While Kaz hauled trap pieces out of the cell, Roark looted the fresh corpses.
He found only a handful of junk weaponry and armor on the archer, female rog, and elf warrior—certainly nothing that outstripped his Slender Rapier or the Bow of the Fleet-Fingered Hunter. The male rog and the mage were another story altogether. Between the two of them, he salvaged 150 gold pieces, wooden O-Rigiri Greaves of Silent Fury, a pair of Hook Swords, a Book of Town Portals with nine uses remaining, another three Modest Health Potions, an assortment of odd ingredients, and best of all? One of those carved sticks he’d glimpsed the olms using for conjuration during his brief excursion through death. Very similar to the wooden practice styluses he’d used at the academy, but longer and tapered.
When Kaz returned to the cell for a second load of trap components, Roark handed over the O-Rigiri Greaves of Silent Fury to Kaz—pointing out the 6% Muffling Bonus when all heavy armor was equipped to the Thursr—along with the Hook Swords, Health Potions, and Kaz’s half of the gold. That done, Roark turned his eager focus on the odd stick. A page of the mystical grimoire opened, revealing a slowly spinning image of the smooth gray wood, which sported bird’s-eye burls swirling down its highly polished length.
╠═╦╬╧╪
Plain Maple Wand
Durability: 22/37
Level Requirement: 6
Intelligence Requirement: 19
Properties: 0.5% Increase to Infernal or Divine Magick / Character Level
Properties: +1 Level 1 Spell Slot!
Properties: +1 Level 2 Spell Slot!
“Maple is a tough, but imaginative wood, rebellious at the best of times. Only the strongest minds can exert their will over it.” – Magical Properties of the Trees of Hearthworld
╠═╦╬╧╪
Very interesting. Though Roark met the Intelligence Requirement—with more Stat points to distribute, he reminded himself—he couldn’t use the wand without leveling up one more time. Still, it would be a valuable addition when he could use it. He slipped the Maple Wand into his Inventory, grabbed up the miscellaneous pins and wires that went with the traps, and headed out of the cell to join Kaz.
The softly sticky footfalls of a Stone Salamander followed in his wake. Roark checked the floor at his feet, then the ceiling for the telltale movement of shadow. There. A shimmering distortion slithered over an exposed beam just overhead. As if the beast realized he’d been spotted, Macaroni chirped and showed himself, his strange camouflage melting away.
In a fit of inspiration, Roark delved into his Inventory for the trio of Raw Crayfish he’d taken off the rog’s body. If he and Kaz had to eat, then it stood to reason that the bloodthirsty beast did too.
“Hungry, mate?” Roark asked the Stone Salamander, brandishing the crayfish like a peace offering.
In a blink, Macaroni skittered down the wall and launched his sticky tongue at Roark’s hand. The shellfish came away with a jerk—nearly pulling Roark’s arm out of its socket in the process—then crunched messily in Macaroni’s snapping maw. Before Roark could stoop to pick up the dropped morsels, the salamander’s long tongue had snatched them up as well. Gone as quickly as they’d come.
In spite of the crude execution, the salamander’s snack brought to mind a piping hot bowl of crayfish féqret from the Sleeping Dogs Inn in Urzpeth. Tender and creamy and just short of too spicy to tolerate. A mutinous complaint came from Roark’s Changeling potbelly. Eating wouldn’t be at cross-purposes with his business once the traps were set and ready to go, it said. He set off toward the destroyed salamander nest with renewed vigor. Battle preparations first, then food.
It took less than half the time to set the traps for the second go-round as it had the first, mainly due to their experience with the mechanisms, not to mention Kaz’s formidable size and greatly increased strength. The only thing that slowed them down was a missing eyebolt, but after a few minutes’ worth of searching the stone cell and corridor for the piece, Roark found Macaroni standing next to it, wide eyes staring fixedly at the bolt, paddle tail waggling in excitement.
“If you had a nose you could point,” Roark said, clapping the creature gratefully on its fat-padded ribs. He was becoming more and more certain that the salamander could understand every word he said. “You’re downright spooky, mate.”
With the eyebolt found, rigging the former salamander nest took next to no time. They finished with more than half an hour to spare. By then it wasn’t just his stomach staging a revolt. Kaz’s belly was quite a bit louder as its protests had more room to resonate.
“Kaz, I know reading’s not your favorite,” Roark said, approaching the Thursr, “but we’ve both got a bit of studying to do. Especially if we want to eat after this round of griefing.”
Roark pulled out the Trade Skill books and passed Cooking with Gry Feliri and Basic Cartography for Mapping Your World: Here there be monsters to Kaz.
The Thursr glanced from the Cartography tome in his left hand to the Cooking tome in his right. The plumage on his antlered headdress wobbled as he shook his head.
“Kaz would do anything to learn the art of making food,” he said, each word awash in reverence. Then he sighed and slumped forward, deflated. “Even read,” he finished weakly.
Roark chuckled and found a trapless, bloodless corner of the floor to sit in, stacking his own Trade Skill books out before him.
Across the room, Kaz flipped the hacked-up desk back onto its scratched and dented legs, then slapped his books onto the tabletop with a dull thud.
“Worst for first,” the Thursr said with a shrug and tossed open the velveteen cover of Mapping Your World.
Not a bad strategy, though of the remaining three books Roark had chosen for himself, he didn’t have a worst. While many of his peers at the academy had complained about being required to learn a commoner’s tradecraft skill in addition to magick, Roark had taken to the challenge with the same single-minded determination that later distinguished him in the Resistance. After all, what was a trade other than a puzzle to be figured out and a skill to be honed? His only complaint then had been that each student was only allowed to specialize in one area of study.
He opened up The Blade Born: The Living Art of Blacksmithing by Batori Bronzo first, as smithing was the tradecraft he’d chosen at the academy. The book’s cover was made of plain but durable wood, and its pages were smudged with soot and oil as though its previous owner had spent hours reading it by the glow of a forge. The first section was a warning on the nasty results of heavy-metal vapor poisoning, what smiths had called lead lung back in Traisbin.
That certainly brought back some memories. Berthora Kaol, the rough old mage-smith he’d been apprenticed to, had spent no less than a week lecturing him on the dangers of the toxic fumes certain metals gave off. Profoundly ironic, since she succumbed to a bad case of lead lung herself four years later. Roark was just beginning the section describing hammers, tongs, swages, and punches—he’d spent his first few months of apprenticeship being mercilessly ridiculed by the brawny old hag for not being strong enough to carry most of those tools alone—when a notification appeared.
[Congratulations! You have learned the Trade Skill Blacksmithing. You only have (3) Trade Skill Slots remaining. Are you sure you would like to add Blacksmithing? Yes / No?]
Roark accepted the skill, then immediately found the enchanted tome Metallurgy as the Vennexim Do and set to reading that as well. He had no doubt that, given access to a proper forge, he could create weapons to rival the pieces the heroes had brought in so far, but gaining extra skill in the craft could only help. He’d barely read three pages on the storied history of the dark elves’ relationship with metal when another notification popped up.
[Congratulations! Your Blacksmithing has increased to Skill Level 2! You can now craft Iron weapons and Plate Armor and improve Shoddy weapons and armor to Average.]
Satisfied, Roark set the smithing books aside and turned to the Tailoring Trade Skill book, a black
-bound volume called A Whipstitch in Time. As he did, he realized Macaroni had crept into the corner behind him at some point and was now curled around his back.
Maybe being named after a pasta was more fitting for the creature than king of the wolves. While it was sleeping, anyway.
A few minutes’ intense reading produced another congratulatory note from thin air:
[Congratulations! You have learned the Trade Skill Tailoring. You only have (2) Trade Skill Slots remaining. Are you sure you would like to add Tailoring? Yes / No?]
This time when Roark confirmed the skill a strange new sensation swamped him, a feeling like the top of his skull being hinged open. He’d known almost nothing about sewing before—mainly just the basics of which end of the needle not to stick yourself with—but as he sat there, he could feel information on the craft being poured into his mind. Overlocking, patterning, leather needles, banger, frog, reinforced stitching, darting, darning, warp, weft, hang, hem, and cut—the vast amount of new knowledge went on and on.
When it finally stopped, a dull ache had taken up residence in Roark’s temples and just behind his eyes, as if he’d spent too long studying an arduous text. Though he felt certain he could stitch an adequate suit of leather armor, cobble together a pair of boots, or even make a jerkin that would fit his bird-chest and complement his threadbare loincloth, he could also feel that there was plenty remaining that he didn’t know about Tailoring. Most likely, it would take time and leveling of the skill to unlock the rest.
Lastly Roark turned his attention to Enchanting Enchantments for the Modern Enchanter. When his final Trade Skill had been learned and confirmed, the dull pain in Roark’s head had upped itself to a throbbing headache. Arcane sigils, Divine and Infernal magick sources, and the proper names of gemstones as well as their properties and compositions were rattling around inside his skull like a pair of dice. His mind felt full, almost overburdened. Perhaps the limited number of Trade Skill Slots was one of those seemingly arbitrary rules which was actually in place to protect the learner from brain damage or sheer madness.
Roark looked up. Kaz was crouched in front of him, onyx eyes wide with excitement.
“Did Roark know that salt enhances the flavors of whatever food it comes into contact with? Roark and Kaz must find all the salt! And meats. And if you cook vegetables in a pot with meats and water, then add—”
“That reminds me,” Roark cut him off, massaging his pounding temples. “Open up your Inventory.”
Though clearly puzzled, Kaz did as he was asked. Quickly skipping down to the assortment of ingredients he’d looted from the heroes, Roark handed the lot of them over to Kaz. Amongst them were Crusty Bread, Grilled Bok Choy, Bushcow Steak, and three Pinches of Salt.
Kaz clapped his hands with glee. “Now all Kaz needs is a cookfire, and he can make food!”
Kaz fell silent as the room began to tremble minutely around them. One by one, the hacked-apart Stone Salamander corpses and the puddles of gore disappeared. The desk Kaz had been reading on promptly repaired itself and regrew a stack of moldering papers and a thick layer of dust. Roark stowed the Trade Skill books, unwilling to part with parchment and words if he didn’t have to, and stood. Moving shadows around the room gave away the respawned creatures along the walls, on the ceiling, and even one clinging to the bottom of the desk. The Stone Salamander nest was back, which could only mean one thing.
“We’ll find you a fire later, mate,” Roark said, pulling free his Slender Rapier. “We need to get into position. Our heroes are respawning as we speak.”
NINETEEN:
Choices
As expected, the salamander-slaying heroes were caught completely off guard by the traps. The strangest moment of the battle came when Macaroni gave a gurgling bark that brought down several Stone Salamanders literally on the heads of the olm and the woman, stopping their shocked retreat in its tracks and allowing Roark and Kaz to finish the pair off. When Roark considered the scene later, however, it made sense. With his superior levels, Macaroni had become the leader of the little nest, and the lower salamanders did as he ordered. The bloodthirsty little monster had even leveled up during the fight; it seemed Maka-Ronin had been an appropriate name after all.
With the combination of newly learned Trade Skills, leveled-up Blacksmithing, and slain heroes, Roark leveled up once more as well. So had Kaz—this time to level five. When the Thursr saw that Roark was now a level six, his black eyes grew wide and starry.
“Evolution,” Kaz whispered in that tone of worshipful awe. “Roark can become a Reaver.”
Roark was already inspecting the Troll Evolution Tree and the prompt below it:
[You have reached Level 6! You may choose to Evolve into a Reaver!
Warning: Troll Evolution is irrevocable. Once a Primary Evolutionary Path has been selected, a Troll cannot change to another Path.
Evolve into Level 6 Reaver? Yes/No]
“Roark can, but Roark won’t,” he said matter-of-factly, selecting No.
Kaz’s eyes nearly swallowed his face. “But, but, but … Roark, to become a Thursr is a great honor few Trolls ever attain. The number of Trolls that survive long enough to evolve into Reavers ... Well, I am not so good with numbers, but it is very rare. Is Roark thinking he will become a”—Kaz’s voice dropped to a whisper—“Jotnar? This is recklessness, Roark. Pure recklessness. The number of Trolls that become Jotnar, Kaz can count them on one hand.” He held up five taloned fingers, still bloody from the most recent battle, to demonstrate the rarity. “And if you become Jotnar, you will attract the attention of Azibek the Cruel, the Dungeon Boss. You do not want to attract his attention. No, no, no.” He shook his head, ears flapping.
Roark closed his mystic grimoire and tried to think of the best way to explain this to Kaz. After the years he’d spent with the thieves and assassins in the sleazy underbelly of Traisbin—setting aside all the noble conduct and niceties that had been drilled into him as the heir apparent to the family holding in favor of stealth, trickery, and subtlety—becoming the rogue version of a Troll certainly made a lot of sense. He might even be able to unseat Ugoraz the Vile if he were a Reaver.
However.
However, Roark wasn’t in this solely to take over the first floor of the citadel. As most often was the case in despotic government, the problem with the local lackey was a reflection of the problem with the reigning monarch in miniature. Kaz had said that the Dungeon Lord was a Jotnar Exarch. No mere Reaver—not even a Champion Reaver—had a chance at unseating that tyrant.
Though reaching the initial Jotnar level without dying would clearly be difficult, the benefits couldn’t be counted. They were the most powerful, the hardest to kill, they had access to Infernal magicks Roark could barely dream of, portal spells being the least of it … and the Jotnar were the ruling class. If Roark was completely honest with himself, part of him still burned with the desire to retake the title and nobility that had been stolen from him on Bloederige Noct. To prove that the von Graf family line could rule with strength and justice.
“Obtain the summit or die on the path,” he finally said, falling back on the well-worn Korvoan aphorism. “I’ve seen too many opportunities wasted by cowards who’ve convinced themselves the safe play is the one that’ll win the war. I won’t do the same.”
“Then perhaps Roark and Kaz should migrate to a lower floor?” Kaz suggested with a lopsided shrug. “We are level five now, large enough to take up places on the second level if we choose. That is the way of the Dungeon. Higher levels mobs migrate down, lower and lower as they grow in power. Macaroni can lead the Stone Salamander nest here to more victories, then follow Roark and Kaz down when he has leveled again.”
Roark shook his head. “Can’t do it, mate. I’ve got a bit of outstanding business to take care of with the Overseer on this floor.”
Kaz closed his eyes and whimpered, raking talons down his cheeks in distress, their tips riffling through the fine layer of coarse white hair dusted acro
ss his blue leathery skin.
Roark nodded. While Kaz came to terms with what he’d said, Roark opened the mystic grimoire to his Character page.
[You have 30 undistributed Stat Points!]
With very little fiddling this time, he invested twelve points in Intelligence, eight points each in Dexterity and Constitution, and his remaining two points in Strength. The boost to his Infernal Magick came with an added Level 2 Spell Slot for his Initiate’s Spell Book, which brought him up to a grand total of four Level 1 slots and two Level 2s—Maple Wand bonuses included. With the right preparation, that should more than offset Ugoraz’s superior strength.
Looking over his Character page one final time, Roark accepted the changes, then closed his mystic grimoire. A quick check of his Initiate’s Spell Book let him know that two of his Level 1 slots were still in cooldown. Their timer would be running out within the next half hour, then he would have all six in hand for his battle with the Overseer.
While he waited, Roark turned to the fresh pair of corpses on the floor. A quick glance at Kaz—frozen but for the panicked heaving of his barrel chest—told Roark the Thursr would not be helping with this round of looting, either. Shame. But Roark would be patient. Sooner or later he would break his companion of his fright.
Just as he’d experienced with PwnrBwner_007’s original trio, the salamander-slaying heroes’ Inventories were full to bursting on this plundering. Roark postulated that a third round of griefing this same olm and human would bring little more than Experience and whatever shoddy weapons they returned with. Two rounds, then, were the optimal number of kills if one’s main objective was obtaining gold and weaponry. Interesting how a little change in priorities could shift strategy so drastically. If he hadn’t desperately needed the levels, the griefing would’ve been an inefficient waste of time after the second kill.
Interesting, but academic. He did need the levels. The gold and weaponry were just incidental benefits.
Rogue Dungeon Page 13
