“I see,” the woman said. “So much can happen when someone doesn’t get what they want, huh?”
“Mhm. Anyhow, are you satisfied with your items?”
They looked at each other again, “We are,” Gareth said, “Thank you so very much.”
“You’re welcome,” the smith said, “Pleasure doing business with you.” They both shook Hephaestus’ hand before leaving. Once they were gone, Hephaestus grunted loudly, plopping onto a chair, and taking his hands to his face.
Altara sat in front of him, saying “Well played, Hephy. Though you nearly got your arse handled.”
“You think?” asked Hephaestus, “that was the kind of gamble I don’t damn want to repeat.”
“Well,” she said, “it worked. And you even got more dosh than expected. Congratulations.”
“Hm,” Hephaestus prompted Altara to trade, startled when she cancelled it. “Why didn’t you accept it?”
“Why would I?” she retorted.
“Because,” the blacksmith said “You’re entitled to half of it.”
“Hah, entitled my ass.”
“Hmm?”
“Hephy, look: I did nothin’ at all – didn’t help at the forge, didn’t help with those two, nothin’. It’s not fair that I take your money.”
“You are renting me your forge.”
Altara shook her head, “Ain’t my forge, Hephy. ‘Twas Baratus’, not mine. Technically you could even purchase it, and there ain’t nothin’ I could do about it.”
“Why would I do that, however?”
She shrugged, “Because if you don’t, someone else’s gonna do it. I’d rather you had the forge rather than some prick, truth be told.”
“Hmm,” Hephaestus took his hand to his chin, “Assume I purchase the forge, what would you do then?”
The woman shrugged again “Piss right off, what else?”
“In that case,” Hephaestus said, “Suppose I want you around the forge, what then?”
Altara’s eyes widened, “Why’d you want me ‘round the forge? It ain’t like I can help you, or anythin.’”
“Bollocks,” said the smith, “it’s been thanks to you that I managed to come this far. You are a friend, Altara, do you really think I’d just sack you as if it was nothing?” Before she said anything, Hephaestus continued by saying “Besides, this place, it was Baratus’, it’s important to you,” he shrugged, “and this is a game, it’s supposed to be better than real life, no?” Altara’s lips pursed as she nodded. “In that case I propose something: I purchase the deed to the smithy, and you stay around for as long as you want. What say you?”
Altara sniffled before saying, “I say,” she paused, “I say that prick Liberath’s gonna shit ‘is breeches when ‘e hears!”
***
“You certain you want to purchase the place? Fuckin’ hexed last I heard.”
“I assure,” replied Hephaestus, “that I do wish to acquire said plot of land.”
“Hmm, you sure boy? You’re damn low level too, who you gonna call if there’s a ghoul or ghost there.”
“Ghostbusters.”
“Pardon?”
Hephaestus shook his head, “Nevermind, just give me the damn title.”
“Uhuh,” the clerk at the Permits and Census office produced a piece of paper, and offered it to the blacksmith. “Right, so, that would be two million gold, are we agreed?”
Hephaestus paid the money, took the paper and said “We are agreed.”
“Magnificent,” the clerk said, “there’s only one matter left.”
“Oh?”
“The name of the establishment, please.”
“Hmm,” Hephaestus took a hand to his chin, thinking. He grinned, having come up with a name for it: “Bjornson and Baratus Arms and Armor.”
The clerk took the document back, stamped a seal on it, and handed it back. “Thank you very much for your patronage, sir.”
Hephaestus nodded, turning and repeating the gesture towards Altara. Together, they left the office, exiting into the Arken plaza. They walked towards the fountain where they sat beside each other. The climate was pleasantly mild, neither cold nor hot, the breeze from the fountain was refreshing; Hephaestus took a deep breath, letting the moist, cold air seep into his lungs. “Well,” he said, “It’s done.”
“Indeed it is,” Altara said, “Also, Hephaestus?”
“Yes?”
“You’re fuckin’ corny.”
“Why so?”
“Bjornson and Baratus, really?”
Hephaestus shrugged. “I figured it would be a nice way to thank you for your help these past few days.” She blinked rapidly, before bursting into laughter. “What’s so funny?” asked the smith.
“Nothin’, nothin’. I just wish Baratus was here to listen, he’d lose his marbles alright.”
“Well,” Hephaestus said, “Why don’t you log off and tell him about it?”
She became visibly sad, as she said “No can do, Hephy, ain’t as easy as that.”
Hephaestus remembered the conversation he had had with his son. Baratus was dead, and he had forgotten. “Sorry.”
Altara shrugged, “It’s alright, honest mistake. ‘Sides, well, despite stuff that’s happened, well, you’re now the owner of the forge, nothin’ would’ve made him happier than that. So, brighten up that long face o’ yours, Hephy! Things are gonna look up from now on, you’ll see!”
Hephaestus took another deep breath. Altara’s confidence, and the fact he now had his own forge, led him to believe that, quite likely, she was right.
Chapter XV: Not as Planned
“The truest, most important element of a virtual space is, quite simply, random chance: You can plan days, weeks, months ahead how to get a piece of loot, or a quest, anything, yet there’s always the human factor to worry about – so your party is ready to take on a giant-ass enemy, everyone knows what to do, you’re all ready when, suddenly, some random idiot does something, well, idiotic, as they say, ‘for the lulz.’”
-Jolier Vazquez, in “The Limits of Simulated Realism, an interview.”
As it turned out, Hephaestus would muse, Altara had, in fact, been right. After finishing Eldin and Gareth’s commission, and rebranding Baratus’ forge to Bjornson and Baratus Arms and Armor, people began trickling into his workshop, looking after his services. Most people were hesitant at first, as they remained wary of the forge’s turbulent past. Word of mouth is a powerful thing, however, as knowledge of the blacksmiths’ various successes quickly spread across the entirety of Alterwelt, prompting customers from Volen to Baldera, from Cragshire to Tyr, to come into Bjornson and Baratus Arms and Armor.
Requests came to Hephaestus in all shapes, forms, sizes, materials, ranging from the commonplace, to the bizarre: A greatsword-trident meant for slashing as much as thrusting; a wizard’s staff with an axe on its butt; a composite longbow splitting into two wicked, curved daggers; a full-length suit of chainmail with a quilted underlay and full metal pauldrons; a half-cape sewn with metal plates; a pendant engraved with a crude, phallic depiction... the requests were as many as they were varied, pushing the limits of Hephaestus’ imagination.
With popularity, of course, came naysayers—legions of people claiming that Hephaestus was but another Baratus in disguise, using illegal trainers and other hacking programs. Mostly, every rumor and jab against Hephaestus’ forge was dispelled whenever a satisfied customer left his establishment, as the smith made it a point of showcasing his procedure to anyone willing to watch. The general agreement was that his finesse couldn’t be replicated by simple trainers, as attested by people who had actually obtained such items. The reasoning behind their claims circled around the unmitigated perfection of a trainer-made item, as they used digitally made patterns, making for seamless, pristine, plastic-looking gear which ended up looking more as a showroom piece than an actual piece of armor.
Hephaestus’ gear was different, as
it had calculated blemishes, signs of being hammered and polished, as well as impressive Damascus patterns when they were requested, or the smith felt like it. Every single one of Hephaestus’ pieces was unique, and even when tasked with producing two identical pieces, they had subtle, yet noticeable differences, making each weapon and piece of armor its own, unrepeatable unit.
Throughout the following day, Talwar and Falcata would bring new, different materials to Hephaestus, both for working, and for experimenting. Crystals were Hephaestus’ favorites, as they strayed the most from materials found in the real world: zerolite was produced by mixing obsidian with demon blood; ardaline combined sapphire powder with fairy dust; farbeline was made by mixing malachite with, of all things, unicorn feces. It was all quite fantastic to Hephaestus, as it kept his skills growing, his levels advancing, despite not killing anything, and his imagination flowing with every piece he created.
It didn’t take long for word of his successes to reach the upper echelons of Alterweltan bureaucracy and, especially, the ears of Liberath Saldigraad. The first few in-game days, he had been certain that the rumors he had had his network of agents, informants, and sycophants spread had been enough to absolutely ruin Hephaestus’ reputation, putting him out of business long before he even got his little shop of dreams running. “No news means good news,” or so he had heard someone say, sometime; he didn’t much care, as it fit his self-delusion—he figured that since no word on the rogue blacksmith had reached him, he was on the clear, his mission succeeded, Hephaestus ruined.
Then truth hit him, cold as a bucket of melted snow.
He sat in his private studio, still seething with anger at reminding the moment he learned of Hephaestus’ rise to prominence: Sitting at one of the various fetes he enjoyed hosting—mere shows of lavishness and debauchery, in truth—Liberath noticed one of his guests sporting a magnificent set of pauldrons and a cape, richly embroidered with the pattern of a bear along its body. When he asked to see the piece, he at first praised the craftsmanship, the richness of the metal veins, and the design... at least until he read the item’s description and, particularly the last part, giving the crafter’s name.
Though Liberath couldn’t remember his reaction, Ilmer had told him later that it had been, in his own words, “really fucking impressive.” Ever since, reports kept pouring in about Hephaestus and his little shop of horrors, as he had become a small celebrity in Alterwelt. Under normal circumstances Liberath wouldn’t have cared about it—the bastard could have his fun, for all he cared. Problem was he was putting his crafting guilds into ridicule: Sales, and conversely his income, had plummeted noticeably as people preferred to be placed on hold to wait for Hephaestus’ commissions to come open, rather than taking their business to one of the guilds. Of course Liberath’s guilds offered unique crafting—how could they not? Except they offered such items as they were supposed to be: Premium items for those who could afford them, not cheap-ass trinkets available to every layman.
The lord took a deep drink from his nearly empty goblet, tasting the bitterness of red wine in his mouth. His eyes were closed in an attempt to stave off the skull-splitting headache pounding at his temples. He tried thinking of pleasant things: killing monsters, bedding wenches, tasting feasts... yet whatever came into his mind was fleeting, staying for mere moments before being replaced by Hephaestus’ insolent, shit-eating grin—had he been grinning then?—as he refused to accept his reasonable offer to work at one of his guilds. Only to go his own bloody way, and make me look like an idiot.
”GOD DAMN IT!” he yelled, throwing his goblet away. The fragile crystal shattered, spilling its remaining contents on the tapestry it struck.
A muted “A-hem” was heard close to Liberath, prompting him to turn towards Ilmer, standing solemnly right next to the shattered goblet. “Now what do you want?” asked a vexed Liberath.
“Sire,” his aide said, “would you perhaps want me to request entertainment?”
“Entertainment?” Liberath asked bitingly, “Ilmer, I’m surrounded by damn entertainment! This whole world, and its people, they are all entertainment! Tell me, Ilmer, be really honest with me: Do I look fucking entertained!”
“I assume not, my lord.”
“’I assume not, my lord’ OF COURSE I’M NOT ENTERTAINED!” He clenched his teeth—god, his head hurt! “How could I be entertained at all when this prick, this Hephaestus is out there, making bank and, worst of all, making me look like an utter fool!”
“Not that you don’t do that yourself” mumbled Ilmer.
“Hell did you say?”
“I said, sire, it’s something you couldn’t predict yourself.” Liberath rolled his eyes, leaning his head on the backrest of his chair. His aide continued, “Sire, is there nothing we may possibly do to trump the man’s efforts?”
“Like what exactly, Ilmer?”
“The same we did to Baratus, for example?”
“Baratus, it all comes back to him, doesn’t it? Let me be as clear as possible, Ilmer,” Liberath stood from his seat, stomping towards Ilmer, and pressing his finger to his chest as he said, “It won’t work!”
“Ych. Pardon me, sire, why not?”
“Are you insane, Ilmer? It worked with Baratus because he was slightly unhinged. He caved in under pressure easily enough! But this man, Hephaestus, there’s something about him which makes it abundantly clear that he won’t give in!”
“And what,” said Ilmer, straightening his coat’s lapels, “sire, would that be?”
“Hell do I know? For starters,” he said, gritting his teeth, “he’s already built a brand for himself!”
“He has, sire?”
“You don’t know?” Asked Liberath, his eyes narrowing. “As my aide, I would assume you would be aware of these matters, no?”
Ilmer shrugged, “Assume me ignorant, sire, so that I may understand your reasoning.”
“Pah.” Liberath walked towards a cabinet at the end of his studio; he opened a small sliding door, took out an expensive wine bottle and a replacement glass, and poured it full. He took a deep swig, drinking the whole goblet, before filling it again. He rested his hands on a side table, his shoulders heaving up and down with every breath he took as he stayed hunched over the table. “Do you know what bothers me the most, Ilmer?”
“Sire?”
“What bothers me the most is that this fellow, in less time, his level not even being into the double-digits, did what Baratus couldn’t. He’s damn made my guilds, and myself, look bad.”
“Sire, I must say, you are reading far too deeply into things, I’m certain that your finances remain utterly unaffected by—”
“YOU FOOL!” the lord screamed in a slurring drawl. “You impossible, incorrigible simpleton! Don’t you see that it’s not about finances, or commerce? It’s about the message his very presence is sending to Alterwelt!”
“Sire, I’m afraid I’m not following.”
“Of course,” he drawled, “of course, you’re not following. Hah, of course, of course, of course... how could you follow you... bootlicking sycophant. Poor, dear, dear simple Ilmer, sitting in your ivory tower as the world burns around you.”
“Sire, you’re drunk.”
“Sh! Sh, sh, sh, shut it, Ilmer. Don’t talk, listen. This person, Hepas – Hephs – Hephaestus, he’s just a nuisance, right? Just a gnat to be squashed and nothing more, yes?”
“I... yes, sire.”
“Right. Right, so, how do you squash a gnat?”
“By, uh, landing a heavy mass on him?”
“I guess. Bad analogy,” Liberath slurred, “Let me think... let me rephrase why... oh, yes! I remember, heavy mass, right... See, Imler... Imlerith... Ilmer! See, what’s heavier than, heh, you know, copying rights?”
“Copyrights, sire?”
“Yes, Ilmer! Copyright! If you had been payin’ attention, you’d know... this Herrfaustus... the smith, damn it! He’s named his forge somethin’ l
ike... Bjornsons Weapons and Armor... ow, my damn head!” Liberath toppled sideways into a sofa.
Ilmer rushed to his aid, placing his hand on Liberath’s forehead. His skin was cold and clammy, and his eyes were unfocused. “Sire, we must get you to sleep.”
“No, Ilmer. I have to... we have to think. We need to bring Hephaestus down before he ruins us!”
“Sire,” said the aide, “I assure you, there’s nothing he can do to put a dent into your business.”
“You don’t understand, Ilmer. He’s with that woman... what’s her name? The one Baratus was cozy with?”
“Altara, sire?”
“Yes, that one. She... she’s got the smith wrapped around her finger, has him do whatever the hell she pleases, and she’s got him to tell everyone that Baratus wasn’t no hacker, that he’s got wrongfully sacked o’er crap he didn’t do. He’s saying,” Liberath chuckled, “Get this, Ilmer, he’s saying that I fabricated the story and spread lies ‘bout him.”
Ilmer felt blood draining from his veins. If that man Hephaestus was spreading that sort of information, then he could, indeed, prove to be problematic. “Sire, I’m sure he’s gaining no traction on that regard.”
“Then you wouldn’t just be mistaken, Ilmer, you’d also be wrong. As it seems, people are starting to think that Baratus’ banning was a power move on the guilds’ part. Which, in fact, it was.”
“It was, sire, but people don’t need to know that, do they?”
Liberath shrugged. “What’s it matter anyways? A single man’s gone to show how fragile, how brittle the guild’s dominance over the item market is. The moment someone takes back production, making better items at better prices,” he rolled his head, looking at his aide, “Everything goes to hell.”
“Sire, if I may, you are letting yourself be overcome by despair. Now, try to focus, will you? You mentioned something about copyright, yes?”
“I did?”
“Sire, focus!”
“Right, right. Riririririright, yes. Right. So, this guy, he’s called his smithy ‘Bjornson and Baratus Arms and Armor,’ or something like that. Thing is that all of his pieces, they have this bear pattern hidden somewhere.”
True Smithing: A Crafting LitRPG Series Page 20
