by James Hunter
He jerked his chin at Roark. “What, are you trying to buy me now?”
“If that’s what it takes,” the Griefer said without even blinking an eye. That fake-pirate bastard could be cold as hell when he wanted to.
Scott sliced a hand through the air to slow Roark’s roll a little. “First off, I didn’t say I wasn’t gonna do it. I mean, yeah, it’s basically impossible, but if it helps me get to a point where I can spam these murder hobos and fuck up Bad_Karma, I’ll do it. Besides, I’m your vassal now, which means you depend on me to get the impossible shit done. Right?”
“Greater Vassal,” Roark corrected.
“Some might say the greatest,” Scott said, accepting the quest. “Let’s go slay a fucking dragon.”
Changing Faces
“A DRAGON?” GRIFF SAID. He blew out a long breath and nodded. “Well, Griefer, you’ve lost your mind.”
“That’s what I said,” PwnrBwner said from his spot against the wall.
“Yes, and then you accepted,” Zyra sneered at the hero.
He shrugged. “Dude’s convincing.”
Roark waited for the protests to die down, then forged ahead.
“I’m convincing because I’m right,” Roark said. “We can beat this NecroDragon Aczol. It won’t be easy, but it can be done. And I can give each of you quests along the way to circumvent the Hearthworld law against mobs gaining Experience from killing other mobs.”
“Mayhap it can be done,” Griff said, his one eye skewering Roark. “But after how many respawns? There’s a whole jungle of Nocturnuses between us and the Underworld Cairns, lad, and they ain’t exactly a friendly sort. Anyone you take with you is like as not to be killed half a dozen times before they even get to the dragon.”
“No, they’re not,” Roark said, “because we have Ick. He can guide us through Nocturnus territory and show us the best way to sneak into the Underworld Cairns without being detected.”
Everyone in Flavortown’s upper room turned to the Witchdoctor. Ick blinked several of his sapphire eyes in surprise.
“Ah, apologies for my impertinence, Dungeon Lord, but I have reservations about what you’re suggesting.” His arachnoid legs rubbed together, then quickly smoothed out his tentacled hair. “I am no longer allowed in the Jungles of Eternal Night, on pain of death. If we are found out, I will be executed, and you, as outsiders, will be fed to the children in the creche.”
Oddly enough, that seemed to brighten Zyra’s mood. She let out a musical laugh.
“Septic Brewmasters are poisonous,” she explained when she realized they were staring. “My Tainted Blood attribute currently does 6 points of gastric damage per second for 30 seconds to anyone who consumes my flesh. If those little wall-crawlers bite me, they’ll regret it.”
“They will still kill and eat you,” Ick said. “Those with the strongest Health regeneration rates will overcome the effects of your poison and absorb it into their own venom sacks.”
“At least it won’t be a pleasant experience for either of us,” she said. Her hood swiveled to face Roark. “All right, Griefer, I’ll go. I fully expect to be dead before we make it to the Underworld Cairns, but I’d like to see the effects of Tainted Blood firsthand.”
“Kaz?” Roark asked, turning to the newly minted Feral Hellstrike Knight. The Mighty Gourmet had been disturbingly quiet all throughout the discussion. Usually, he was the first to speak up in favor of Roark’s plans, almost always giving his enthusiastic support.
A memory from Five-Alarm Cave flashed through Roark’s mind. Kaz does not like this side of Roark. Guilt squirmed in Roark’s gut. Maybe Kaz wouldn’t back him this time. Maybe Kaz had lost faith in him. Or worse, seen through him to the ruthless blackhearted thing that he truly was when it came to the fight against Lowen and Marek, willing to do anything to defeat the Tyrant King, even if it meant using his friends as pawns. Roark couldn’t—wouldn’t—force his friend to join them on this quest, but he desperately wanted Kaz to be there.
Slowly, Kaz stood up.
“Kaz fears this is needlessly dangerous,” the Mighty Gourmet said. “Roark and any of Kaz’s friends who go could die horribly. Is Roark sure this is a good idea?”
Roark nodded. “It’s the only way. Aczol is the most powerful creature in Hearthworld. And more than that, he’s got an Undead Alignment, which means he is the natural enemy against the Heralds with their Divine magick. Having his Transmutation Core would give me the greatest advantage. Killing him will be hard, but according to the few heroes who’ve been in his lair, Daemonhold Deep is completely devoid of life. Nothing else is brave enough to live in Aczol’s dungeon. Once we make it past the Nocturnuses’ territory, we’ll be safe until we reach the NecroDragon.”
“There’s just the little matter of getting past Isara the Spinner,” Griff said. “She’s a right cunning one, and she’ll have protected that entire jungle against incursions by outsiders. If you walk into one of her traps, you won’t know it until you’re tangled too well to escape.”
“That’s why I’ve asked Ick to guide us,” Roark said. “He knows the territory better than anyone. He’ll be able to lead us away from Isara’s traps.”
“Apologies, Dungeon Lord,” Ick interjected, his tone growing more formal the more problems he pointed out with Roark’s plan, “but even if I am able to help you avoid every trap in my people’s home, you will be seen. There are always eyes watching in the Jungles of Eternal Night. Once outsiders have been spotted, the Overweaver will call out her greatest Conquistadors and Witchdoctors to hunt them down.”
“Actually, I’ve been working on that,” Roark said with a slick grin. He pulled a featureless mask from his inventory and held it up so they could inspect the item. It glinted silver in the light, the metal shifting ever so slightly in his hand.
╠═╦╬╧╪
Cursed Quicksilver Polymorph Mask
Durability: 106/108
Requirement:
Armor Rating: 9
Properties: Grants wearer the visage of the being who last wore Cursed Quicksilver Polymorph Mask; visage duration: 8 hours.
Properties: Because Cursed Quicksilver Polymorph Mask is smithed from Quicksilver, each instance of skin contact causes 2 points of Impulse Control Damage. Impulse Control Damage raises the risk of reckless behavior.
Note: Cursed Quicksilver Polymorph mask does not transfer Trade skills or Levels from one wearer to the next.
Note: Visages are not transferred in an infinite chain. One wearer’s visage is transferred to the next, then a new visage must be designated.
You can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose, and now you can pick whichever friend’s nose you like best!
╠═╦╬╧╪
“Where on Hearthworld did you find that?” Griff asked, a touch of suspicion warring with the amazement in his voice.
“I built it using Transmute Power and the Grapple Polymorph ability from the Transmutation Tricks Grimoire.” When Roark had finally made it to level 36 and Evolved into a Jotnar Infernali, he’d been given the option of adding two new grimoires to his repertoire. He’d chosen Skin Deep: The Art of Glamorous Makeovers to enhance his Glamour Cloak ability and Change Yourself, Change Your Friends, Change the World: Transmutation Tricks. In the short time he’d had it, Transmutation Tricks had already more than paid for itself.
“Guess you’ve been handling it a lot, then,” Griff said, eliciting a snicker from both Zyra and PwnrBwner. For his part, however, the old arena hand looked deadly serious.
“Not enough to cause the kind of damage you’re suggesting,” Roark replied. He’d done a great deal of research into the Impulse Control Reserve while he was smithing the Polymorph Mask. Two points hardly scratched the surface of what most of them in the room had at any given moment. It would take a significant amount of handling before the mask made a dent in that pool. “Check your Impulse Control stat if you don’t believe me. Mine’s well over a thousand, and Ick’s natural Nocturnus bonuses
dwarf that.”
Zyra let out a sharp laugh. “Is your Impulse Control really only a thousand?”
“Only?” Roark frowned. “It’s seventeen hundred fifty-three.”
“That explains so much,” the Reaver said, voice purring with amusement.
“What are you talking about?” Roark searched the shadowy depths of her hood. “What’s yours?”
Zyra reached up and patted his arm condescendingly. “If I wasn’t already planning to go with you, that would decide it for me. You’re going to need someone with some common sense now more than ever.”
Frustrated, Roark flipped open his grimoire to his Greater Vassal pages and found Zyra’s entry.
“Nine thousand two hundred?” Roark flinched when he realized he’d almost shouted that. He lowered his voice and looked over his other friends’ stats. Griff’s well of Impulse Control was nearly as deep as Ick’s at just over fifteen thousand, and even Kaz had more than three times Roark’s score. The real low blow came when Roark compared his stat to that of his newest Greater Vassal, PwnrBwner. “Bloody damnation.” He slammed his grimoire shut. “I barely have more Impulse Control than you?”
“Only because Hearthworld’s personality algorithms are bullshit,” PwnrBwner said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I got Impulse Control for days. The devs just weighted in-game actions wrong, so it looks like I don’t.”
“Are either of you actually surprised?” Zyra asked, gesturing from Roark to the Cleric. “You’re both hotheaded, reckless, and impossible to talk down once you’ve made up your mind. It just comes out in very different ways.”
“Hang on there, sis,” PwnrBwner said. “Me and this guy are nothing alike.”
His denial only served to make Zyra laugh harder.
Realizing how quickly this meeting was going afield, Roark sliced a hand through the air.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, falling back on his research. “At all of your ... advanced levels, you won’t notice a difference, and the effects of the mask will still be negligible compared to my total. Quicksilver’s effects are an issue mainly for mobs of the lowest levels, like newly spawned Changelings. Ick is the one I was most concerned about because he’ll have to handle it more times than any of us, but his kind are naturally resistant to Impulse Control damage.”
“Roark is right,” Kaz said, nodding his huge head. “Already he’s done so much with so very little that it makes no sense to lose faith in him now. Kaz thinks the mask is a great plan.”
“Thanks, Kaz,” Roark muttered, wishing he couldn’t hear the patronizing kindness in his friend’s voice.
Griff still didn’t look convinced. If the numbers didn’t convince the weapons trainer, action would. Roark turned to Ick.
“Would you mind helping me demonstrate?” he asked the Nocturnus.
Ick took the mask hesitantly, a shudder of disgust creeping through his chitinous back legs when he touched the slowly shifting surface. With a deep breath, the Nocturnus slipped the mask onto his face.
The quicksilver flowed and fitted itself to the contours of Ick’s mandibles, opening new holes for his many sapphire eyes and growing tentacles of silvery hair to match the Nocturnus’. It was clear that Ick was trying not to fidget, but his mandibles opened and closed anxiously, and his back legs rasped together in clear agitation.
Slowly, the silvery sheen of the mask disappeared, replaced by the color and texture of Ick’s face until the two were indistinguishable.
“All right,” Roark said. “That should be enough.”
Gratefully, Ick removed the mask and handed it back to Roark. When the quicksilver had left his humanoid hands, the Nocturnus scrubbed his palms on his robes as if to remove some invisible residue.
Roark slipped the Polymorph Mask on. Immediately, his face began to shift, cheeks and jawbones widening and splitting away from his face to create mandibles. His horns contracted, growing back into his skull, and his eyes multiplied until he could see nearly three hundred and sixty degrees. His hair thickened into rubbery tentacles that lay across his shoulders. His wings shrank and disappeared while four of his ribs pushed their way out of his back, elongating and articulating into arachnoid legs.
When everything in his body finally stopped moving and changing, Roark raised his hands, which were now the same dark chitin as Ick’s. He felt the legs sprouting from his back mimic the motion.
“I made one for each of us,” he said, voice coming out with an odd buzz. “With them, we can walk into the Jungles of Eternal Night undetected. Even if we’re seen, we won’t be marked as outsiders.”
Kaz was staring openmouthed. “It is amazing. If Kaz had not seen it happen, he would not believe this was Roark.”
“I’ll give you this, Griefer,” Griff said, “you don’t do anything by half measures. Seems fairly solid, if you can keep up with the transformations and don’t get caught in your own skin.” He angled his shoulders so he could look at Ick, one eye meeting eight. “If Ick’s on board with this excursion, I suppose I am, too.”
The Nocturnus’s back legs rasped over one another again, like a human dry washing their hands. His mandibles clicked.
“I would be remiss if I did not emphasize that I feel great misgivings about this, Dungeon Lord,” Ick said. “Though you seem to have come up with solutions to each possible catastrophe, I cannot dismiss the feeling that this will end in certain disaster. But perhaps that is only the venom of fear taking control of my heart.” With a reluctant nod, he said, “I will lead you through the Jungles of Eternal Night.”
“Excellent.” Roark returned the Polymorph Mask to his Inventory, shifting back into his winged Jotnar form. “We’ll gather whatever equipment we need, then meet behind the marketplace at the door to the mausoleum.”
As everyone dispersed, Roark stopped Zyra and pulled her aside.
“Do you think you could create some sort of resistance potion that might help us when we face Aczol? The WikiLore pages all agree that his main attack is to breathe a mixture of Magick similar to Storm of Fire and Ice.”
“I may have just the thing.” She reached into her hood and cupped her chin as she considered the request. “We’ll want the effects to stack rather than provide a timed protection.” Her hood tilted back as she looked up at him. “It may take an hour or two to brew. Don’t get reckless and leave without me.”
He scowled down at her.
“Oh, cheer up,” she said, slapping his cheek lightly. “Just because you’ve finally realized you’re bad at something is no excuse to pout. Jotnars all have low Impulse Control stats. It’s why they spend so much time scheming to control everything around them.” She spun on her heel and headed for the door. “Besides, I don’t mind spending so much time keeping you alive. It gives me something tangible to be paranoid about.”
Spy Games
RANDY SHOEMAKER STOOD on the steps of Frontflip Studios with a birthday cake in hand. Chocolate sponge with thick buttercream frosting.
“Time to be a hero,” he said, squaring his shoulders and steeling his resolve.
Boldly, he headed for the automatic doors. They whooshed aside, releasing a cool poof of artificial air, and allowed him entry into the belly of the beast.
As he took the elevator up, Randy reflected on his next steps. His original plan had been a good one—simple was good—he just needed to commit and not chicken out. The cake had run him $27.99 at the bakeshop downtown, but that would be a small price to pay for corporate espionage.
Upstairs, he dropped off the cake in the employee lounge along with a note that read in bold letters ADA LOVELACE DAY CAKE—HELP YOURSELF!
“Weird,” Tomahiro said. “I thought ALD was in October.”
“I just do what HR tells me,” Randy said, hoping the guy couldn’t hear his heart pounding at the lie. ALD was most certainly in October.
Tomahiro laughed. “Word. Gonna have a slice?”
“Later,” Randy said a little too quickly. “I, uh, just ate a Pop-Ta
rt. So, I’m full. But I’ll have some soon. Later. Sooner or later.”
“All right, but I wouldn’t count on there being any left once word gets around.”
Randy started edging toward the door. “That’s fine. I don’t need the extra sugar anyway. Uh, enjoy. Happy ALD.”
“Sure. You, too.”
From there, he crept across the hall to his office and pretended to work, doing halfhearted bits and pieces of minor projects while keeping tabs on the voices in the lounge. The whole time sweat beaded on his forehead and his stomach clenched into a tight knot as he envisioned all of the terrible things that could go wrong. Danny confronting him. Security hauling him out, hands zip-tied behind him. Helen Rose—blonde, funny, gorgeous, and laughing at him as they dragged him away. Frankly, the possibilities were legion. Randy didn’t want to envision all those grim prospects, of course, but his mind rebelled, refusing to focus and stay on task.
It wasn’t until after ten that he heard the grating tones he’d been so patiently listening for.
“Aw, hells yeah, gluten free chocolate! Throw me that spatula, Lakshya. I’mma get my cake on.”
Randy’s fingers froze on the touchpad, his shoulders going rigid. Should he do it? Was now the time? How exactly did international spies pick their moments? Maybe he should just call it all off, crack into the files from his own workstation, and accept the consequences. What was the worst they could do? Send him to jail?
Actually, that would be pretty bad. He couldn’t help anyone from jail.
The spines on his bookshelf caught his eye. Perfectly straight in a world filled with chaos and uncertainty.
Heroic, even.
He swallowed hard and nodded to himself. The cake, the planning, it had all led him to this. He pushed his chair back and stood up. No more time to waste. Every second counted.
“I need to know about the volleyball team asap, Laks-Socks,” Danny blustered on in the lounge, presumably stuffing his face with pseudo-ALD cake. “You in or out? Because I gotta get that T-shirt order in by noon.”
