by James Hunter
The Crafter’s Guild Hall.
FOURTEEN:
The Crafter’s Hall
There was a workshop up at the Keep for faction use, but many of the crafters had taken it upon themselves to make their own place. A mini guild with its own rules, governed by its own officers, existing within the Crimson Alliance. Vlad, of course, was one of the founding members. How could he not be? I padded up a set of dirt-covered wooden steps, then shouldered my way into the main hall through a pair of fat double doors covered with glimmering wards. I hadn’t seen the wards in action yet, but Vlad assured me the runes and sigils, when activated, would alchemically transform the wood into nearly indestructible stone.
I paused inside the entryway, surveying the room: the Crafter’s Guild Hall was rocking and rolling.
Lowbies, clad in beginners’ gear and leather aprons, scurried around the main hall with speed and intensity—carrying items and running errands—many with panicked, almost frightened, looks carved into their features. From what I’d heard, Vlad and his boys ran a pretty tight ship around here: someone wanted to be a member? Well, they were expected to work often, and work hard. New members paid their dues in blood, sweat, and coin before ever getting a chance at proper membership. All those rare ingredients didn’t just fetch themselves, after all.
“Jack,” Cutter called, battling to be heard over the clamor of the workshop. He was leaning casually against the wall to the left, one foot propped up, absently picking at his nails with a dark blade.
“Hey,” I replied, heading over and clapping him on the shoulder. “You got here quick. That’s unusual. You listening, I mean.”
He snorted and rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t being a good little follower, if that’s what you’re getting at, friend. I was on my way over here anyway when I got your message. Since I had some time, I figured I’d get my gear upgraded before we left. What’s the point of having these new Weapon and Armor faction skills if we don’t use ’em, eh? Come on.” He bobbed his head toward the wing housing the smithy—all red brick and black swamp rock, outfitted with everything a potential crafter could ever want or need. We cut across the main hall, narrowly avoiding the frantic apprentices, who offered us cordial nods and overly polite greetings.
The smithy itself was hotter than a sauna. Way, way hotter. Heck, the brick-lined room was like being inside an oven on the sun.
There were metal-topped workstations, great steel-ribbed barrels brimming with water, bulky stone grinding wheels, pitted iron anvils, and tools of every shape and size hanging from the walls: steel tongs, heavy hammers, grooved swages, vises, rasps, and files in all styles and flavors. Only a handful of men and women were actually working here, though. A Wode labored over a steel breastplate, sweating profusely. A broad-shouldered Dawn Elf woman, taller than me, tanned leather against a rack on the far side of the room. A Dwarf, a squat cube of muscle and fat, pumped a huge pair of bellows near a circular smelter.
“Forge,” Cutter called, heading over to a fourth man, a bulky Risi working on a double-edged battle-axe. The Risi glanced up, an ugly grin breaking across his bluff face, revealing oversized fangs just a tad on the yellow side. He had a thin Mohawk racing down his head, tree-trunk-sized arms, and was built like a post-apocalyptic brick shithouse. Even without his spiked armor in place, he still looked like he belonged in one of those classic Mad Max flicks. “God you’re an ugly bastard,” Cutter said with a smirk, inspecting the warrior.
“Like I care about your opinion,” Forge grunted. “I’d rather look like a dried-out dog turd than some fancy-pants pretty boy. ’Sides, women like the way I look and that’s all that matters.” He offered a lopsided smile and picked up the axe, inspecting the gleaming razor-edged blade. “Hot damn, that’s good work,” he murmured, gently setting the axe back down like it was a fragile piece of glass. He ran a finger down the handle of the weapon, nodded his approval, then shuffled over to Cutter, offering the thief a fierce bear hug.
“Gaw, you smell like a dirty armpit stuffed inside an old boot,” Cutter said, though he returned the hug. The two had an odd relationship, but they seemed almost like kindred souls. In a weird sort of way, it made sense. Forge was a hard-charging, flag-waving former Marine from Texas, and he was almost as rough around the edges as Cutter. He also drank like a fish—one of Cutter’s favorite pastimes—and gambled like a Pai Gow player in Atlantic City. Naturally, Cutter’s other favorite pastime was gambling … Well, besides stealing.
Yep, two peas in a pod, were Cutter and Forge.
For all of that, though, Forge was a good guy deep down.
And I owed him.
He’d saved my ass big time during my dust-up with Carrera. The guy had taken a metaphorical bullet for me.
Forge set Cutter down, then turned his muddy gaze on me, his head cocked sideways, his grin widening as he charged me. “Jack,” he said, plowing into me like a bulldozer and lifting me into the air, the strength of his ferocious hug nearly breaking bones. My face wrinkled as I caught a whiff of the fighter-turned-blacksmith—Cutter was right, he did smell. The guy reeked like a mix of wet dog and sour BO. “It’s good to see you, Boss,” he said, setting me back on the ground, then slapping me hard on the shoulder and holding me at arm’s length. “You’ve been too busy on the wall. Thought we were going to lose you for good to the bureaucratic machine.”
“Not if I can help it,” I replied with a small wince.
“So, what brings you two out here, anyway?” he asked. “Don’t suppose you’re finally thinking about acquiring a crafting profession? I’m telling you, brawling might be fun, but crafting’s where it’s at. I’ve been alternating between here and the mines, and it’s been paying off big time. Huge level gains. Decent paycheck.”
“Naw, nothing like that,” Cutter replied. “Me and the fearless leader”—he hooked a thumb at me—“are heading out on a long quest. Big one. Lots of gold, lots of loot, lots of danger.” He paused and pulled his twin daggers from his belt, giving them an artful twirl. “Don’t suppose you could work some magic on our weapons and armor, eh? Get us kitted out right and proper before we go?”
Forge frowned, eyeing the blades. “I’m slammed with requests, but for you two? Anything.”
“I don’t suppose anything would include tagging along on this top-secret quest?” I hedged. “Cutter’s right—this is a big mission, and with Otto up north, I’m short a reliable tank. I honestly can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have in my corner.” I paused and leaned closer, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Really, there’s no one else I’d trust with this. It’s big, Forge. A game-changer. There’s lots of money to be made on this and you’d get a full cut.”
“You mean it?” he asked, rubbing thoughtfully at his square chin. “That’d be great, Jack. Great. And like I told you before, you ever need someone, I’ve got your back. And I can tank, alright—I’m the toughest sumabitch in Bell County, and I aim to prove I’m the toughest sumabitch in Yunnam. Hell, I could use a break, anyway. Vlad’s a friggin’ slave driver. Guy’s worse than any drill instructor I ever seen. Cutter’s right, though, if we’ve got a dangerous mission, you two oughta be outfitted with the best you can get—these new faction skills, they’re absolutely tits. Was that your work, Jack?” he asked, cocking a bushy brow at me.
I nodded.
“Well, it’s much appreciated down here in the trenches, lemme tell you what. Mind if I show you?” He nodded at the warhammer hanging from my belt.
I ran a hand over my weapon, feeling the delicate runes etched into the metal. A beautiful hammer of black forged steel with shadowy runes of violet power crawling up the haft and twirling around its blunt face. My fingers lingered on the cruel spike extending from the back, before moving on to the smaller spike jutting from the top of the weapon like a pointing finger. “The upgrades … they’re not going to damage it, right? I mean, this thing is an Ancient Artifact item. Ancient. Artifact. Super rare and scaling.”
Forge frowned, yell
ow teeth protruding from the corners of his mouth, then waved away my concern. “Naw, though it will prevent anyone who isn’t a Crimson Alliance faction member from using it—so if you wanna sell it on the Black Market you might reconsider. Otherwise …” He shrugged and shook his head.
Reluctantly, I slipped the weapon free and handed it over.
“Don’t worry, this’ll only take a second. Forging a new item takes a good chunk of time and so does intensive repair work, but this is just a few minor inscriptions and some gem bindings. As straightforward as a Texas highway. It’s crazy,” he said, setting my hammer onto the workbench, then dropping onto a wooden stool. “I woke up this morning and all this new knowledge was just inside my head. Sorta like this was something I always knew how to do, but forgot for some reason.” He paused, picking up a small chisel with a wooden bulb-shaped handle attached to a length of sharpened steel.
“But it all came flooding back to me in a blink. It’s like I’ve been engraving magical weapons since before I could walk. It’s all muscle memory now.” He paused, the tip of his tongue sticking out while his chisel etched flowing script into the darkened steel hammer. Forge canted his head to the side, eyes squinted, as his hands moved automatically, carving new runes alongside the old with an unnatural confidence and ease. Cutter and I both watched in silent fascination. After only a few minutes, Forge set the wood-handled tool down on the workbench, leaned back, and blew on the weapon, scattering a fine layer of metal shavings.
The new script—elegant and somehow complementary to the symbols already present on the weapon—flashed and burned with a scarlet fire. “Almost done,” he said, wiping a hand across a sweat-drenched brow. “Now it just needs a few of these bad boys.” He fished three rubies, each the size of a dime, from a crude leather pouch at his belt. “That last bit bound the weapon to the faction, but these’ll grant you an extra enchantment slot.” He casually set the gems down and picked up a larger-grade chisel and a small double-sided hammer—one end sported a metal face, the other was made of brown rubber.
Quickly, Forge slouched back over and went to work, using the chisel and metal-headed hammer to create a series of circular divots just below where the shaft and the head connected. Then he carefully, gently, fitted the rubies into place with the rubber-headed hammer. Each stone clicked home after only a few taps, giving off a flash of brilliant light, which faded after a couple of seconds. “And there she is,” Forge finally said, lifting the weapon and inspecting the workmanship.
Satisfied, he handed the warhammer back to me with a grin. I held it up, thoroughly scrutinizing the changes before pulling up the item description.
∞∞∞
Gavel of Shadows (Faction Bound)
Weapon Type: Blunt; Warhammer (Modified)
Class: Ancient Artifact, Two-handed
Base Damage: 57 (Modified)
Primary Effects:
50 pts Shadow Damage + (.5 x Character Level)
+10% Damage to all Blunt Weapon attacks
Strength Bonus = .25 x Character Level
Spirit Bonus = .5 x Character Level
Weapon Durability +20%
Secondary Effects:
+250 EXP per kill
+29% Extra gold dropped
Increases all Blunt Level Skills by 1 while equipped
Can be used with a small buckler (5% reduced weapon speed)
(1) Available Enchantment Slot
∞∞∞
I grunted, seriously impressed with the changes. Not only did the weapon look more badass—what with its additional fiery runic script and eye-candy gems—but it was legitimately better. The Base Damage had increased by 10 points, the Durability was 20% better, and sure enough, I now had an extra enchantment slot just waiting to be used. “Wow,” I said, closing out of the screen and sliding the hammer back into my belt.
“Right?” Forge replied, crossing his arms. “Maybe we don’t have all the cool combat-oriented buffs that the Battle-Craft Faction tree offers, but who cares? With perks like these, we can hand design weapons and armor that’ll give us custom buffs, perfectly suited for any class build. Screw those cocksucking turdbags over in the Empire.” He paused, his eyes taking on a thousand-yard stare, as though he were envisioning all the possibilities. “Anyway,” he said eventually, “I can take care of your gear too, if you want. It’ll probably take me half an hour to upgrade both y’alls stuff, but it’ll be worth it. That gonna be a problem, Boss?”
“Nope,” I said with a shake of my head. “We still need to swing by Vlad’s room and try to talk him into coming.”
Forge snorted and shrugged. “Yeah. Good luck with that. He’s been busy all night—I don’t think that joker ever sleeps. Just works and works and works. I’m more than willing to bust my ass, understand, but just watchin’ that guy makes me want to have a heart attack. It’ll take an act of God to get him outta that lab of his.”
“Or the act of an in-game goddess,” I whispered under my breath.
FIFTEEN:
The Mad Alchemist
Cutter and I stripped down to beginners’ garb and left Forge to his work—though I kept the Crown of the Jade Lord firmly in my possession. That bad boy wasn’t going anywhere, not until this Death-Head quest was finished one way or another. Cutter headed over to the entrance, waiting for Abby and Amara, while I headed for a set of circular stairs at the rear of the guild building. I sighed. The Devs behind VGO certainly had a thing for turrets, towers, and minarets, all of which seemed to have a million steps.
Not big fans of elevators, though.
Begrudgingly, I trudged my way up, grumbling the whole way.
After what felt like several minutes of walking, I made it up the stairs, halting at a bulky wooden door—carved with runes identical to those on the exterior building doors—which led to Vlad’s workshop, laboratory, and living quarters. Forge had mentioned that Vlad never seemed to leave his studio, but in Vlad’s defense, if I had to hoof it up and down all those damned stairs I probably wouldn’t leave either. I knocked on the door, thunk-thunk-thunk, and waited, tapping my foot impatiently as I pulled up my Debuff screen, checking to see how long I had before the next stage of the Death-Head poison kicked in:
∞∞∞
Current Debuffs
Death-Head Mode: You’ve temporarily activated Death-Head Mode! Time until the Diseased debuff takes effect: 19 hours 42 minutes 31 seconds.
∞∞∞
There was a rustle of movement through the door: the scuff of boots, the rustle of papers, a tinkle as glass shattered, followed by a string of muffled Russian cursing: “Oo ti bya, galava, kak, oon a bizyanie jopuh.”
There was another thump and the squeal of a wooden table sliding across the floor. “Yes, one moment, one moment,” Vlad said, this time in English. The door flew open a second later and my Russian weaponeer—a Dawn Elf with golden skin and a sheet of platinum hair, sporting a leather work apron—appeared in the doorway, his face scrunched up in a deep scowl. He looked to be on the verge of unleashing an ass-chewing of epic proportions, but his mouth clamped shut when he saw me.
“Jack,” he said instead, the scowl replaced by a warm grin. “My apologies.” He slid back and pulled the door wide open. “I thought, perhaps, it was one of the moronic, ublyudok apprentices. The fools cannot do anything right, it seems. Always interrupting me. Swimming in my hair, as you Americans say. But enough of that”—he waved me in—“please come. Come.”
I stepped in, taking a quick survey of the room. The lab was a total mess.
Books were scattered everywhere—propped up on tables and chairs, lying open on the floor—while loose papers, filled with scribbled notes, sat in disorganized stacks. There were plates and empty bottles of mead lying haphazardly near a twin bed with rumpled sheets. A series of shelves lined several walls, loaded down with ingredients of one type or another: everything from bee stingers and amber sap to powdered diamond and goopy jungle muck. Against the far wall sat a sprawling table co
vered with glass beakers, lengths of tubing, impromptu Bunsen burners, mortars and pestles, and vials filled with finished potions.
And that was only the beginning. There were also stranger things—miniature models of siege weapons, blueprints, discarded pieces of armor. Honestly, it looked a bit like the lair of some mad scientist. Thankfully, this mad scientist was on our side.
“Oh, do I have some new things to show you,” Vlad said, nearly bouncing in place as he rubbed his hands together. “This new Alchemic Wonder faction ability? It is, how do you say, amazing. The potions I can create now are truly unparalleled, and the Explosive Catalyst subspecialty? Neveroyatnyy. Splice? Incredible, truly. So many things to show you. Come, look.” He hustled over to a workbench with a rough wooden crate on top. He bent over, fishing around in the box for a second, before hauling out a coil of silky white gossamer rope.
“Behold,” he said, lifting the rope triumphantly above his head, “the future of engineered fabric.”
I eyed it suspiciously, waiting for it to do something. It didn’t. “Yeah, that just looks like a piece of rope,” I finally said.
“Blasphemer,” he replied with a colossal eyeroll. “This is no mere rope. I took spider silk—far too sticky and cumbersome to work with—and used the Splice ability to combine it with this.” He pulled a small vial, filled with glimmering powder, from his inventory bag. “A rare type of powdered diamond. Making this was no easy task. No, no. Quite a complicated process, but now that I have it down … it will be easy enough to replicate. This silk, reinforced with the diamond, is stronger than steel, but softer than silk. It could be used to create more versatile armors, or augment siege equipment.”
I just cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Fine, so you are not so impressed with rope.” He tossed the coil of rope back into the crate, then shuffled over to another box, quickly pulling out a bandolier—like something you might see in one of those classic Rambo movies. Instead of grenades, however, the pouches were filled with glass balls that looked like Christmas ornaments.
