by S. R. Witt
This place felt good. It felt right.
“You think it was a good idea showing those bumpkins your coin?” Horan asked, sliding up next to him. “What’s to keep them from kicking in our door tonight and taking the rest of our hard-earned loot?”
Osmark’s hand landed on the pommel of his gutting dagger. “You think the two of them pose much of a threat to us? We’re the killers of the Wolf’s Fangs. We have nothing to be afraid of. Especially not here.” He thumbed his nose conspiratorially. “Trust me on that. Let’s get some food in our bellies and get some rest before we pass out from starvation and exhaustion. Ah, here we are,” he said, nodding toward a boxy two-story building with a stone foundation, a red-tiled roof, and a host of windows bleeding warm yellow light onto the street.
[The Saddler’s Rest]
With that, Osmark threw open the inn’s polished wooden door and strode in.
Sputtering candles and flickering lanterns filled the common room with dancing light. The inn was quaint and cozy, with worn cobblestone floors, white plaster walls, and a double handful of sturdy oak tables flanked by long communal benches. A roaring fire burned happily in a stone fireplace on the right-hand wall, and a long sleek bar—well-stocked with large wooden barrels—ran along the left. There was a small wooden stage near the back, but it stood empty despite the hour. Strange.
Osmark had expected to find a pack of weary travelers huddled over warm meals, or maybe a group of local old-timers wagering on the outcome of a chess match. There were no travelers, though. No old men. No games. What he found instead was a small group of well-armed adventurers watching him with flinty eyes and grim mouths. There were three of them, obviously all together, and just as obviously hostile to strangers. They congregated around one of the rectangular pub tables, their backs to the fire, their eyes on the door as if expecting trouble.
A younger man with a swath of dark hair, bronze skin, and deep brown eyes folded his arms over his chest and said, “Well, look what the cat dragged in. A pair of wanderers up to no good.”
The woman next to him, her black hair piled high on top of her head, and her slim body sheathed in a jade-green robe, nodded and patted the man’s bare arm. “I’d say you’re right, Dorak. What do you think, Garn?”
A Risi rose from behind the table and cracked her knuckles. Unlike the chieftain Osmark had just killed, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on this warrior. She wore oiled black leather armor that strained to contain her bulging muscles, and a weapons harness adorned with so many daggers Osmark was afraid he’d cut himself just looking at her. “The inn’s closed for the night, boys,” she offered tersely, idly examining a wicked half-moon axe tucked into her belt. “The whole place is booked for a private party. So, it’s time to move it along, unless …” She let the sentence trail off.
Horan tensed next to Osmark, but the mercenary didn’t move. Neither did Robert. He’d killed the bandits because he’d had the advantage of surprise and the time to put his mind to the problem. If the adventurers decided to start a brawl, he had no illusions about his ability to win a fight. Not at this point. He was too tired to draw his dagger, much less use it. But he didn’t think it would come to that, not if these three were who he suspected.
The Risi drew a monstrous crossbow—adorned with more gears and pulleys than seemed possible—from the rack across her shoulders as she approached Robert. “So, are we gonna have a problem or did my payday just arrive?” She arched a dark eyebrow, letting the question hang heavy and threatening in the air as she cocked the crossbow with a simple twist of her wrist.
“Ms. Garn,” Osmark offered, praying he was right, “if you don’t give me that crossbow right now, you’re fired.”
After a moment’s pause, the Risi threw back her head and laughed so loud she shook the rafters. “Some things never change, Mr. Osmark. It’s damn good to see you—almost didn’t recognize you in that potato sack you’re wearing. Come have a bite with us, and we’ll brief you on everything.”
Horan caught Osmark’s arm before he could join the adventurers. “What was that all about?”
Osmark shot a wink to his NPC. “Nothing you need to worry about, Horan. These fine folks work for me—and they’re going to help make us incredibly wealthy. Just stay close and try not to get in the way, okay?” He clapped the man on the shoulder and steered him toward the table.
The pair of them took seats, and Osmark groaned with relief. It felt like it had been weeks since he’d rested, and muscles he’d never known he had ached from the day’s exertions. Every inch of his skin was caked with blood and mud, and all he really wanted was a hot bath and a soft bed, but first he needed to eat. A horse, or something larger if he could find it.
The Risi reached across the table to Horan and pumped his hand with a vigorous greeting. “Good to meet you. My name’s Garn. The witch at the end of the table is Aurion, and the twitchy little man sitting next to her is Dorak. Nice work getting the boss”—she nodded deferentially toward Osmark—“here in one piece.”
Osmark ignored her and snatched a pair of wooden plates from the center of the table. Time to eat. He passed one to Horan, dropped the other on the table in front of himself, and grabbed a roast chicken from the serving platter. With a grimace, he tore it in half with his bare hands and slapped half the chicken onto each of the plates. “Let’s eat,” he said to Horan.
Aurion rolled her eyes as the men laid into the food. “You’re late, boss. We thought something had happened.”
Osmark wiped a spot of grease from his lips with the back of his hand. “Something did happen. I took care of it.”
“Anything we should be concerned about?” Garn barked, her eyes hard, her brow creased in concern.
“I took care of it,” Osmark replied flatly. “Let’s move on. I’d like a status report on our progress so far.”
“Of course, Mr. Osmark,” Garn replied, glancing away.
Dorak cleared his throat and raised one hand, extending each of his fingers as he counted off their various accomplishments. “First, we’ve established ourselves in town, per your request, and made some solid connections with both the mayor and the inn keeper, Murly. Second, we’ve each managed to hit level ten, and we’ve each established our primary class kits: I’m a Mystic Sage, Aurion’s an Ice-Lancer, and Garn is an Inquisitor. Third, we’ve scouted the immediate area, hit the local dungeons pretty hard, and grabbed as much useful loot as we could. And lastly, we’ve been here eating and drinking on your dime, waiting for you to show up.” He grinned good-naturedly, trying to lighten the mood a bit.
Osmark said nothing until he’d finished most of his chicken. The food was plain and barely spiced, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a better meal. His stomach groaned, this time because it was filled to bursting. A notification window popped up as he savored the drink:
<<<>>>
Buffs Added
Roast Chicken: Restore 75 HP over 21 seconds
Well-Fed: Base Constitution increased by (2) points; duration, 20 minutes.
<<<>>>
He dismissed the notice and turned his attention back to the delicious food. Despite the ache in his belly, Osmark wasn’t about to leave the last of the chicken on his plate. He scooped it up with his fingers and shoveled it into his mouth before leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin. “Good,” he finally said, eyeing his three assistants, “you’ve earned your keep. Now, please show me what you have for me.”
Garn pointed at the black crossbow with one finger. “This is Heart Seeker. It’s a little fancy for me, so you can have it.”
She pushed it across the table, and Osmark scrubbed his palms against his thighs before taking it from her. His shoddy crossbow had worked fine in the field, but this was a much more powerful weapon. He could feel restrained energy thrumming beneath the black lacquered stock and the gears attached to the cross bar. “Very nice,” he said, pulling up the stats and giving them a quick peek:
<<<>>>
/> Heart Seeker
Weapon Type: Engineered; Crossbow
Class: Rare, Two-handed
Base Damage: 25
Primary Effects:
+4 Dexterity Bonus
+5% Base Ranged Weapon Damage
Intelligence Bonus = .25 x Character Level
Secondary Effects:
Increases all Engineered Level Skills by (1) while equipped
<<<>>>
“There’s more,” Garn continued, “but it’s up in the room we rented for you. Better robes than that burlap junk you’re wearing. A selection of daggers for your stabbing pleasure. Some armor and weapons for your friend.”
Osmark wanted more chicken, but he was too tired to ask for it, much less to eat it. “You’ve all done well,” he said appreciatively, “but I’m beat. Let’s get some rest and start bright and early tomorrow morning.”
He pushed back from the table and rose to his feet, tottering on exhausted legs. As weary as Osmark was, he was also excited. After all the planning, it was finally happening.
His world was waiting for him to claim it.
TWELVE:
Wind Down
Osmark staggered into his room, closed the door behind him, and fumbled the latch into place. He tried to shrug out of his robe, but it tangled around his arms before he could lift it over his head. It took him an embarrassingly long time to get free of the sodden cloth’s filthy embrace; clots of drying blood and blobs of sticky mud flaked away from the scholar’s robes as he finally wrestled the garment off. He let the robe fall on top of the mess he’d made. There’d be time to worry about it in the morning.
Or, more likely, he’d just leave a few extra coins on the nightstand for the help. Because truthfully, Robert didn’t see much spare time in his future. Thanks to the port-stone, he’d made up all of the time the bandits had cost him, but that wouldn’t make the next day any less frantic. The to-do list in his head was a mile long, and getting longer every time he thought about it. There were just so many details he needed to nail down, so many little tasks that he needed to accomplish. Always one more thing to do. One more thing to tweak. If he just had more time …
But time was the one thing he didn’t have.
His rivals were already marshaling their forces, no doubt, and every minute he wasn’t pursuing his goals, they were getting closer to achieving theirs. The thought of that clock ticking down made Osmark want to push through his exhaustion and forge on to the next phase of the plan immediately. But that would never do—the game would punish him mercilessly for trying something like that.
So instead, he begrudgingly stripped out of his britches and positioned himself in front of the room’s rickety wooden dresser. A large basin of water rested on top of the chest of drawers with a stack of clean linen towels off to the right. Wisps of steam wafted from the water’s surface, curling toward Robert like inviting fingers. Either the innkeeper had done an amazing job preparing the room just before Osmark headed upstairs for the night, or there was some magic at play, keeping the basin heated enough for a comfortable wash.
If it was the former, he’d need to tip the man well; if the latter, he had some Dev to find and thank.
Robert dredged the edge of the first towel through the water and scrubbed the coarse cloth across his face, wiping away grime, blood, and layers of old sweat. There was no point in trying to rush his plan tonight because the contact he needed to meet for his Artificer class kit quest would already be asleep—he might be an NPC, but NPCs in V.G.O. were as good as real people. The dwarf would rise early the next day to open his shop, though, and Osmark planned to be on his front step as soon as the doors opened for business. Until then, all Osmark could do was get cleaned up and catch some sleep.
He dipped the cloth back into the soothing water, then absently wiped at his chest while pulling up the interface menu. According to the experience messages he’d hidden during his combat with the bandits, he had five levels’ worth of unspent Proficiency points and Stat points to distribute. It wasn’t quite as much as he’d hoped, but he’d suffered a pretty steep penalty for using traps and fire to kill the rebels—not to mention most of them had been either drunk or wounded, which further reduced EXP.
Still, five levels for his first day’s work was beyond decent.
“Open inventory menu,” he said, and the game responded by pulling up a list of every item he currently possessed. Coins were at the top of the itemized menu, and Osmark was pleased to see he had a substantial stash. There were only three gold marks—each equivalent to around one hundred US dollars—but he had more than three hundred silver marks and almost a thousand coppers. He also had a handful of semiprecious stones and a single fine ruby. He’d have to appraise those when he had more time and energy, but he guessed they would fetch him another fifty silvers.
Next, Osmark headed over to a narrow wardrobe in the corner, eager to see what other trinkets his crew had gotten for him. He threw open the hardwood doors and immediately a wardrobe inventory screen popped up, filled with gear that was far more intriguing than a collection of coins or a fistful of baubles.
<<<>>>
Tinkerer's Jacket
Armor Type: Light, Cloth
Class: Rare
Base Defense: 5
Special: (2) hidden pockets of small capacity
Primary Effects:
+5 to Intelligence
+5 to Reputation with all Friendly Factions
<<<>>>
The sturdy jacket was embroidered down each arm with metallic threads that formed intricate designs and complicated sigils. Robert admired the flashy armor, running a thumb over the beautiful scrollwork, and made a mental note to add a bonus to whichever employee had secured it for him. Probably Aurion, who’d been a world-class professional gamer before the comet showed up and short-circuited her career.
She had a good eye, a quick mind, and even quicker reflexes. He was a bit surprised she’d ended up as a sorceress, though. She had next to no experience playing as a glass cannon, but that was why Osmark had other allies, he supposed. Dorak’s mystic class kit gave the group a significant healing boost and an upgrade in the hand-to-hand combat department, and Osmark had a sneaking suspicion Garn would be an unstoppable tank once she got rolling.
Plus, there was Horan. He was an unexpected addition to the team, but Osmark had to admit he enjoyed the man’s company. Not only was he competent, there was something surprisingly refreshing about just having a friend—as a tech billionaire, it’d been ages since he’d had a real friend. Not since his father passed away, years before.
Osmark put Horan from mind and focused on the task at hand. He’d scrubbed the filth and grime off half of his body, but he was still far from clean. He set to work on his legs while he reviewed the rest of his gear. He had a matching pair of leggings to go with the jacket, which, when compared to his old Scholar’s Robes, effectively doubled his Defense and Intelligence bonus. Serviceable, he thought as he reviewed the stats.
<<<>>>
Tinkerer's Breeches
Armor Type: Light, Cloth
Class: Rare
Base Defense: 5
Special: (2) hidden pockets of small capacity; (2) pockets of medium capacity
Primary Effects:
+5 to Intelligence
+5 to Reputation with all Friendly Factions
<<<>>>
His crew had also acquired a pair of gloves with a +2 boost to both Vitality and Constitution, a drab gray cloak with a +10% bonus to Stealth, and a Signet Ring with a +5 to Intelligence and +4 to Spirit. Overall, a pretty decent haul. Exhaustion was clawing relentlessly at him, and he could barely keep his eyes open, but there were still a few things left to be done. He pulled up his main interface, only to be flooded by a wave of new notifications:
<<<>>>
Skill: Light Armor
Though Light Armor doesn’t offer the same defensive benefits as Medium or Heavy Armor, it is far less bulky and heavy, granting the
wearer decent protection while simultaneously offering significantly increased speed, dexterity, and maneuverability. Light Armor is perfect for classes that rely on speed and distance, such as ranged warriors or spellcasters.
Skill Type/Level: Passive / Level 1
Cost: None
Effect: 7% increased base armor rating while wearing Light Armor.
<<<>>>
Skill: Bladed Weapons
Bladed weapons, such as claymores, swords, daggers, and cutlasses, can cause massive damage to foes. Bladed weapons are especially effective against animals and lightly armored opponents. This skill is always in effect and costs no Stamina to use.
Skill Type/Level: Passive / Level 1
Cost: None
Effect: Increases blade weapon damage by 5%.
<<<>>>
Skill: Engineered Weapons
Skill Type/Level: Passive/Level 2
Cost: None
Effect: Increases engineered weapon damage by 7%.
<<<>>>
Skill: Trapper
Skill Type/Level: Passive / Level 5
Cost: None
Effect: One or more of the following
25% build time reduction
15% increased damage
30% increase in area of effect
20% increase in duration
Note: Attempts to add more than one effect to a trap may increase build time, materials consumed, difficulty, or all three.
<<<>>>
Osmark quickly read each notification, before scrolling over to his “Character” screen—he had points to divvy up, after all. At level six, he had 25 Stat points to invest; he dropped 7 into Intelligence and 5 into Dexterity, but saved the remaining 13 points for later. Yes, Robert had a good idea of what his class kit would require, but he wanted to have enough wiggle room to make adjustments to his attributes on the fly. The AI constantly tinkered with class requirements, and the last thing Robert wanted was to be caught with his pants down.
