by J. A. Hunter
Unfortunately, Medium Armor didn’t offer anything until I hit level 3, so I headed over to the Stealth skill tree instead. I was a little reluctant to invest too many proficiency points into this tree without first acquiring my main class, but since the Shadowmancer class came with a +10% bump to Stealth, I figured Stealth was going to be an important part of my overall game strategy, which meant my points wouldn’t be wasted. And besides, at level 9, there were lots of cool extras to pick from.
I immediately dropped two points into a passive ability called Whisper Step, which reduced the noise I made by 30%, making me much harder to detect while in Stealth. One point went into an active technique called Camouflage, giving me a 20% better chance to blend into my surroundings—even in bright lighting conditions—and one more went into Deadly Grace, reducing the weight of my armor, allowing me to be lighter and quicker on my feet.
By the time I was done, I had to fight to keep my eyes open, so I finally dismissed my player interface, offered a silent prayer for Abby—hoping I would wake up tomorrow morning with a PM from her, knowing I might not—and closed my eyes. I let the weight of my exhaustion draw me down, down, down into a restless sleep filled with horrific half-seen visions of Abby screaming, convulsing, dying as fiery slabs of space rock peppered the Earth.
TWENTY-THREE:
Rise and Shine
Brrp, brrp, brrp, brrp. The shrill alarm exploded in my ears, clanging like a gong magnified by a bullhorn.
I shot up and instantly began rubbing at my temples, trying to beat back the skull-splitting headache—it felt like Donkey Kong was trapped inside my head, desperately trying to smash his way free. I swung my legs off the bed and hunched forward, dropping my elbows onto my thighs as sweat cascaded down my face and my heart pounded sporadically in my chest. Everything was oddly blurry and my lips and hands felt dull, numb. I wheezed, sucking in giant lungfuls of air, frantically trying to control my labored breathing.
“Sophia … turn the … alarm off …” I forced the words out between strained gasps.
“Alarm dismissed,” Sophia replied calmly, unmoved by the fact that I was dying. “The current time in Eldgard is 7:15 AM,” she droned. “You have been asleep for approximately nine real-world hours. You have an automated message from the Osmark Technologies Customer Support Team. Would you like to play it?”
“In a … minute,” I slurred, which wasn’t a good sign. The confusion and disorientation weren’t nearly as profound as the day before, but the physical symptoms were a hundred times worse. If I’d been back IRL, I would’ve called for an ambulance already. Currently, I was experiencing physical symptoms that related to both a heart attack and a stroke. But this was V.G.O., and I was well beyond the help of ambulance techs or modern medical treatment.
Maybe I should try to find a priest or healer?
No, I dismissed the thought.
My HP bar wasn’t affected by whatever was happening, which meant I was likely experiencing actual pain from my actual body. Theoretically, I had another day before my transition would be complete—either that or I’d die—but this sure seemed like dying. I sat that way, bent over, struggling to breathe for a minute, then two, then five, before the sensations finally began to recede. “Sophia, play the message,” I finally barked as my heart rate dropped to something sort of resembling normal.
“Good morning, traveler,” came an overly perky voice. “This is Matthew, your customer support representative, and our system records indicate you’ve successfully spent your second full night in Viridian Gate Online. Congratulations! Since you’re hearing this, I have some great news for you: your overall chance of surviving the transition has increased from approximately eighty-three percent to nearly ninety percent. With that said, you’re likely feeling extreme physical discomfort, but those symptoms are to be expected and should not be a cause for concern. Make sure you stop by your nearest inn or tavern and eat a hearty meal. Thank you for playing.”
The message faded, died.
I grumbled. Stupid Matthew. Intellectually, I knew poor Matthew was probably just some underpaid worker bee reading from a script, per Osmark Tech’s instructions, but his naturally perky and energetic nature really made me want to punch him. I’m not a violent guy by nature, but just then I wanted to show him some extreme physical discomfort.
Muttering disgruntled curses under my breath, I crawled from the bed, tossed on my armor and gear, then hit up the washbasin, splashing water across my face, trying to clear away a few of the cobwebs clogging up my brain. I grabbed the towel and patted at my eyes, which is when I remembered Abby. Frantically, I dropped the bit of damp cloth into the wash water, not caring, and pulled up my player interface.
“Woo,” I shouted with a fist pump, startling a fat pigeon sitting on the ledge outside my window. “Hell yeah,” I yelled again, doing a victory jig, boots click-clacking on the wooden floors. I had a message from Abby—the subject head simply read: I’M ALIVE!!!!!
I pulled up the message, a giant grin running from ear to ear.
Personal Message:
Jack,
I made it! I’m alive! I’d kiss you if you were here. Honestly, I feel awful—it’s like someone dipped my insides in fire ants. No joking, this is the worst experience of my life, but I got a message from a Customer Service Rep saying that’s normal and that their systems indicate I’ve transitioned! I’m supposed to stay off my feet for the next couple of hours, but then Otto and I are off to the Grand Archive in Alaunhylles (it’s basically a giant library over on the West Viridian side of the continent). If anyone’s going to know about that seal we found, it’ll be one of the Loremasters at the Archive. But I’m temporarily going dark—no wiki, no PMs, no in-game connectivity—since it’ll be harder for Carrera and Osmark Tech to track me down. It’ll be a couple of days until you hear from me again, but in the meantime, you get a class, and grind out some more levels.
Best,
—Abby
With a sigh of relief, I pulled open the door and headed out. Cutter was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, leaning casually against the wall, his arms folded, his head back. He looked relaxed, at ease, but something was subtly off about him.
“Morning. Care to have breakfast with me?” I asked.
“Naw,” he said with a shrug, “busy day today. Lots to do. I think it’d be best if we picked up something from the street vendors. Just about no better place to get questionable street food than Rowanheath. A little fried rat on a stick is exactly what you need to set you straight this morning.”
I paused and frowned, brow wrinkled. Fried rat? Was he being serious? After a second, I decided it wasn’t a good idea to ask questions I didn’t actually want answers to.
He slung an arm around my shoulders when I reached the bottom of the staircase and gently guided me toward the exit. He smiled the whole time, trying to play it cool, but even in the short time that I’d known Cutter, I knew this wasn’t normal. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Cutter was nervous—except Cutter wasn’t the kind of guy to get nervous. Greedy? Yes, obviously. Sneaky? Without a question. Cocky? Probably his middle name. But not anxious.
Despite my achy muscles and awful headache, I put on an easygoing grin as we walked. Didn’t want to draw any extra attention in case something was up.
We made it out of the Broken Dagger without being accosted, but the second we cleared the door, Cutter picked up his pace, quickly heading onto a busy thoroughfare, then weaving through a bustling crowd. “What’s wrong?” I hissed at him, before glancing over my shoulder, expecting to see someone following us.
Except no one was.
“In a minute,” he replied, dragging me past a rolling wagon and into a pool of deep shadow. He paused, tense, regarding the roadway, before urging me into motion. We moved with speed and purpose, though not so quickly as to draw unwanted attention. Ten minutes and fifteen switchbacks later, he finally slowed his manic pace, leading me over to a rickety wooden cart nea
r an open fire pit with skewers of meat lazily spinning above the flames, greasy juices dripping down into the dancing fire. With a few muttered words, Cutter snagged us five or six spits of meat-on-a-stick.
“Sorry for the cloak-and-dagger shite,” he said, handing me a too-hot skewer.
I regarded the seared meat—it did look an awful lot like rat.
At this point, though, I was so hungry I didn’t even care. I took a disgruntled bite, thinking about the honey porridge I could be eating at the Broken Dagger, but quickly revised my opinion. A buff popped up, alerting me that the [Rat Skewer] was restoring 50 HP over 35 seconds, but it hardly mattered because the meat was delicious. A little spicy, with the smoky flavor you only get when cooking over an open flame. Even better, my headache vanished almost at once, a wave of sweet relief cascading through my body.
I finished the first skewer in a few wolfish bites, and immediately started in on a second one. I began to eat a third as I walked, trailing Cutter down a wide cobblestone street bordered mostly by narrow plaster-faced houses instead of shops. A residential section of the city, by the look of it.
“So?” I prompted around a mouthful of rat meat. “Care to tell me what that was all about?”
The Thief regarded me out of the corner of his eye. “There’s something wrong with Gentleman Georgie,” he said at last.
“What do you mean, there’s something wrong with him? I thought he was gone on business or something?”
“I’m getting there if you’d give me a chance,” he replied with an eyeroll. “Apparently, Georgie’s been gone for almost a week, but he turned up early this morning. Naturally, I sought him out. Wanted to tell him about the incident with Serth-Rog’s acolyte, but there was something wrong with him, Jack. He looked like Georgie—identical down to the last detail, at least physically—but that man wasn’t Georgie.” He paused, running a hand through his blond hair, then rubbed at the back of his neck. “I’m sure of it.”
“In what way?” I asked, before taking another mouthful of rat meat.
“It was just little things, I suppose,” he replied. “His mannerisms were slightly off. His eyes were hazy, distant. It’s hard to put my finger on exactly. But in my gut, I know he’s not the same. Georgie took me in after my father passed, taught me most of what I know about thieving and killing. The man was like family to me, and whoever I met today?” He shook his head, worry lingering in his eyes. “It wasn’t him.”
I nodded, trying to be supportive.
We hooked a left onto another cobblestone boulevard, this one filled with robe-wearing Viridians and armor-clad travelers in a variety of stripes and races. This road held stone-fronted shops edged with intricately carved wood and studded with large, shiny windows. I hadn’t been here before and I immediately felt out of place. These stores seemed far swankier than anything I’d seen so far, and the customers looked like the kind of people who could afford the finer things in life. Despite the few awesome items I’d acquired, I still sort of looked like a down-and-out drifter.
“So, what’s the plan, exactly?” I asked, finally done with my rat skewers. “Do we kidnap fake-Georgie? Try to dig some answers out of him, maybe?”
Cutter shook his head, once more looking worried, frayed around the edges. “Honestly, I’m not sure what to do. If it were anyone else, I’d go to Georgie with my suspicions, but who can I go to about Georgie himself? He’s at the top of the food chain—no one’s going to believe me over him, and even if they do, no one would dare make any kind of overt move against him. That’s a surefire way to end up in a ditch with your throat slit.
“And kidnapping him?” he continued. “No, he’s surrounded by covert bodyguards thick as flies in a shitter. Worse, I think not-Georgie might be on to me. Until I can come up with some kind of plan, I don’t think it’s safe to head back to the Broken Dagger. Thought I might stick around with you for the time being, help you find a class while I think through things. Try to come up with some options. Assuming it’s all the same to you, of course.”
A quest box popped up:
Quest Alert: Imposter Georgie
Cutter suspects that something is wrong with Gentleman Georgie, the unofficial head of the Thieves’ Guild in Rowanheath. Help Cutter get to the bottom of the mystery.
Quest Class: Unique, Personal
Quest Difficulty: Hard
Success: Help Cutter get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding Gentleman Georgie’s sudden personality change.
Failure: Refuse to help Cutter or allow him to die before the mission is complete.
Reward: ?
Accept: Yes/No?
“How could I say no to you?” I asked, sarcasm oozing through my teeth as I accepted the quest he’d just provided to me.
“Precisely,” he replied with a grin. “My charm is rather irresistible. Besides, let’s face it, you wouldn’t survive a day without me. But still, thanks all the same,” he mumbled weakly, refusing to meet my eye. We walked for a few more minutes in relative silence. “Ahh, here we are,” he said eventually, stopping and sweeping an arm toward a thickly carved wooden door. A sign above the building read Trajan’s Emporium.
TWENTY-FOUR:
The Emporium
I stared at Cutter, the question evident on my face, then shifted my gaze to the storefront.
“If we’re going to do any more strenuous adventuring,” he said, “it’s time you properly equipped yourself. Sell off all that junk loading you down and pick up some nifty trinkets that might keep you breathing. This place”—he nodded toward the shop—“is a bit pricey, but, assuming you can afford it, it’s a one-stop shop for just about everything you’ll need. Weapons. Armor. Potions. Spells. Whatever.” Without further comment, he shoved his way in, a tiny brass bell ringing out, announcing us to the shopkeeper.
I followed, not sure what to expect.
The inside of the emporium looked like a cross between a posh antique store, a new-age bookstore, and a medieval armory.
Expensive rugs and fanciful tapestries littered the floors and walls. Rows of bookshelves, laden with old tomes and rolled scrolls, lined the right wall. Dark wood tables, polished until they shone, were loaded down with glass vials and a hundred different types of herbal ingredients, presumably used for potion creation or alchemy. A huge array of weapons and armor crowded the left-hand side of the shop. There were polearms, axes, swords, and maces: some cheap and plain, but most covered with silver and gold runes or studded with precious stones.
The armor was equally diverse and abundant. Black plate mail hung on training dummies while intricately tooled leather armor dangled from the walls. Helmets with horns or horsehair crests decorated more tables, while boots sat neatly lined on the floor below the tables. And there were lots of other knickknacks too—like sturdy utility belts, studded with pockets and pouches, or boot-sheathes made to conceal an extra dagger.
A ridiculously short man with phenomenally broad shoulders and a long, wispy beard waddled out of a storage room and toward a service counter near the back of the shop. He looked like a squat cube of muscle, and his steps were slow and plodding: a man built for power, not speed. A Dwarf, then, his features weathered with age, his skin wrinkled like dried leather. He slipped behind the counter, only his head visible for a moment, before he clambered up onto something—maybe a stool or a chair—allowing him a clear view of the shop.
“Welcome to Trajan’s Emporium,” he grumbled, his voice gruff, a perfect match for his homely face, “the finest importer and exporter of all your adventuring needs.” He paused and squinted at us, lips transforming into a hard, thin sneer. “Cutter.” He said the name like a curse. “You know I don’t buy your pinched goods, thief. Go to that fence of yours—Jorgen, Jensen, Jabsor, whatever the hell her name is—you’re not welcome here, you uncouth miscreant.”
“Trajan,” Cutter said with a smile and a clap of his hands. “Is that any way to greet an old friend, eh?”
“You, sir, are
no friend of mine. You’re a barbaric, foul-mouthed hoodlum, and you’ll leave before I summon the guards and have you clapped in irons.”
Cutter waved off the Dwarf’s protests and pulled me over to the counter.
“Allow me to introduce a friend of mine, Grim Jack.” He stepped aside and waved at me with a flourish and a bow. “He’s a traveler, new to our lands.”
“Then take him over to Poor John’s and see him outfitted there,” the Dwarf glowered, folding beefy arms across his chest in disapproval.
“Nonsense,” Cutter said, “my friend is practically royalty.” His hand flashed beneath his leather armor, and in a blink, gold appeared in his hand. Cutter dropped the pile of glittering coin onto the glowing wooden countertop with a subtle clink-clink-clink. The Dwarf’s eyes bulged, staring at the gold with hungry greed. “And that’s only the tip of the iceberg, Trajan,” Cutter said, one eyebrow cocked.
The Dwarf leaned in. “How much gold are we talking about, you unwashed filth?” he whispered, though not so quietly that I couldn’t hear him.
“His nickname on the street is Grim Jack Money-Bags,” Cutter replied with a shifty wink in my direction.
Suddenly, the Dwarf was all smiles and bows, issuing a host of profound apologies and hasty welcomes. “Please, good sir, come and peruse my wares. I have the absolute finest goods in all of Rowanheath. The absolute finest.”
Hesitantly, I meandered toward the Dwarf. A popup inventory window appeared before me as I drew up to the counter. The Dwarf’s inventory floated on the left while mine floated on the right. I quickly scanned over the Dwarf’s goods and nearly choked at the prices. Not because they were high, but because they seemed rather low. I’d made out pretty good yesterday—even after paying the mercenary Warlock, I’d walked away with a little over 2,200 in gold—and that wasn’t counting the items I still had left to sell, which would probably bring in another 300 gold.
