by John L. Monk
For the first time since walking into his office, I began to feel hopeful.
“How much?” I said.
“20 million gold.”
A helluva sum.
Tentatively I said, “Um … is it okay if I go back on my offer to pay for the boat?”
“Nope, but you can pay me later,” Parker said. “Now, about that couple. They live in a neighborhood called Sandpiper Vista…”
Chapter Fourteen
Once again, I was wearing a noob tunic, though not because I’d died.
“How much for the lot?” I said to Milton, owner of the shop I’d purchased my gear from, all of which was stacked on his wide counter for appraisal.
“Less than you bought it for,” he said, “but more than you’ll get at Crunk’s.”
“And that number is?”
“Hold on. Let me tally it up.”
Milton considered each item as if he’d never seen it before in his life, then said, “5 million, 628 thousand. But you’re a friend, so, call it 6 million, even—if you can get back that Soldier’s Bracelet.”
A horrific gouging, considering I’d paid over 11 million for the lot. Currently, I had just over 14 million left from the gems I’d sold, so I needed that bracelet. Unfortunately, I couldn’t leave town without getting hit by a whale.
“What about consignment?” I said.
Milton shook his head. “Not enough margin. But the offer’s good till whenever. You’re a valued customer. If I were you, I’d sell it myself. It’d take longer, but you’d get most of your money back.”
I shook my head. “No time.”
Milton smiled. “And time is money.”
Later that day, back at the Slaughtered Noob, I pulled aside Harriet, a 68th-level wizard who’d been running quests for me. I explained that yes, she could abscond with the item I wanted her to retrieve. If so, she’d make something like 500 thousand gold at Crunk’s, or a little more at a player-owned shop. But I also told her the XP gain for not doing so would be absolutely amazing at her level. The game would compensate her for the lost opportunity, not to mention the dangers in getting to it.
Harriet snorted. “I’ll take the XP. But I wonder… If I can get XP this way, why don’t we make a loop where you bury expensive items and have me not steal them over and over again?”
I smiled. “Good question. And the answer is: because Mythian’s not stupid. It knows I want this item desperately. If it thought my intent was to power-level you, not only would you get zero XP, but we’d both incur a hefty karma hit for the effort.”
Harriet looked at me curiously. “What’s a karma hit?”
Low-levels, it turned out, were just as clueless about the deeper mechanics of the game as they had been three hundred years ago.
Trying not to grin at the skeptical look on her face, I explained the concept to her.
“Come on, Howard,” she said. “If there was a stat like that, it’d be in our character sheet. I’m not a thief, okay? If I was, I’d play one. You don’t have to make stuff up. So how come you buried it in the first place? And how come you don’t go dig it up yourself?”
“Answer one, it’s complicated. Answer two relies on answer one. Suffice to say, I can’t leave town for a while.”
Harriet rolled her eyes, but she did agree to do it.
With little to lose except my faith in humanity, I formed a group with Harriet and shared the map location. I then dissolved the group and set up the quest in the Ambulareum.
After that, I wished her luck and said goodbye.
My small outlay of cash to the noobs was negligible compared to what I needed. And I had to admit I was enjoying it. Even Bernard was coming around, telling me he wished more players would take a hand in guiding the next generation of players.
By the time Harriet came back with the bracelet, my coin tosses were back in the teens again. Still critically low, and I struggled against a need to leave for the coast now and take my chances. No, I wouldn’t have to worry about flying whales anymore. But with such a low karma, the rarest Ward 1 monsters would find their way to me—dragons, wyverns, elemental lords, that sort of thing. At sea, storms would spring up and follow the ship, hammering it mercilessly.
I’d need another month and a half to recover sufficiently, but only if I kept running quests.
The next few weeks passed in a blur of activity. Darcy, the alchemist, sent me a note begging me to halt the flow of low-level ingredients, saying she had more than she’d need for years. To give her a break, I had my questers bring the goods directly to me. From then on, I received a steady stream of severed eye stalks, vials of blood, and other grisly things from the level-appropriate creatures in the area, all of which I stored in my bottomless bag.
In time, word spread that there was a player in the Slaughtered Noob with money doling out quests, and I received messages from moderately powerful players asking if I had anything interesting for them. Though I had no proof, I suspected the tiny karma spurts I was getting came more from the number of people helped and not how powerful they were, so I turned most of them down. The rewards they’d want for whatever I came up with would be in the tens of thousands of gold.
More weeks passed and my coin tosses finally reached the magical number twenty-five, which I’d settled on as too unlucky for a casino or a fishing trip, but unlikely to draw wandering monsters from miles in every direction … probably.
To hold me over until I got the lich spell, I purchased enough gear to afford me a modicum of survivability:
Red Shirt of the Rhino
+20 Vitality
+20 Strength
Earthen Trousers
+15 Vitality
Resistance: +15 Fire
Bracing Striders
+5 Strength
+35 Vitality
Health Ring
+20 Vitality
Health Ring
+20 Vitality
I could have gone with higher-powered gear and not broken the bank, but I didn’t need much from gear in the way of stats. Once I began vamping up, my aura would soar astronomically. I would miss my flying boots, but perma-flight gear was too pricy, and so were flying mounts. Flying carpets were nice if you had a healthy karma. In my case, I worried about freak storms blasting me out of the sky.
In the end, I joined one of the camel-drawn lucid caravans coming and going from the city. This one was headed to the desert city of Zha’daran to buy silk from the lucid traders there. From there it would go to Brighton, my ultimate destination.
Necromancers, as a rule, were almost universally hated and thus excluded from most groups. But I’d lucked into a special circumstance: Two of the nine players in the caravan were people I’d given quests to, and they vouched that I wasn’t a crazy PVPer.
Zor, a level 72 warrior in shining steel armor said, “Just don’t go killing players and you’ll be fine.” He smiled at the end to show he was kidding.
My other sponsor was his girlfriend—a priest named Sarah, level 68.
“What if he kills them with kindness?” she said.
I laughed. “What if I only wound them with kindness?”
“You know what?” Zor said. “I got grazed by kindness, once. Still carry the tiny little scar, shaped like a heart.”
So yeah, fun folks, which always made traveling easier—especially atop a wagon loaded with uncomfortable crates, pulled by foul-smelling camels.
Zor said, “Did you bind yet?”
By that he meant, had I met with the merchant and performed the quick ritual to bind my resurrection point to the caravan, just like a stone. Portable bindings like this resulted in six-minute respawns rather than the normal three.
I nodded. “Soon as I arrived.”
“I take it this isn’t your first caravan.”
“Nope, but it’s been a while.”
Sarah said, “This is our first. What with the goblin raids ruined by that freaky high-level killer.”
Sarah and Zor, I’d not
iced, often used terms like we, us, and our when answering questions, and I couldn’t help feel a little bit lonely when I talked to them.
“I’ve heard of her,” I said. “Monk named Rita. Out to save the goblins, they say. Kills anyone who lays a hand on them.” I laughed. “Now the little buggers are everywhere.”
Zor snorted. “There’s supposed to be a truce, but they don’t all stick to it. I’ve heard they eat you alive if they catch you alone. Which is why we’re safe in this caravan and not somewhere else.”
“What about the desert raiders?” I said.
Zor and Sarah shared a clueless look.
“Every caravan gets attacked by desert raiders,” I said. “You could even say the whole point of having caravans is the desert raiders. This caravan is pretty heavily staffed, so I wouldn’t worry too much… Unless we’re hit by fanatics.”
Zor muttered something under his breath.
Sarah nudged him. “We could always stay in town. Find something else.”
Of the two, Zor was the more squeamish, preferring fetch quests over kill quests, with a plan to eventually mine resources and level-up as a crafter.
“We’ll be fine,” I said. “The lucid guards are tough. You were smart to join. Fair XP. Do enough caravans and you’ll be crafting in no time.”
After binding, a quest called Across the Blazing Sands had been entered into my quest log. When we reached Zha’daran, we’d receive between 75 and 150 thousand XP, depending on how much of our cargo was left. There was a gold reward, too, but it wasn’t much. Slow, steady progression, but enjoyable. Beautiful skies, good company, and a tad bit of predictable action.
It really was the closest thing to Easy Mode in all of Mythian.
A day later, the paved road of the lush countryside turned to hard-packed gravel as we crossed into the eastern desert. We didn’t even make it to nightfall before being attacked. I found out when an arrow thwocked into the crate I was resting against.
Lucids up and down the caravan shouted, “To arms!” and, “We’re under attack!” and, “Battle stations!” Around us, the desert seemed to boil over with attackers. Desert raiders loved to hide themselves with sand-covered blankets that blended perfectly with the desolate terrain.
With no corpses to call yet, I spied a desert raider and cast Harrow, then counted off the seconds while the man ran toward me with a saber.
One … two … three … four … five … six … seven …
Unfazed, he bounded onto the wagon, eyes blazing with holy zeal. These weren’t simple desert raiders. Some of them, at least, were fanatics—far worse in that they had twice the normal 600 or so health points.
“Get off!” I shouted, kicking at him and trying not to get stabbed in the leg.
I needed at least one kill to start my Necrotic Aura.
Eight … nine … ten…
An arrow from somewhere caught me high in the leg for 120 health. The shock caused me to scream because I didn’t have a lick of pain resistance. I took a slash in the same leg for 195 from the raider below … and then the arrow in my leg disappeared. I’d been healed. Not by Sarah, but through Death Blossom. A much-needed 50 vit infusion. I now had a damaged aura with 185 health left.
Summon! Defend!
My only wraith soared at one of the archers and tore into him.
Return and wait! Harrow!
I stopped casting for three seconds, cast Harrow, stopped for three, then cast Harrow. My point was to distract him as he took aim at me and other defenders—and it was working.
Twenty seconds passed and I shouted, “Attack! Summon! Defend!”
With the archer down and one wraith on cooldown, I held back for twenty seconds so I wouldn’t have to weave Harrow in like that again. Too risky if I wanted a good aura. Just as my wraith came off cooldown, another raider appeared waving a sword around. I killed him fast. Now I had three wraiths and an aura with more than 2000 health.
With no nearby targets available, I jumped off the wagon and headed to the front of the caravan where I heard Zor yelling, or possibly screaming. I couldn’t tell which.
I found him fighting three raiders at once—a spear wielder and two with sabers. They jumped in and out, slashing or stabbing as the opportunity presented itself. Zor took two hits for every slash he gave, but his wounds were few. A second later, I knew why when he pulsed with a blue nimbus.
Crouched atop one of the nearest wagons was Zor’s other half, Sarah, the priest.
“Wraiths, get ’em!” I shouted, directing all three at Zor’s attackers. He’d whittled them down enough that my wraiths killed them all outright.
“Summon!” I shouted. “Guys, follow me!”
Not waiting, my six wraiths and I hurried down the line of wagons. Two fanatics appeared and I killed them quickly. I found two corpses, raised them, and hoped I wouldn’t need them very long. Less than a minute later, I ran into a pocket of ten fanatics, and something else—a wind elemental, and a damned big one. A greater wind elemental.
“Attack!” I shouted.
Ten wraiths zipped toward it. Eight struck for 4400, but two were zapped out of the sky by jagged bolts emanating from within the swirling entity.
The fanatics ignored the wraiths and rushed me—howling, crazed, and hungry for blood. In terms of numbers, they could cause over 2000 damage a second if they encircled me.
I turned to run and nearly collided with Zor. Of Sarah, there was no sign.
“Run!” I shouted—then demonstrated the suggestion as fast as I could.
I winced as several arrows bounced off my aura. At the juncture of two wagons, I ducked down and crossed to the other side, then circled back in the direction of the elemental. If I could kill it, that would be a big win for our side.
“Harrow!” I shouted when I saw a lone archer firing arrows at an unseen ally. With plenty of vitality to spare, I was actually happy to use the spell this time. More important to keep my wraiths off cooldown for quick, swooping attacks.
The archer stumbled in pain, struggled to get up, then began firing. He managed to plink three arrows off my aura before dying.
When I’d run far enough, I ducked under a wagon and emerged on the other side to find an amazing sight: Zor was still alive! He and two other players stood back to back, fighting for their lives amidst a pile of bodies. The elemental, I saw, was encased in a field of blue energy I knew to be a priest’s Banish spell. Priests were great at various forms of crowd control.
I followed the faint line of energy to Sarah, hunched between two crates on the nearest wagon. Her face was set in a permanent scowl. Her “conviction,” I knew, was crumbling. To maintain the spell, she’d have to feed it a steady stream of zeal.
I sicced my nine remaining wraiths on the elemental for 4950 points of damage, adding to what I’d caused before and whatever my allies had inflicted. When it didn’t die, I opened up with Harrow.
Ten seconds later, Sarah’s banish failed, and the thing broke free. It flew at me and began zapping away like a Van de Graaff generator every two seconds while I maintained Harrow. In no time at all, my 12,000 aura dropped to 8000, then 4000, then 1000, then I screamed, and then—
Chapter Fifteen
Mythian frowns on players who strategically “die,” and doesn’t reward them with XP. So I got nothing for completing the encounter or assisting with the elemental, which Zor and the others brought down after I died. I’d gotten XP for my various kills, but I was still a long way from 85.
I was tempted to bag my dead body after resurrecting, but fresh in my mind was the karma hit I’d taken in the Mirror from raising my own corpses. I wanted to fix my luck, not keep breaking it. Also, it probably made sense not to creep anyone out more than me being a necro already had.
That night, gathered with the other players around a campfire, I was subjected to a feeling so rare as to be almost unfamiliar. That feeling was one of camaraderie.
“You killed them so fast,” a druid named Elliot said. “I’m
making a necromancer, that’s all there is to it.”
“Me too,” someone else said.
Another player said it was a death sentence in the upper wards.
“And you’d be correct,” I said.
Sarah, sitting next to Zor, said, “Because they’re a PVP class, right? Why fight other players? You don’t seem like the type.”
Most lucid adversaries in Mythian—a.k.a. “monsters”—wouldn’t loot player corpses. But certain types, like desert raiders, were put here to do precisely that. Without my new companions, I’d have been killed and looted. In short, I had to be careful how much I told them about my quest to fix the game. If they thought I was crazy, they could quickly go from friendly and helpful to paranoid and dangerous.
Hoping there were no diviners here, I said, “Truth is I’m just experimenting with the class. I’m trying to see if there’s a way to play without having to PVP. Turns out there is, but it’s been difficult.”
“How so?” Elliot said.
I explained the dilemma with necros—how they had to “vamp up” while building an army, after which yes, they were powerful, but until then they were probably the most easily killed class in the game. I also explained how wraiths summoned from players were cheaper and could be kept around a long time—particularly if the necromancer kept killing, never stopping.
“There’s gotta be a way to play without murder,” Sarah said. “I’m sure you’ll find it.”
Feeling like a jerk for lying to her, I smiled weakly. “We all hate murder…”
For doing such a good job with the raiders, everyone there had a tankard of ale in their hands—courtesy of the lucid trader in charge of the caravan.
Zor raised his mug high and said, “To friendly necromancers!”
Everyone cheered and took a drink. There were more toasts after that—for Sarah’s healing, for Zor’s swordsmanship, and Elliot’s “druidery” (a term that busted everyone up with drunken laughter).
