before I closed my eyes, but there was something odd about the ground. A strong wind blew into the village from East to West, carrying snow along with it. The road was covered by shifting patterns of snowflakes and ice crystals that blurred the cobblestones behind a veil of frost.
But a thin line of stillness ran down the road to the West. The snow disappeared where it touched the line and reappeared on the far side. “There.”
Bastion squinted his eyes in the direction of my pointing finger. “What are you—”
“Oh,” we said in unison.
The Devs hadn't opted for splashing neon symbols or illuminated landmarks all over the environment. They’d gone for something more subtle, but just as unmistakable once you picked up on it. The wind’s stillness revealed the path to us, and we followed it down the road and through one turn after another.
A few minutes later, we stood in front of a cozy little house with a sign hanging from its small front porch. The sign bore an anvil on its face.
“Weapons,” Bastion said with a grin. “It’s about damn time.”
He marched up to the door and banged on it with his fist.
As the door opened, I couldn’t shake the feeling we were in way over our heads.
Chapter Seven
An old man stood in the open doorway. He wore a pair of spectacles that made his eyes the size of saucers, and he shivered in his threadbare nightshirt. “Be off with ya,” he groused. “I don’t have no more to give!”
Bastion raised his hands and showed the old man his palms. “Good sir, we mean you no harm. What has troubled you so?”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning. Bastion was laying it on thick, and there wasn’t anyone here to see. If he was this corny when I was the only one around, I couldn’t imagine what he’d be like in front of other players.
That’s my brother, always hamming it up for the cameras. Even when there aren’t any cameras in sight.
The man lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes with one hand. “You’re not from the Brotherhood?”
Bastion shot me a glance over his shoulder. He turned back to the old man and shook his head. “No, sir. We are simple adventurers in search of weapons to aid us in our quest.”
The old man looked over Bastion’s shoulders. He peered into the dark for several seconds, then glanced up and down the streets. “Come in. Quick now, before they see you.”
I followed Bastion into the house and sighed as warmth enveloped me. The old man guided us into a small kitchen and gestured toward the table.
“Have a seat. Let me get some tea.” He placed a pot on the kitchen stove and stoked the fire. Then he joined us.
“My apologies,” he explained, “but the Bloody Brotherhood is everywhere these days. One can’t be too careful.”
I nudged Bastion under the table. Why were we wasting time with this guy?
“The Bloody Brotherhood?” Bastion asked.
“Aye. A gang of thieves and ruffians.” The old man glanced at the shuttered window before continuing. “They’ve the run of the place and squeeze the honest merchants of the village every chance they get.”
Bastion rested his elbows on the table and leaned in. He was really getting into this. “And your city guard does nothing?”
The old man laughed. “Son, a town this size can’t afford a guard. We can barely afford to keep ourselves fed and clothed. The Brotherhood is bleeding us dry.”
“What if someone dealt with them?”
Bastion and the old man looked at me and blinked in surprise. The old man scratched his chin. “Well, we’d be awful grateful to whoever could get them off our necks. But they’re a powerful group, and dangerous.”
“How grateful?” I asked.
Bastion glared at me. I did my best to ignore him. We were here to get money. Shaking down the old man seemed like a good way to accomplish that goal. What was I doing wrong?
The old man scratched at the few tufts of hair remaining on his liver-spotted head. “You could have your choice of weapons from what stock I have remaining. I know it’s not much, but—“
“That would be more than enough.” Bastion kicked me under the table to cut me off. “We will do what we can to aid you.”
QUEST AVAILABLE: Against the Bloody Brotherhood, Part 1. Do you accept?
I flicked my eyes toward the accept box and the quest title zipped off to become a bookmark on my to-do list. Bastion had screwed up any chance for a big reward, but weapons would be better than walking around punching and kicking things.
The tea kettle whistled and the old man spun and snatched it off the stove with surprising speed. “Don’t want to wake the missus,” he said with a wink.
He poured the boiling water into mugs and placed one for each of us on the table. We sat in silence while our tea steeped, listening to the winter wind howl outside.
I didn’t relish going back out there. We sipped the tea and its heat warmed our bellies, which made the cold waiting for us outside even less appealing.
Bastion drained his mug and clapped me on the shoulder. “We should be off. The sooner we find these ruffians, the sooner we can help the good smith.”
Hot tea splattered out of my cup and scalded my fingers. Thanks, bro.
I put my mug down and stood. “Lead the way.”
The old man opened the door for us. As we stepped out onto the porch, he urged us to be careful. “I’ll see you back here when you’ve dealt with them. Have a care they do not get the best of you.”
Thanks for the pep talk, dude.
I don’t know what it is with the NPCs in these games, but they aren’t the most encouraging folks. Half of them spend all their time warning you how grossly unprepared you are for the adventures ahead. The other half shit-talk you without mercy.
Being a hero kind of sucks, when you think about it.
We found the thread of stillness without much trouble, and Bastion followed me as I followed it. My eyes were better than his, apparently, and the more I used them, the better they got.
SUCCESS! You have learned the rudiments of the Spot skill. (Rank 1)
Nice.
After several minutes of walking, we took a hard right down a narrow street that turned into a cramped alley within a few yards. The filth along its sides and the stains on its walls confirmed that it was definitely an alley, and one used as a combination garbage dump and latrine by the town’s residents.
In a sad way, it reminded me of the alley behind our apartment building in Brooklyn.
I told you I was observant, but I didn't tell you that I was always observant.
Bastion cleared his throat. “We’ve got a problem.”
I tore my attention away from the mess around me and followed his gaze to the far end of the alley.
“Oh,” I said.
A trio of men with very large weapons and angry faces straddled the line, barring our way to the next step in the quest.
The biggest man grinned at us through a mouthful of rotting teeth and smacked his a heavy truncheon into the palm of his hand.
He pointed his finger at us and his men raised their weapons in a clear challenge.
Chapter Eight
The game designers had been coy in guiding us to the quest’s next step, but they weren't subtle at all when it came to letting me know just how much trouble I was in. Deep red outlines formed around the angry men blocking our path and blazing crimson 5s appeared over their heads.
“I assume those numbers are their levels?” I asked.
Bastion nodded. “We don't even have any weapons. How are we supposed to fight three NPCs that powerful? This is insane.”
Like he had to tell me that? Here I was thinking he had some plan, or at least some idea of a plan, that would get us past these thugs without losing any important body parts or a fatal amount of blood.
I was starting to think that Bastion did not have all the answers.
“Well, we can't just stand here.�
� I replied, though I wasn't sure that was the case. The thugs weren’t moving toward us. They held their ground and glowered, blowing deep breaths in and out of their misshapen noses and twisted mouths.
“Maybe there’s a way to get around them.“ Bastion moved one foot toward the angry trio and they responded by lifting their weapons and snarling. “Okay, then.”
Bastion pulled me away from our enemies and into a huddle at the alley’s mouth. This was more like it. When my brother hunkered down with me it meant he was about to reveal his big plan. All I needed to do was whatever he told me to do. I could handle that.
But then Bastion laid out the plan, and I realized this wasn't going to be as simple as I'd thought.
My brother was trying to kill me.
Chapter Nine
“Break!” Bastion shouted, leaped to his feet, and ran straight at the bad guys. He had his arms cocked back toward his left shoulder like he was wielding a sword. Maybe an axe. Air guitar? Who knows what he was thinking, because you know what he actually had for a weapon?
Nothing. Not a damn thing.
Survival instincts screamed at me to run the other way and leave Bastion to whatever grisly fate he'd engineered for himself. I imagined hightailing it back to the safety of the tavern where I could enjoy slabs of roasted pig and foaming glasses of ale until my credits ran out and the CIN popped off my neck and dumped me back into the World.
Bastion would kick my ass if I tried that, but I was almost willing to live with those consequences.
Everything in the Game seemed too real, from the way my toes went numb from the cold to the clean, brisk taste of the winter air, to the bite of the wind against my cheeks. If the Devs paid that much attention to mundane details, I imagined they paid even more attention to the grisly sensations that accompanied being skewered by a medieval miscreant's jagged short sword.
