Demonborn's Fjord

by Dante Sakurai

  He glanced downward with his eyeballs. Three thin rectangles sat at the bottom of his vision: rising red health at the left, green stamina at the middle, and grayish-blue mana at the right. Mana was locked. Game guides on the website had stated a magic tutor or class tome could unlock that. Hopefully there was one in this jail. Hopefully.

  “Yeah same,” he exhaled. “So what do you think we should do? My cell’s empty.”

  “Mine too, and didn’t ya have an all-knowing plan, dark lord Row?”

  “Come on. Be serious.”

  “I am serious. Super serial.”

  “Good. Did you remember to turn on video recording?”

  “Yuppers. And Live streaming is apparently disabled.”

  “Why?”

  “Something about not wanting to overload the servers.”

  Fair enough. Millions around the world were logging in with portable headsets.

  She said, “So what do we do?”

  Rowan inhaled a breath through his mouth, careful to avoid the pungent stench. “Want to logout? We should get a hold of Tom. We can reroll to our spare character slots.” This was all Tom’s doing. Gabrielle was in pain right now because of him.

  “Maybe. It’s all his fault. What a little liar for a community manager! I want a refu—”

  A different voice cut in from the right, “Adventurers.” A man’s voice, low and gruff. An old man. “I didn’t hear them drag you in. You’re adventurers, sent by the gods, aren’t you? Aren’t You?! Answer me! Answer me!”

  “Whoah there, relax,” Rowan said. “Yeah, we’re adventurers, just entered the world. At your service, but I don’t see a quest marker above your head.”

  “A… quest marker? On my head?”

  “It’s a joke. Don’t worry.”

  “So funny, Row.” Gabrielle’s tongue clicked. “So what do ya want, old man?”

  “My prayers have been answered. Thank Sangia.” The old man took another raspy breath, sniffing. “They took my son. He’s in this jail block, I know it. I feel it. I sense his magic close, strong as ever, but fading. Please, help me, I beg. Please.”

  “Who are they?” Rowan asked.

  “Orcs. Scarskin clan. You can sniff their stench from a league away.”

  Ah, that explains the smell. “You’re here alone?”

  “They ambushed my squad of fifteen. I and three others survived.”

  Gabrielle asked, “Where are the three?”

  The old man paused for a husky breath. “I don’t know. I passed out while they carried us.”

  “Awww… I hope they’re not dead. And where are we? In Orc-land?”

  “Aye, on the outskirts of Gorzun, south of the Great Northern Planes.”

  It was nice of him to be descriptive. He seemed to know at least something about adventurers, but… “We don’t have a map of this world,” Rowan said, “or know much about it. You’ll have to keep that in mind and be extra descriptive for us if needed.”

  His throat cleared. “Apologies. If you must know, the great planes are—”

  Rowan rapped his knuckles against the bars. “That’s not important right now. Your son is. Can you get us out of here?”

  “You… you are not prepared?”

  Gabrielle quipped, “Nope. Hehehe.”

  “We’re level ones without any equipment or powers,” Rowan said in a light tone. “By the way, what’s your name? I’m Rowan. She’s Gabrielle, my wife.” Don’t try anything with her.

  Something thumped to the floor in the old man’s cell. His body. He said something in a half-wheeze half-whisper. Were those sobs?

  “Ugh.” Rowan grabbed the rusty bars and rattled them as hard as possible. “Hey! Get it together! What’s your name?!”

  More sobs came from his cell.

  “What! Is! Your! Name?!”

  “Does it start with A?” Gabrielle added. “What about B?”

  No answer.

  Rowan sighed and sat down on the rough stone bed, the edge digging into his thighs through his torn linen garb. His chains clinked as he put his feet up. “Take your time, asshole! We’re not going anywhere.”

  Above the health bar, a transparent box appeared along with a sentence in cursive cyan text at the bottom gold border. The box vibrated and beeped once.

  Gabby LeMort (To Rowan LeMort): Wanna tell him about our Demonborn fate?

  He typed out a reply quite easily with his mind alone. The game interpreted his thoughts without error.

  Rowan LeMort: Maybe, maybe not. He seems like a typical good guy. Demonborn sounds like something the Orcs might like.

  Gabby LeMort: Then what do we do? I think I can start sawing with these chains. They’ve got sharp spikes on em.

  Rowan LeMort: Good idea. Let’s start doing that. The guards might like not it, but we can make weapons out of the bars. If nothing else works, we can always ask for help on the forums.

  Gabby LeMort: Hmmm… kay!

  While they were busy with the engaging gameplay, careful to not scrape the skin on their hands, Rowan checked his character sheet via the silhouette icon at the bottom of his view. A larger, less-transparent box expanded in front of his eyes detailing his stats, equipment, and other relevant information. The inventory and guild systems were locked, and he was apparently a member of faction Serenity Alliance. Definitely good guys.

  Is it even possible to play as anything other than Human?

  It didn’t really matter, Rowan decided. What did, however, were his stats and how they functioned.

  Rowan LeMort

  Level: 1 (EXP: 0/10,000)

  Class: None

  Fate: Demonborn

  Constitution: 5 (Durability against physical damage and reduced starvation rate)

  Agility: 5 (Strength, speed, and stamina reserves)

  Mysticism: 5 (Potency of your magic)

  Flow: 5 (Health, stamina, and mana regeneration)

  Resistance: 0 (Durability against magical damage)

  Luck: 0 (Magic is often unpredictable, consider allocating points in Luck to better your odds)

  Skills

  None

  Crafting Recipes

  None

  - - - - - - -

  Tip: Many damage sources are both magical and physical, such fire from a dragon’s maw.

  Tip: You receive 3 stat points per level-up where level 60 is the maximum. Each point makes your character 5% better than a statless Human, additively. A statless Human can be considered equal to one on Earth.

  Tip: There are seven base classes. Visit Sortis Online’s official website to find out more. Focus here to open the in-game web browser.

  Tip: Your Fate may augment your class, skills, and stats, resulting in unique synergies.

  The system was quite simple; six stats only. Rowan had played online games with over a dozen stat types before, over-complicating everything—not fun experiences. Those games hadn’t lasted long.

  Synaptic Entertainment, however, worked by an easy to learn but hard to master design philosophy, which Rowan highly agreed with for multiple reasons. He didn’t like to scroll through pages upon pages of spreadsheet calculations, especially in a game like this. Neither did Gabrielle; she wasn’t a math wiz. She was in it more for the adventure and social fun. Her sister, Tasha, was due to log in from home any minute.

  For his class, he had long decided to play a tank-DPS hybrid variant of Swordsman while Gabrielle would be his support and healer as Priest—the perfect duo archetype. But how her class would gel with the Demonborn Fate wasn’t apparent, the combination not much sense lore-wise. Rowan had enough faith in the AI controller to not fuss over it.

  The chatbox beeped.

  Gabby LeMort: You’ve check out your stats and stuff, right?

  Rowan LeMort: Yeah, ofc. I’m not some newbie.

  Gabby LeMort: Hehehe, just checking!

  His eyes nearly rolled. His hands kept heaving back and forth against the first bar. Harsh sound effects squeaked in the tight space, but he
was able to endure by gritting his teeth. The sharp spike gradually ate into the hollow bar, a tenth of the way through already. This was exactly like laboring in the real world, except he could discernibly feel his flesh tire at a slightly slower rate, twenty-five percent slower. His muscles weren’t cramping as much from crouching, and his feet weren’t hurting from the uneven, prickly stone floor digging into his soles and toes. Despite this amazing start, he was undeniably enjoying the experience… for now.

  Rowan LeMort: So what are you doing to pass the time?

  Gabby LeMort: Huh? Me? I’m browsing the forums and stuff. Checkin’ up on how others are doing.

  Rowan LeMort: Anything interesting?

  He was either too lazy or uninterested to check for himself—likely the latter.

  Gabby LeMort: Someone got Dragonrider. I wanted that one… I’m so jealous!

  Why hadn’t she said anything? Besides, that was undeniably the most popular—and rare—legendary fate of which Synaptic had unveiled in advance.

  Rowan LeMort: I doubt it’s as good as it sounds. It’d be super OP otherwise.

  Gabby LeMort: Yup, but people are still offering ridiculous amounts for it.

  Rowan LeMort: How much?

  Gabby LeMort: current bid is at 2390c

  At least a few weeks of apartment rent money. Not bad. Some would say Rowan should have sold his Demonborn Fate all together, but he and she were in it for the long haul. They’d already invested over a thousand credits for this extended-immersion stay—more or less all-in on the game now. They needed to make a splash in the pro-gaming scene, and they needed to do it quickly. Perhaps he should have made a dramatic scene back in the lobby.

  The stress was already taking a toll, a weight on the back of his neck.

  On the bright side, the Orc stench was now faded, his nose finally adjusted. He kept on sawing. Calluses were developing on his hands.

  Rowan LeMort: Do you think we should’ve revealed our Fate back there?

  Gabby LeMort: No, the net is getting flooded with people who got legends. 1 in 5000 is still a lot, remember. We’ll get more attention if we do something spectacular.

  If they do something spectacular—a big gamble.

  Rowan LeMort: Alright, sounds good!

  Gabby LeMort: Ya worry too much! ^_^

  True, but he couldn’t help it. He massaged his arms, then kept on sawing, ignoring the old man’s now strange whispers. The old coot was reciting incoherent, mystic-sounding rhymes that made Rowan’s skin itch uncomfortably. He banged against the bars when the chanting grew louder. “Hey, keep it down! We’re working.”

  The whispers stopped, and Gabrielle said, “I’m not hearing anything.”

  “He stopped. You’re further away.”

  “Hehe. Lucky me.”

  “Yeah, lucky you. Lucky us.”

  * * *

  After a last shove, twist, and pull, the iron bar dislodged with a high-pitched groan loud enough to wake a man, but still no Orcs emerged from the oily darkness. Still no polite introduction came from the old man, who was now silent.

  A silent asshole who begged his god for an intervention then snubbed the help he’d been sent. Simply ungrateful. Part of Rowan wished to off him and get on with escaping, but adventuring was adventuring. You’d never know if someone was hiding valuable.

  Rowan expelled as much air from his lungs as possible, held in his gut, and squeezed into the gap sideways. He swore he heard a rib crack, but his health bar kept rising steadily past the ninety percent mark. His internal injuries were nearly healed. But healed this quickly?

  Well, Sortis Online was a game first and foremost.

  As he stepped through, the oily textures evaporated. He now saw unhindered. His eye sight was noticeably sharper. 20/20.

  No, better than 20/20. Under moonlight falling through a square window, he saw cracks on the stone floor in full detail without having to crouch. He saw tiny lumps and strands of dust tumbling in eddies of air in front of Gabrielle’s beautiful, concentrating face. Her iron bar was nearly cut.

  And most of all, he saw a man inside the neighboring cell, curled in a loose fetal position. The man was younger than Rowan had assumed, but he was lanky—very lanky, struck with malnutrition and likely close to his deathbed.

  Rowan whistled a low note. “Wakey wakey. It’s time for a chat, Mister…” Rowan eyed him straight-on, squinting, and mentally commanded for a details to appear as per beginner guides had instructed. A small box expanded above the man’s head.

  ? : Human (level 8)

  Health: 100%

  Too helpful. And only level 8? Not fit at all to lead a party. He must’ve come out of desperation for his son and led his kin to foolish deaths. How sad.

  Rowan cleared his throat dramatically. “Mister Question Mark. A name fit for a noble, if I may say. Now, tell me right now why we should rescue your son. Where is he?” There were five cells in this jail. Three were now empty.

  Mister Question Mark did not respond, though he was awake judging from his fingers moving now and then.

  Behind Rowan, Gabrielle’s sawing concluded with a similar high-pitched groan. “Weeeee done. That was fun. Oh, I can see again. Ooooo, that’s a pretty moon. Two moons!”

  Cheerful as ever. Rowan couldn’t help but smile. “Careful,” he said, “there’s a sleeping Orc right outside.” A desaturated greenish-brown chest was slowly rising and falling in the doorway.

  She spun around. “Hmmm, that’s strange. I thought Orcs had more muscles.”

  “I guess it depends on the Orc, similar with Humans.” Rowan shrugged. “Alright, Mister Question Mark. You have ten seconds to speak before we get going. Ten.”

  “Nine,” Gabrielle chirped.

  “Eight.” Rowan.

  “Seven.” Gabrielle.

  “Six.”

  Mister Question Mark whined so, so pitifully. He wiped his eyes. Silvery-gray eyes. “My name is Zachery Benson, resident of Verdell Hall. My son, Janus, was taken during a raid by one of their Witch Doctors two weeks ago.”

  “How old is little Janus?” Gabrielle asked.

  “Nine years.”

  “Two weeks ago?” Rowan blurted. “You absolutely sure he’s still alive? And why would they take him?”

  Zachery looked away. “For food.”

  It took a second for that to make sense. “The Orcs eat Humans.”

  Zachery nodded. “Over the decades their numbers multiplied more than they could sustain, and their supplies dwindled, and they… developed a taste for our flesh… and blood. Especially that of our young.”

  “Eeeeewwwwww.” Gabrielle made a gagging noise.

  Rowan’s nose was wrinkled uncomfortably. The line between good and evil was clearly drawn in this game. Orcs—bad. Humans—good. A bit tripe but fun enough. “Alright, which direction is your son in?”

  Zachery’s eyes flickered away for a split second. “I sense his magic in the opposite jail block.” He pointed through the window, his finger a tad shaky.

  Wires sparked in Rowan’s head. “How are you able to sense his magic? You’re only level eight. Not much better than us. Detection Wards are mid-level skills.” The game guides had outlined a short list of invaluable survival skills that all classes were able to learn.

  “I— I have a special skill. It’s called Soul Sense.” Zachery visibly swallowed.

  “Why are you lying?”

  “I’m not lying!”

  “Can you sense our magic?” Gabrielle asked.

  “Yes.” Zackery’s eyes closed. “You two…” He gasped. “You two both have great potential deep within!”

  “Oh, wowzers. Ya can really tell we both have Dragonbound Fates?”

  Zackery blinked. “Yes, yes. I can feel it. The dragonic power is overwhelming. The heat of ten suns brims through your eyes, Gabrielle. It is reminiscent of Aideon Windstrider himself. I once met him at the capital.”

  And that was enough for Rowan. “Piss off. How stupid do you think we ar
e? Cut yourself out, lazy ass,” he growled and turned on his heel. Only a Human could be so full of it. “Let’s go before they catch us.” Rowan stepped over the Orc guard’s arm with utmost care onto dry dirt ground. Yellow weeds lined the building’s edge.

  “Liar liar, linen pants on fire,” Gabrielle sang and followed.

  “Wait,” Zachery called. “Please, help! Please, I need to find my son! He’s all I have!”

  “He’s probably Orc poop by now,” Rowan said over his shoulder, and the sleeping Orc stirred but didn’t wake. Thank the gods it was a heavy sleeper. Maybe they were all like that.

  “Wait…”

  Rowan kept on walking with Gabrielle in tow down the alley, bars of rusty iron held in their grasps ready to strike. Though they had never trained in martial arts, a hardy surprise whack to the noggin or a stab to a vital region would always work, and the Orcs looked to be just uglier, green-skinned humans with heavy jaws and oversized bottom incisors as in many other high-fantasy settings. Their architecture didn’t say much either, unimpressive. Muddy bricks. Typical.

  This place didn’t appear to be a prison complex or a slave labor camp—not enough guards and far too many windows without bars. An immense building (maybe in the shape of a pentagon) towered two to three stories over the occasional oblong, all tucked behind an outer high-wall reinforced with manned towers spaced fifty meters apart. Rowan made sure to keep out of the moonlight, hugging the wall. The occasional hole or gap revealed arid steppes as far as Rowan’s eyes could see into the night—the Great Northern Plains. Torchlight flickered orange hues from within every other tower. This was a scout outpost or barracks.

  The chatbox shook.

  Gabby LeMort: Why do you think he lied?

  Rowan LeMort: Who knows. Maybe an early onset of dementia. Or maybe he’s pathological.

  Gabby LeMort: I think he was looking for something.

  Rowan LeMort: What? In this desert?

  Gabby LeMort: No, like the Orcs have something he wants, and he wanted strong adventurers to fight em for him.

  Rowan LeMort: Maybe the Orcs found something buried here.

  Gabby LeMort: Duh. Big things are always buried in deserts in games.

  True that.

  They passed an open door, Rowan peering inside hoping for some weapons and armor. Unfortunately, only crates, barrels, and baskets of vegetables sat stacked along with a cloth-wrapped bundle hanging from a rusty ceiling hook. His pulse thudded in his chest before he realized it was more than likely a human corpse judging by its shape and size. Zachery hadn’t lied about that part!