by S. R. Witt
That was no good since he needed to be on the easternmost side of the continent.
He dismissed the Risi—half-ogre creatures with powerful frames, thick muscles, and green-tinged skin—without a second thought. They were scary and intimidating, true, but they were also suited almost solely for up-close physical combat—tanking—something Osmark had zero interest in. Not to mention, he refused to look like a damned monster for the rest of the foreseeable future.
That left him with the only real option left. He scrolled over to the Imperials.
The avatar twirling in the air before him changed from the green-skinned Risi to a human Imperial. The Imperial’s features were similar to Osmark’s natural appearance, though they were more chiseled and refined—made sharper and more perfect through virtual reality magic. Without his glasses to hide them, his eyes had become an intense sapphire blue, burning with a fierce intelligence. Osmark’s brown hair was a touch darker and a bit longer, but otherwise looked more or less like it always had.
If it’s not broke, he thought, why fix it?
<<<>>>
Imperials (Human): Though less numerous than the Wodes, the Imperials have carved out their place in the history books. Their military might and political strength have no equal, and their empire stretches from one horizon to the other. Imperials are not gifted with any resistance bonuses, but all initial stats begin at 12, except for Intelligence, which starts at 15. As with other humans, Imperials are not restricted in any way as to the classes they may pursue as they advance.
<<<>>>
“Perfect,” Osmark whispered, casually lacing his hands behind his back.
He spent a few moments making minor refinements to his avatar’s appearance—he made his shoulders a touch broader, his chin a bit more defined, and removed the stubble from his cheeks—and then clicked the “Create” button.
A new prompt appeared. “Please select a name.”
Osmark considered his options only for the briefest moment.
“Robert Osmark,” he said. If he changed his name he might be able to fly under the radar in these crucial early days, but the minor benefit wasn’t worth it. Not by half. He’d clawed his way up from the bottom of a Brooklyn gutter, and he wasn’t going to give that up. Not for some political gnat like Sizemore and his cabal of sycophants. Everyone in V.G.O. knew who Osmark was, and what he’d done. They were all alive because of his initiative. That was a reputation boost he couldn’t afford to throw away, even if it did plant a target on his back.
“Are you sure you would like to create Robert Osmark the Imperial?” a booming baritone voice asked. “Once you create a character, you will not be able to change your racial identity or name. Please confirm?”
“Confirmed.”
Though Osmark had designed the opening cinematic, that didn’t prepare him for the explosion of music that surrounded him. A powerful orchestral anthem crashed through the air like a thunderstorm. Drums rumbled, cymbals clanged and clashed, and a host of warbling stringed instruments washed through his head.
“The year is 1095 A.I.C.—Anno Imperium Conditae,” the disembodied announcer bellowed over the music. “Dark power and the stirrings of war ride upon the winds of Eldgard, the provincial outpost of the Great Viridian Empire.”
Suddenly, Osmark soared above a massive lorica-clad army led by a man in golden platemail riding a black stallion. The troops’ armor gleamed in the sun, and the marching column shone like a great steel serpent winding its way across the landscape. A cloud of dust rose from a snaking line of heavy, mounted cavalry, blotting out the horizon behind the army as if stomping hooves had obliterated the roads they traveled and left nothing in their wake.
“Imperial legions,” said the announcer, “allied with the forces of light, march from the east, bringing the natives of Eldgard to their knees through flame, magic, and steel. Bringing progress. Building roads. Cities. A kingdom. Civilizing the dark-natured Wodes, the swamp-dwelling Dokkalfar, and the Accipiter of the far-western deserts, enlightening them in the ways of the ever-victorious empire.
“But the natives of Eldgard are not so quick to give up the old ways—to heel for foreign masters. Though the rebellion is yet small, they fight on. Hour by hour, day by day …” A massed throng of howling Wodes surged from the forest lining the wide road and charged toward the Imperial forces. The enormous blond warriors hoisted oversized battle-axes above their half-naked bodies. Their muscles writhed beneath their skin, coiling like serpents preparing to strike.
The Imperials held their ground, faces hidden behind metal helms, weapons held steady as their mounts pawed at the earth. The forces slapped together with the ring of metal on metal and the cry of horses. For a moment, it appeared as if the Wodes had won the battle before it even began: The front ranks of the Imperials vanished beneath a swarming tide of flashing steel and tattooed flesh. For a moment, the war cry of the Wodes drowned out all other sounds.
A pang of doubt speared through Osmark’s gut. Had he made the wrong choice? In his designs, the Imperials were the dominant force on Eldgard, but the Overminds were more than capable of adjusting the game world as needed to keep it challenging and exciting for the players. An unavoidable part of the content design.
A second later, the wave of barbarians swallowed the golden leader and his black stallion.
Osmark’s heart stopped.
And then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed.
The Imperial foot soldiers formed a tight wedge of interlocking shields and thrust out barbed spears that pierced the main body of the encroaching Wode force like an arrowhead through unarmored flesh. An Imperial cavalry contingent slammed into the side of the barbarian army, trampling their opponents beneath steel-shod hooves. The golden Imperial commander emerged amidst a circle of dead Wodes, his rugged face covered in blood, a wicked, victorious grin splitting his face as he raised his sword high and unleashed a piercing battle cry.
The soldiers responded with furious war cries of their own as the Wodes broke, fleeing the field for the safety of the tree line. The Imperials showed no mercy, however. The barbarians had raised arms against the Empire, and now they’d pay the price.
A galloping line of armored knights circled the fleeing horde, brass horns blaring, the ground reverberating as they mounted a charge. Shining steel lances pierced rough hide armor and burst through Wode backs in showers of blood and gore. Heavy maces and blunt-headed warhammers smashed bones and caved in steel helmets. Hooves crushed men into the earth and churned their guts into reeking, bloody mud. Even knowing this wasn’t real didn’t make it any easier to watch. Eventually, the cavalry pushed through the dying mob to rejoin the rest of the Imperial troops.
They left a gory trail of dead and mortally wounded in their wake. Their lances dripped red as they wheeled into position.
The Imperial army marched on.
The scene faded, shimmered, and changed as Osmark rose higher and higher above the marching army. He watched in awe as the Imperial forces transformed the untamed wilderness. Roads carved their way across the plains to connect the Imperial outposts that sprang up in strategic locations. As he watched, those first meager settlements swelled and expanded their borders to become villages, then walled towns, then gleaming cities.
“But even as the Empire spread, the natives learned and adapted to their strange and deadly ways.” The announcer narrated as Osmark’s point of view sped east like a steel-tipped bolt fired from a ballista. The scattered forces of the defeated Wodes joined with Murk Elf war bands. They transformed from ragged bands of isolated tribesmen into organized troops with one purpose in mind: destroying the Empire.
“For even the mightiest armies cannot do battle without teaching their enemies how to resist them. The Empire is a power to be reckoned with, but their enemies grow in strength and numbers with every passing day.”
A great map unfurled before Osmark, showing him the current lay of the land. Crossed swords marked battlefields. Thick dash
ed lines stitched along territorial borders. Though much of Eldgard had fallen beneath the shadow of the Empire’s banners, the days of explosive expansion had reached their end. Now, every inch was hard fought and soaked in blood. The rebel forces rallied by the natives held the Empire in check. Neither side could risk pushing their advantage in one area, as the enemy was always poised to steal back any territory left unguarded.
“The war continues, but its fires have cooled. Cooled until one side can gain a decisive advantage. But while the Imperials and their enemies struggle for dominance, a greater evil is rising.” Without warning, the scene exploded in a shower of light, and Osmark found himself deep beneath the earth, craggy stone pressing down all around him. Burly, heavily bearded dwarfs labored in a mining tunnel. Their bodies were slick with sweat and darkened by the powdered rock they created with their hammers and pickaxes.
“In the far north, the Svartalfar ignore the strife beyond their borders. Their illustrious Merchant’s Council pushes them to ever greater feats of engineering. They delve deep into the earth, uncovering riches undreamt of by the other races.” The narrator’s tone grew solemn, and a chill cut through Osmark like a winter breeze. “But the dwarves have uncovered something dark. Something which should have remained untouched and unknown.”
A stout man with a massive potbelly lashed out with his pick, sinking it deep in black stone. Chunks of rock crumbled from around the pickaxe, and the earth groaned in protest. The gap widened, and a foul stench gushed through the cleft. The dwarf who’d breached the earthen wall collapsed, his face turning purple, his hands clawing frantically at his throat. The other dwarves backed away in horror as a guttering green light emerged from the crack, dancing in the air like a plume of smoke.
Osmark knew he was watching a scene from the past, but he couldn’t convince himself there was no cause for fear. An eye appeared, glaring at him through the gap in the stone. A venomous green iris, shot through with visceral red streaks, split in half by a vertical pupil filled with an abyssal black.
“A great darkness is coming. Serth-Rog, Daemon Prince of Morsheim, has awakened. The dwarves have breached his long-forgotten prison and woken him from an ancient slumber. The great evil cannot yet escape from the vault that holds him. But his whispers infect the minds of those who worship evil and coax them to work toward his dark ends. Soon, much too soon, he will be freed.”
A malicious grin split the face of one of the Svartalfar. She dropped her hammer and snatched the pickaxe from the hands of her fallen brother. The monstrous demon laughed, a guttural grinding sound like a rockslide, as the pickaxe took on a bloody red hue. The corrupted dwarf wheeled around and buried the pick in the head of the dwarf next to her.
The scene collapsed around Osmark as darkness consumed the dwarves—dissolving the stone around him—and left him standing in a formless void.
The narrator’s voice thundered through the black. “It is an age of heroes. It is a time of great villainy. A new battle looms on the horizon. Imperial. Rebel. Light. Dark. Living. Dead. Which side will you choose?”
The darkness erupted in a swirl of opalescent light and violent motion, wind whipping at Osmark, snatching his breath away as he tumbled and fell. Down, down, down.
FOUR:
Ambush
A gentle rocking and the creak of wood dragged Osmark from the depths of unconsciousness. He didn’t open his eyes as he came awake, instead he let his other senses feed him bits and pieces of information about his surroundings. After the emotional introduction to V.G.O. and the terrifying fall, Osmark felt as wrung out as an old dishtowel. He wasn’t ready to face the world just yet.
Maybe I should’ve made that entry a little less intense, he thought, his fingers slowly tracing over the rough burlap beneath him.
He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with clean, fresh air and his nose with the rich scents of turned earth and recently picked produce. He’d been to more than his fair share of farmers markets—Silicon Valley was bursting with snobs who swore by locally sourced produce—but he’d never smelled anything so fresh or enticing as the aromas tickling his nostrils. What is that?
Osmark reluctantly cracked open one eye. He was lying in a lurching box with low wooden walls and an arched canvas ceiling supported by curved bows. Bulging burlap sacks overflowing with ears of corn, mounds of wheat, lumpy dirt-smeared potatoes, and gleaming red apples surrounded him. Sturdy wooden crates pressed against the soles of his boots, which forced his knees to bend at an awkward angle. He must have been in the same position for too long because his back and calves ached and burned.
It took Osmark a moment to realize where he was, and then he couldn’t suppress a wide grin.
A covered wagon, he thought. Maybe all those years messing around with that ancient Oregon Trail game will pay off after all.
“Finally awake, are you?” a woman’s voice teased from across the wagon. “I was starting to think you’d sleep through the whole trip.”
Osmark opened both eyes and gave the woman a thorough once-over through a narrow gap between a rough sack overflowing with beets and another bulging with its load of apples. She was handsome, though just short of beautiful, with a strong nose, blue eyes, and the dark hair so common to Imperial citizens. Unlike Osmark, she wore clothes of finely woven linen dyed a deep red and edged in silver thread. If that wasn’t enough to mark her as a member of the Empire’s merchant class, the gold hoops dangling from her earlobes and the elaborate silver necklace coiled around her throat certainly made her wealth apparent.
The necklace shifted, and Osmark spied a splash of golden ink glowing at the hollow of the woman’s throat.
<<<>>>
Ability: Keen-Sight
A passive ability allowing the observant adventurer to notice items and clues others might not see.
Ability Type/Level: Passive / Level I
Cost: None
Effect: Chance to notice and identify hidden objects increased by 6%.
<<<>>>
He dismissed the notification with a wave of one hand and squinted, studying the mark: a tattoo of three gold coins. Interesting. That mark, he knew, identified her as one of the Empire’s favored mercantile interests. She was an important person, and a good first impression could make his life much easier going forward, at least in the short term. On the other hand, a bad first impression could cause him all sorts of problems down the road. The starting scenario was unique to each player, painstakingly crafted by the Overminds to test the person. A hyper-advanced Myers-Briggs Type Indicator used to determine what type of class and quests each player would be best suited for.
The starting scenario ramifications could be sweeping.
“I’m awake,” Osmark said. “I think.” He offered her a charming, lopsided grin.
“Then maybe it’s time to sit up. The rest of us would like a little room to stretch our legs, too.” The woman’s impish grin took the sting out of her words, but the underlying tone of command told Osmark she wasn’t making a request.
Osmark scrambled up to give the woman room. He cracked his head against one of the wagon’s wooden bows and immediately plopped back down with his legs crossed. Sparks of pain danced behind his eyes, and a thin splinter drove itself into the palm of his hand as he shifted position to try and give the merchant as much space as possible. The wood beneath his hands was rough, and Osmark felt its grain rasp across the tips of his fingers.
Once more, he was amazed at how real everything felt. He didn’t enjoy pain, of course, but the sensation was astounding. The fact that he could experience pain at all made it almost enjoyable. The algorithms had far exceeded even the lofty goals he’d set for his team. Make the game better than the real world, he’d told his developers. Make the players so happy to be there, they never want to leave.
The woman’s sharp gaze drew Osmark’s attention. He must’ve looked like a complete moron, staring off into space and rubbing his hands over the wagon’s floor.
“I was
asleep,” Osmark explained. “I mean, I was alone when I went to sleep. If I’d known…”
She sat up straighter and grinned at him over the top of a crate. “That’s better,” she said and slithered her slim legs through the gap between two burlap sacks. “I’m not usually this cranky, but my calves have been curled up under me for the past hour, and they’re killing me.”
“Where are you coming from?” Osmark asked, trying to change the topic.
She gave him another grin, glancing down and absently picking imaginary lint from her dress. “From the south,” she finally offered.
“And you’re headed to?”
Her grin widened as she glanced up. “Same as you. North.”
That was surprisingly vague and unhelpful. He took a moment to pull up his user interface, scrolling over to the in-game map, the same map he’d stared at a thousand times during the design phase. He sighed in relief. He was on the West Viridia side of the continent, trundling north, apparently headed toward the sleepy town of Tomestide. Perfect. Everything was going according to the plan Osmark had settled on before beginning his transition to V.G.O.
While most of the other players were scampering around chasing after the familiar and predictable base classes like rogue or warrior, Osmark intended to beeline for one of the most advanced classes offered to players of Viridian Gate Online. He had his sights set on the Mechanical Artificer profession, which would grant him a host of unique skills and powers. A tricky class to play: weak initially, but profoundly powerful if managed correctly due to the combinatoric marginal mechanics of the kit.
Osmark couldn’t cheat the game’s systems without endangering the whole virtual world, but with his knowledge of V.G.O.’s designs and its many secret classes and quests, he wouldn’t need to break the rules to gain a significant advantage.
And if he was near Tomestide, he was ahead of schedule. Even better. The caravan he’d been lucky enough to join would deliver him right to the doorstep of his allies and the training he needed to put his plans into motion. He closed out of the map, his smile widening.
