by Ember Lane
Lincoln spied a sole sack left on the shelf. “What about that one?”
Finequill spun around. “What in Lamerell’s name is that doing there?” He scratched his furry head. “Everything was allotted and accounted for.” Slapping his head, Finequill groaned. “Of course, it’s Alexa Drey’s.”
“Won’t she need it when she spawns?”
Finequill’s face scrunched up in anger. “Of course she’ll need it, but she won’t get it now. Someone’s bound to steal it.” He looked Lincoln up and down, before leaning in and whispering, “You’ll just have to take it.”
“Me?”
“Well I can’t take it…embezzlement and all that. I’m an arbiter. I arbit, or whatever you call it. If I get caught stealing, I swing, and I can’t respawn.” He ripped the sack off the shelf and threw it at Lincoln. “Take it. You can buy me another ale.”
Lincoln caught the sack, but held it like it was about to bite him. “But it’s not…” A look from Finequill, and Lincoln popped it into his own sack. He decided he’d just keep hold of it for Alexa. She’d made quite the impression on him, looking out for little Pog, and even for him. Old man Lincoln, as she’d called him but with a radiant smile plastered on her face.
“An ale?” he asked the ceratog.
“Indeed,” said Finequill.
His establishment, if a single cell and a minuscule office could be described as such, was at the end of a dark, dilapidated, stinking cul-de-sac that Lincoln decided could have easily been a mock-up of some horror film set, as long as it had taken place in medieval times. Each building fought the next for dominance, nigh flexing their sides to get the other out of the way. Their windows glowed amber like a pack of cornered rats staring out. Here and there, the cobbled roads glinted in the moonlight, but mostly were covered in foul detritus that had failed to wash down the central sluice. Finequill changed his open-pawed boots for another heavier set and led the way to the tavern.
“Brokenford,” he said. “You asked, and I don’t believe I replied. You have spawned in Brokenford. It is the current capital of the Irydia, and Irydia is the largest of the nine lands.”
“Oh,” Lincoln replied. “It’s quite the…”
Finequill grunted. “Dive, though it’s better in the north of the city, and there’s nicer areas farther south.”
“And east and west?”
“Fresher too. You’re getting the picture. The NPC hierarchy, well, they don’t overly like players. That little place behind was the only hidey-hole the mayor would let me set up shop in. Still, you get to see the worst parts, and if you’re not careful, you’ll see them over and over. I’d keep that sack hidden until you lose the noob gear.”
“But I’ll be safe in the pub?” Lincoln asked, shuffling close to Finequill as the shadows closed in.
“The lodging’s token keeps them off your back for twenty-four hours, wherever you are in the city limits.”
Near enough free reign of the city, not a bad deal, Lincoln thought. “Sounds good,” he said.
“You haven’t drunk the ale yet—that might kill you,” Finequill said ominously. “Mind not to get too complacent. They’ll mark you and test you, but they’ll dance at the end of a rope if they chance it. Stops ‘em most of the time.” He grunted, and then added, “Might not be able to steal off you yet, but they can test how good you are.”
Lincoln looked deep into the shadows of a narrow alleyway as they walked past. He thought he saw movement. A burst of laughter from across the street startled him. A group of two humans and a drunk-looking elf pointed at him.
“Hey, noob! We’re watching you!”
He heard scampering behind him, and spun around to see a young kid reaching up for his sack. Lincoln kicked out at him and growled. He waved his hand over his sack and thought of the dagger, then stuffed his sack inside his tunic. The cold of the dagger’s metal felt good in his hand, reassuring. He pulled his tunic’s sleeve over its upturned blade and walked on. The kid’s mouth let out a tirade of insults, but he backed away. Lincoln knew the ceratog was right; he’d been tested for later.
Milling crowds grew thicker as they neared the throat of the cul-de-sac. Its dead-end stench mellowed slightly, an almost fresh breeze trying to buffet its way in. Finequill barged into a doorway, Lincoln followed, and a bloom of warmth caused his cheeks to flush as he entered the tavern. The hubbub of chatter filled his ears as he sucked in the aromatic stench of sweat, stale ale, and roasting meat. Silence fell like an executioner’s blade. A few dozen faces turned toward him, glaring briefly before returning to now hushed conversations. Pipe smoke hung heavy overhead like a cloud of whispered conspiracy.
Lincoln followed in Finequill’s wake as the arbiter forged toward a dull, wooden bar counter. The place was tumbledown, varnish-like ragged islands on its timber beams, the pale wash between crawling away from its lath and plaster fillets, and bottle-thick windows that had never seen a washrag. A fat hand crashed down on Lincoln’s shoulder as he gawked around.
“Lose the knife, noob. At least until you get some Stealth to hide it properly,” a voice thundered around him.
Glancing up, Lincoln looked into the eyes of a man-mountain. He had a large, round head with a mop of brown hair sprouting out of it, partly covering his furrowed brow which was creased with threat, its dark shadows part hiding blank eyes. Wooden teeth lined up with yellowed ones, framed by thin, angry lips. “No one can kill you here, not today. Outside.” The giant looked around. “Any one of them might have a go and risk the gibbet, but here—no.” And then his voice rose to a proclamation, “By decree of me, and my word carries more weight than the king!”
“The king!” the throng all cheered, though in a derisory manner and with little heart, before they eventually descended into laughter.
Lincoln slid the knife back into his sack. If there were lower dregs in Brokenford, he decided he’d be surprised, but sometimes the dregs could be the best part of a place. Finequill climbed up onto a barstool. Lincoln sat next to him, and the giant slumped onto the counter close by. “So, what are you?” the giant asked him.
“He’s going to be a builder. Like we need builders around here,” Finequill lamented, arching his eyebrows.
“Why’d you want to be one of those? Place is gonna burn when Sutech Charm visits,” the giant said ominously. “Say, what’s he called?”
“Linc—” Finequill made to say.
“I can speak,” Lincoln butted in. “Lincoln; my name is Lincoln, and you are?”
“Pete,” said the giant, scratching his head with his sausage-like fingers. “Why don’t you become a warrior? You’ve got the build of a warrior.” He grinned his checkered grin. “And you’re not afraid to use a knife. Or a rogue, you could be a rogue.”
Lincoln clenched his buttocks. He knew damn well that he could be a warrior, rogue, or caster for that matter. He could be countless characters if they were on the menu, but he’d promised Joan that they’d build something together, except Joan hadn’t made it—hadn’t made it to the pods.
Three frothy ales appeared on the worn counter. Lincoln looked over it to see a woman looking at him expectantly. She was mostly human, of that he was sure, but had certain traits that were decidedly nonhuman. Her face was nearly child-like, yet her violet eyes had a fire that glowered with challenge. Her shoulder-length, brown hair hung too stiffly to be completely human. It actually fell much like he thought an elf’s might. No, Lincoln decided, not entirely human, though what else, he was unsure.
“How much?” he asked her.
“You got your lodgings token?” She crossed her pale, skinny arms, raising one hand and drawing a finger across her full, strawberry lips.
He reached into his sack, but then remembered to hover. Somehow her mere presence unnerved him. The token sprung into his open palm. “Yeah, there you go. How much for the ale?” He realized his voice was shaky, like a nervous teenager.
“Fer you, handsome, it’s free with the token. These other tw
o’ll cost you ten bronze, but...” She leaned over the worn counter, and her full cleavage made Lincoln’s eyes jerk away and into the smoke cloud overhead. “I’ll let it run and see if the token won’t cover it fer you.” And she winked; a slow and deliberate act that was coupled with a playful smile.
Her name was Allaise, and Lincoln’s new world polarized on his three new companions. Finequill proved to be good company, relaying tales of noobs past and present who had bossed their way into their little cul-de-sac and then returned the very next day, beaten, bloodied, and broken. Apparently, if you respawned at night, the cell was locked as was the front door, and as Finequill put it himself, “I’m not one to rise early in the morning; Mrs. Finequill keeps me warm. Besides, that place is too shady and dour to spend too many hours in.” And so, you were stuck there until late morning.
“Most are just plain rude,” Allaise added. “Not like you,” she purred.
“Manners,” Finequill said. “They cost nothing.” Finequill had to go soon after. His hot pot was waiting, and they’d be late for poultices and potions, and Mrs. Finequill would screw.
“Training,” Pete muttered, sitting on Finequill’s now vacant stool. His voice sounded like it bubbled up from the very bottom of his belly and had fought its way through two lungs full of rough stone chips that ground and grated together. He made a mockery of the stool. It almost looked like he was sitting on a stick. Picking his ale up, Pete drained it in one fell swoop and burped, silencing the inn for an instant. “You can get a day’s training in, just off Keep Street—south side. You don’t have to cross the river. I could take you there in the morning if you want. I’m going to the market to get more ale anyhow.”
“Or I could show you around,” Allaise offered.
Lincoln bought more ales for each of them and thanked them. The three of them hunched together like co-conspirators, and Lincoln felt blessed that their focus was on his well-being, though the reason why played a suspicious tune at the back of his mind.
It turned out that Pete was a half-giant from the Red Mountains. Apparently giants themselves were rarely seen but were considered powerful mates by mountain folks, though it hadn’t worked out for him. Pete’s mother had died in childbirth, and he’d been thrown out of their village once he’d shot past all the men of that place before he’d even reached his tenth birthday.
“Hard folks up there,” he told Lincoln. “And a hard land. You’ll not find it easy there.” Just talking about it seemed to upset the big man; his eyes staring over the worn counter, but searching out places much farther away.
When it was time to close up, he patted Lincoln on the shoulder and then picked his way through the inn, banging heads and throwing drunks through the doorway. He’d soon emptied the bar and shot the door bolts. Once done, he gave the now soulless place one final sweep of his glare and pulled a couple of long benches together, lying on them and shutting his eyes. Lincoln found it a sad sight to his stomach. Somehow he knew the half-giant was a lost soul.
“So, builder,” Allaise muttered, once Pete’s snores rang out. “Why?”
“It’s a long story,” Lincoln muttered, looking into his half-drunk mug of ale.
“It’s a long night,” Allaise said, and she settled her elbows on the counter, leaning over seductively.
Lincoln told her of his wife’s dream, her vision of leaving their broken world and starting again on the seeder planet, Celleron. He told Allaise what a fine and loving woman Joan was, and how he hadn’t been worthy of her radiance. And he told Allaise how she’d died, a month shy of boarding the ship, of entering the VR game, a month shy of traveling to her utopian Celleron.
“That’s why I want to be a builder,” he muttered, and drained his ale. “Here, in the virt… this world of Barakdor, I’m going to build her a place that will live on forever. It will be worthy of her name. A peaceful place, so peaceful I will crush any that try and spoil it.” Lincoln saw tears in Allaise’s eyes, and watched as they meandered down her sweet cheeks like crystal streams.
“That’s beautiful,” she whispered.
2
First Skill
Lincoln woke in the morning, fit and ready to face his first new day. Allaise had allotted him a cramped room in the tavern’s loft. He’d staggered up a set of rickety stairs and past three landings just to get there, but it was worth the extra effort. She’d told him it was away from the others, and that the air was fresher up there if he bothered with the window. Lincoln remembered thinking that Pete would have never fit up those stairs, and that was probably the reason he slept downstairs on the benches.
It was a homey little room, more so than he could have expected in the tavern. Warm with the glow of stained wood, it had a small chest of drawers next to his little bed, where he put his bag of holding. Allaise had stood a guttering candle on its top, with just enough wick left for a few dozen minutes more light. She’d looked up and smiled, but it had been an awkward standoff. Joan was too raw in Lincoln’s mind for any new tryst, yet the land had infused his body with vigor again and that demon urged Lincoln forward. In the end, she’d left, clearly understanding his paradox.
The small world of the immediate outside seemed quite dour, but staring up at the rough-plastered ceiling, Lincoln decided that he’d been lucky to land where he did. He wasn’t completely alone, there was that, at least.
But something just wasn’t right. Something was bugging him. Though Finequill was not a typical noob guide, and he had let Lincoln in on a few of the finer points of the game, he hadn’t mentioned one of the most important ones. Finequill had never talked about stats, not once.
By not mentioning them, he’d basically told Lincoln everything he needed to know about how to live in this world, but not the core parts. In short, Finequill had failed to tell Lincoln how to survive.
Searching around in his mind’s eye, Lincoln looked for his menus. He pulled down his character sheet.
So, he thought, standard fare, and clearly things altered slightly upon activating the city token. So, all he had to do was work out what was what. Experiment time, he decided.
He took a point away from Vitality and added it to Stamina, nodding as it confirmed his initial suspicions. Vitality fed Health at a ration of 10:1, and stamina clearly fed Energy by much the same ratio.
Lincoln suspected that the extra attributes that would become available after the city token had been used were almost certainly going to influence city development. Things like politics, warfare, commerce, or even astrology or some such trait would influence city defense, or build speed, or research rate. Should he hold some points back or not? A Wiki would be nice, he decided.
The problem he had was simple. Once allocated and accepted, he highly doubted that he could unallocate the points, and that could affect his game significantly.
Allaise poked her head around his bedroom door. She looked a little confused.
“Finequill’s here, and he’s most insistent that he must see you.”
Lincoln lofted his eyebrows. “Wonder what he wants.” Then he pulled his bed sheet up a little but way too late. Allaise’s eyes fluttered a little before she left, and Lincoln wondered what her interest in him was. Finequill had basically told him that players were despised by NPCs, yet he’d been friendly, Pete had been too, and Allaise was real good company. So where was the hate?
He’d been around the block, had Lincoln. He wasn’t daft enough to discount they might be scamming him. As long as he understood that, he thought, he’d be a step ahead of them.
“I forgot a few things,” Finequill told him, once Lincoln was sitting at the bar beside him. “I can only guess that it was the Alexa Drey thing that knocked me off-balance. Attributes, leveling—I missed out loads. Here, I have a sheet that explains it all, but to put it simply, vitality boosts…”
“I got it,” Lincoln told him. “Just wondering about a few technical details. Leveling up?”
“Covered in the note. XP based. Open up so many skills
, activating your token dah, dah, dah.”
“Rearranging attribute points when I use the city token?”
“Fifty percent. You can rearrange fifty percent, no more, and you can only redistribute them to the new attributes.”
“Cool,” Lincoln said. “Respawn points?”
“Currently set to my place of work. May as well leave it there all the while you’re in Brokenford. I can raise the city guard if needed—escort you out, that sort of thing. If you fly the nest, you need to set it elsewhere. You can adjust the radius, set it for land, that sort of thing. Anything else?”
“Think that just about does it. Oh, death. Do I lose levels or anything if I die?”
“Hmmm,” Finequill mused. “It’s been a while since I had a builder. From memory, you’re fine until you use the token. After that, your life is linked to the city, so if it gets sacked and loses levels, so do you. If you die before you use it, I’m pretty sure the token, at least, will be safe. I think it’s soul-bound. Like I said, a long time.”
Lincoln sucked it all in but couldn’t help but think Finequill didn’t know an awful lot given the nature of his job. Allaise put a bowl of soup in front of Lincoln, and he pulled it close, blowing away its billowing steam. “Thanks.” He flashed her a smile. A friendly face in a brand new world was worth more than gold, even if it might be working you for a few of them.
Finequill jumped off his stool and muttered something inaudible, then turned to leave. “One more thing.” And he winked. “Could I have a look at that beginner’s plot that I gave you?”
Lincoln pulled out his sack. A small scroll appeared in his hand. He gave it to Finequill who unrolled it, nudged him, and tapped his nose. “Thought so. This is a fine piece of land. Till it, build a cottage or two on it, and you’ll be able to turn a small profit before venturing off to seek your city. I’d say it’d be worth…” He puffed out his little cheeks and let out a little whistle. “Three or four, possibly five or six gold, I think.”
