“Said somethin’?”
“Nothing,” said Hephaestus, shaking his head, “Nothing, Altara.”
The woman shrugged, turning away from the blacksmith. She kept walking over the rubble, kicking whatever came into her path. “Not fair,” she voiced, “Not bloody, FUCKIN’ fair! Libby’s gotten ‘is way, in the end.”
Hephaestus sighed, “No, Altara, he didn’t.”
She looked askance at him, confusion and anger drawn in her features. “Hell you talkin’ about? Have you looked ‘round? There’s nothin’ left, damn it, nothin’!”
“That’s not true, Altara.”
“Meanin’?”
“There’s you, and there’s me. That’s what Liberath—”
“Assuming ‘twas ‘im.”
“Who else?” asked Hephaestus, Altara said nothing, he continued, “As I was saying, that’s what Liberath doesn’t understand. He likely hired some goons to burn the forge down,” Hephaestus shrugged, “Fine. So what? Now, don’t misunderstand me, I understand the sentimental value the place had for you, and I’m sorry, Altara.”
The woman shuddered, “I built the damn place together with Baratus,” she scoffed, “It shouldn’t have gone this way.”
“No, it shouldn’t. But don’t you see what’s happening?” The woman shook her head. “Liberath’s on the run, Altara. He tried the legal means to bring us down; he failed miserably, and now we have leverage against him – that ring on your hand,” he said, taking her hand, “is our greatest weapon against him.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s proof that whatever happened to Baratus, he didn’t make the necessary report, he didn’t turn it in, and because of what he did, Baratus was unjustly banned.” Altara said nothing; Hephaestus continued. “Look, Altara, when I started my forge, working together with Zinnia, we faced people like him all the time, opportunists and assholes who would pounce on every chance they got to either make a profit, or make a display of power, this,” he said, pointing at the burned forge, “is but him flexing his muscles, ‘I can do this and go unpunished.’ Fine, let him have his fun! Let him be as much of a bastard as he wants! But,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, “I assume you’d like to get back at him, wouldn’t you?”
“Wouldn’t you!?” retorted Altara.
“Of course I would, and that’s precisely what we’re going to do.”
“How?” she asked, “With coarse language and rude gestures?”
“No, by doing the worst thing you can do to a person like him: Showing him he has no power over us.”
“He doesn’t, though?” asked Altara, pointing at their surroundings. “He has the power to reduce everything we’ve accomplished to rubble, doesn’t he?”
“Altara, what is a forge?”
“Pardon?”
“What is a forge, in truth?”
“I don’t follow.”
Hephaestus sighed, gotta work on my analogies. “A forge, Altara, is but a collection of bricks, and a few tools – it can be as basic, or as elaborate as you want it to be. But what makes a forge good, what makes it truly worth it is not having a lot of gadgets or gizmos, but having someone who knows, and loves, what they’re doing.”
“And let me guess,” Altara scoffed, “That’d be you, no?”
“Precisely; as long as he doesn’t outright kill me, he won’t kill our forge.”
“Our, Kemosabe?”
“Hah! Didn’t think you old enough to make that reference!”
“Whatever, Hephy, get to the damn point!”
“The damn point being, Altara, if we rebuild, and prove to Libby his bullying tactics don’t work, well,” he shrugged, “he’ll crap his pants off.”
“Wouldn’t that be fun,” she said, “Except, how do we do it?”
“We get some bricks, we get a furnace, an anvil, a hammer, and tongs. The rest,” he shrugged once more, “the rest can come later on.”
“You really don’t know when, or how, to give up, don’t you?” Hephaestus shook his head, “You’re just like damn Baratus,” she sighed, shaking her head with a smile on her face, “Fine, you win. Let’s rebuild your fucking forge.”
“I think you mean,” he said, chuckling, “our fucking forge!”
***
“Are you sure it was a good idea?” Ilmer asked, not bothering to hide the disdain in his voice.
“OF COURSE I’m sure it was a good idea! Bastards, one and all! The humiliation, Ilmer, the damn, bloody stain to my image!”
The manservant shrugged, crossing his arms over the lapels of his coat. “Come now, Liberath, you’ll live it off. People forget,” he chuckled softly, “eventually.”
“Eventually? To hell with eventually! You’re not the one whose name was sullied to hell now was it?” The manservant shrugged again, prompting Liberath to roll his eyes. “You wouldn’t understand. How could you? You don’t know the struggles of keeping a good name – hell, I don’t even know if you care!”
“Honest sire?” Ilmer said, “I don’t. It’s a game, at the end of the day, and whatever happens here ends up not mattering in the long run.”
“Now see, Ilmer, that’s why you don’t progress within the ranks of the administration. You lack ambition, finesse – you fail to see the underlying cancer rotting the core of our society.”
“Our society, sire?”
Liberath scoffed, standing up from his couch, and pacing in his studio. He shook his head, as if admonishing himself for expecting something, anything from his manservant. “What is a virtual space, Ilmer?”
“Honest, or rhetorical question?”
“Assume the former.”
“Hm, well, to my ken, a virtual space is a quantum-processing neural matrix shaped as a nearly-one-to-one representation of a parallel reality, namely, the reality as created by the space’s developer,” he shrugged, “in other words, well, a virtual world.”
“That’s an extension of your problem, Ilmer – you lack imagination, the acumen to see beyond the immediate literality of your circumstances. Now, see, a virtual world, by definition, is but an extension, a mirage, imitating our true world.”
“Truly?” asked an unamused Ilmer.”
“Truly, and, just as our world, its problems reflect those of the outside world.”
“And what, sire,” Ilmer asked, “may those problems be?”
Liberath sighed dramatically, “Those problems are that the lower circles of society refuse to accept their place – they refuse to own up to the fact that they are inferior, and that it befalls us, those above them, to make certain that they don’t fall into degeneracy. Truly, Ilmer, are you so devoid of creativity that you can’t see the parallel with our true world?”
The manservant took an ornate goblet from the table in the studio; he twirled it in his hands, taking in its details, before returning it to its place. “As a matter of fact, sire,” he spat, “I can see the parallel between our world and this, and on one matter I must agree: The problems are the same – except, however, they’re not what you think them to be. Just as with our world, Alterwelt’s difficulties stem not from the people who try to just go along the ride, enjoying what they’re given in any way they can, no. The problems stem from those who think themselves above law and moderation, those who think they can do anything without consequences. Now that is not a mirage,” he paused, looking at his ruler, “but a mirror.”
Liberath scoffed, “A mirror, truly? Pah, what a weak, pathetic excuse for—”
Ilmer slammed his hands on the table, making Liberath jump; the lord turned towards his manservant, his face twisted in a startled expression. “Now, let me tell you another reflection of our world’s problems, in fact, your problems!” He took a step towards Liberath, prompting him to step back, “Your problem is the fact that, to begin with, you think everyone has a problem but yourself. Another problem is the fact that when given a tiny, minuscule fraction of power, the first th
ing you’ve done with it is go around and make people’s lives miserable. Yet another problem,” he scoffed, “Is that you take yourself too fucking seriously.”
“What... what the hell is that supposed to mean!?”
“Damn it Liberath, this is a game! It’s supposed to be silly, fun, different! Instead, here you are, sitting upon your make-believe castle, spewing intellectualoid bullshit left and right! Liberath, let something sink in,” said the manservant, jamming his finger on the lord’s chest, “You are not clever. You are not as important as you think, and for fuck’s sake, you are NOT an intellectual. You are an annoying, spoiled brat who thinks too highly of himself,” Ilmer crossed his arms, taking a step back, “Or would your uncle dearest disagree?”
“Keep my uncle out of this!”
“Damn it Liberath! You ordered a damn forge burnt to the ground, right after being proven as both a fraud, and an idiot! Yet you are here, spewing your idiotic, insane worldview, acting as if you were objectively above everyone else!” Ilmer shook his head, took the ornate goblet, and poured wine into it, “Give me a damn break.”
“Well,” chuckled Liberath, “that’s where you are mistaken: I merely took justice into my own hands!”
“Truly?” Ilmer scoffed, “By burning down Hephaestus’ forge?”
“Precisely! I tried to be nice and offer him a place in one of my guilds, he rejected it. I tried being political and taking back what is mine and—”
“And it turns out it was actually his.”
“SHUT UP! That nonsense... Who the hell does he think he is?”
Ilmer rolled his eyes, “God damn it, Liberath.”
The lord took a deep breath, “Anyhow, when diplomacy fails,” he shrugged, “all you have left is violence.”
“Violence is the last resource of the incompetent.”
“Hell did you say?”
“I said, what do you think you accomplished?”
“Why,” said Liberath in his oily voice, “I crushed the opposition.”
“Really, now? Have you read any of the reports I’ve given you – reports which, I must say, you requested yourself?”
Liberath shrugged, “I’ve skimmed them.”
“Oh you have skimmed them! That’s so great! In that case, I assume you skimmed over Bjornson and Baratus Arms and Armor’s increased profits?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, you did skim over the reports so you should know what I’m talking about, no?”
“Cut the crap, Ilmer.”
The manservant chuckled – he enjoyed seeing Liberath admit, even if implicitly, his ignorance. “You are a bad judge of character if you think that burning Hephaestus’ forge down would mean him sitting down and wallow in self-pity. Rather, he rebuilt his forge, together with the woman, Altara, and well, since he downscaled, turns out his stuff became even more valuable! If anything,” he chuckled once more, “you did him a favor.”
“That’s... impossible! He had no forge! It’s... it’s the woman! She’s the one keeping him motivated, she—”
“Liberath, god damn it, quit being so damn dense! Do you really think it’s about the woman? She is, want it or not, ancillary to your beliefs – she is Hephaestus’ friend, and nothing more.”
“Well, what do you suggest we do, then?”
“I don’t know,” Ilmer replied, “I thought you were the one with the imagination, and the vision, and the whatever-else.”
Liberath sighed, before plopping himself onto the couch. “Let me think. Hm, there’s only one option I see as viable.”
“Color me curious,” Ilmer said.
“Well, bruised ego aside,” Liberath said, “I retain my... influence over the events on Alterwelt.”
“I don’t like where this is going.”
“Well, Ilmer, you pride yourself on not being as unimaginative as you show to be – fine, tell me, where is this going?”
Ilmer sat on a couch in front of Liberath’s, sinking his face into his hands. “You’re pulling another Baratus.”
“Precisely. Except,” he shrugged, “last time, I admit, I was rather sloppy. In my rightful arrogance, I kept the hacker’s ring in my possession – as a trophy, if you will, of my victory over the rebellious crafter.”
“A trophy,” added Ilmer, “which is now a lever against you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing, Liberath. I guess I,” he chuckled, “I guess I do lack imagination at times.”
“Right. Well, I didn’t get rid of the evidence, as I should have, and now it’s in the blacksmith’s possession. Fine and dandy, it proves nothing on its own – besides, it’s his word against mine, a plebian versus a lord,” Liberath scoffed, “there’s no point of comparison. Now,” he said, standing up, “You say he’s rebuilt, and is operating again – that’s a rather suspicious behavior, isn’t it?”
“He had saved resources, Liberath, gold.”
“Yes, but how did he get it? In fact,” Liberath said, his face illuminating, “I recall him being level twenty-threeish, wasn’t he? If I understand correctly, he’s spent all of his time in the game crafting and making things, not killing stuff as most people do. How come he’s gained experience, hm? How come he went from working with meaningless steel, to forging with umberium, verdium, orichalcum? Quite suspicious,” he paused, “Don’t you think?”
Ilmer shook his head, “You are grasping at straws.”
Liberath shrugged, “It doesn’t much matter. Game Masters won’t listen to him, and as an administrator, well, my word carries more weight than his. A report, that’s all that’s needed, and Hephaestus will be brought down.”
Ilmer shook his head, “I think you are misjudging the blacksmith, Liberath. He’s more resourceful, more capable than you are giving him credit for. Conversely, you are overestimating the extent of your faculties.”
“Am I, truly?”
Ilmer sighed, gritting his teeth, “Understand that being a lord, an administrator, doesn’t mean you can do quite literally anything you want without facing any consequences. There are powers above you, Liberath, powers which can—and will—override your determinations.”
“Well,” chuckled Liberath, “in that case, let’s hope Hephaestus goes the way Baratus did, eh?”
“What precisely do you mean?”
Liberath laughed openly, odiously, “It’s simple! If Hephaestus is, as he says, that old blacksmith, Angus Bjornson, well, he must be nearing a hundred years old. Most likely, this game has become his life, and if we take it away from him,” he shrugged, “well, I don’t think he’s going to last long enough to actually make a case against us.”
The manservant shook his head as his ruler laughed mirthfully at his self-perceived ingenuity. Ilmer almost surprised himself, almost, by thinking back to Liberath’s cowering, quivering shape as the crowd laughed at him. He began laughing, himself, joining in with Liberath’s mirth, except not for the reasons his ruler likely imagined.
***
Sweat stung Hephaestus’ eyes as he brought the hammer down on the wide metal plate. The midnight-black metal rang loudly as he rammed his tool against it, crushing it against the anvil. He wiped at his brow once again, sorely missing the power hammer he had had access to. It didn’t matter – the job had to be done.
Working with umberium was nowhere nearly as difficult as people had made it out to be. The metal endemic to Alterwelt consisted of a base metal, any metal, cast into the furnace with a ten-percent proportion of zerolite; after the furnace was set ablaze, the zerolite’s antimagic properties would react with the fire, itself a middle point between magic and non-magic, and diffuse it into the metal’s structure, creating the characteristic, light-drinking blackness of the metal. Though Hephaestus preferred the richer hues of verdium, azurite, and even vermilium, he could see the appeal of a weapon so dark it seemed to dull the lightning of its surroundings.
He put the hammer as
ide, cracking his neck, back, and knuckles. How long had he been at the forge? He had lost track of time, as he tended to do whenever he set himself upon a new creation. Altara noticed his gesture, kindly asking “You alright, Hephy?”
“Mhm,” grunted the blacksmith, “Just a little sore.”
“Heh, no wonder. You’ve been hammerin’ the hell out of that plate for gods know how long. Don’t you fancy a break?”
Hephaestus shook his head, “Nah, gotta get this piece done,” he shrugged, “be easier with a power hammer, though.”
Altara chuckled, “True. But well, we’ve got what we’ve got, no?”
“Indeed. I admit I’m glad we have a forge back at all, and the increased influx of customers, it’s doing wonders. Except...”
“Except?” asked Altara.
Hephaestus sighed, “Except now, doing everything the old-fashioned way, there’s not enough of me to satisfy everyone.”
“Hm, I’d say there’s enough of you to be quite satisfying.”
“Oh shut up!” laughed the blacksmith. “You don’t notice ‘cause my face’s all black, but you nearly made me blush.”
“A nifty skill, ain’t it? At least it takes your mind off for a while.”
“True enough,” replied Hephaestus, “Though I gotta finish this damn axe before…” Hephaestus froze. He could feel his body growing stiff, paralyzed. Only his eyes could move.
Altara noticed the change, standing up immediately. “Hephaestus, what the hell’s goin’ on? Can you move at all?” The smith replied by shaking his eyes. “Shit... Shit! I’ve seen this happen before! The damn bastard!” What’s going on!? Thought Hephaestus, unable to voice his question. Altara noticed his expression, however, and said “Hephaestus, listen – you just got reported.”
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