Demonborn's Fjord

by Dante Sakurai

  “This is your fault!” Liluth shouted at someone.

  Rowan tuned her out by playing a Wagner symphony in the web browser. Music of violins and cellos flowed beautifully, so relaxing. And with a breath held, he waltzed among gathered bodies, tossed them into the mass grave one at a time, fed the pit bursts of fire. Not hellfire; ash made for great fertilizer. His Frigid Fibers were going to be happy.

  These bodies were all low levels: thirteen, fifteen, thirteen, twenty-one, twelve, and so on. All fodder. Trash. Including their ruined armor and weapons—plenty of scrap for Luthias, but even it was of poor quality, normal at best. A bloody stinky waste of time this was.

  Their entire society was low quality. They were opposites to the Elves in every regard: unhygienic, primitive, savage… overpopulated. Was Rowan becoming prejudiced? Yes. But he didn’t care, for this world was made in such an unfair design. None could deny these Trolls were weak individually and relied on sheer numbers, on zerg rushes. Area of effect attacks were their natural weaknesses. Only certain types of gamers could enjoy playing as them, especially in this world of pain.

  I’m their perfect counter, Rowan thought smugly, incinerating another unrecognizable corpse.

  The lead Troll’s corpse, the one in scaled maroon leather, level thirty-four, was more or less intact save for an arrow sticking out of its eye under its coif. And another through its exposed neck above two more that had pierced into an old tare in the jacket.

  Nice shots!

  Excellent aiming from sixty yards away. Skylar deserved some upgrades.

  Like that fancy recurve bow. Rowan held it by its top limb. The gold patterning was cool to the touch. Smudges of something brown coated the leather grip and halfway down the string. He pretended it was just mud—best for his sanity.

  Enchanted Adorned Yew Recurve Bow of Agility and Sharpshooting

  Item Type: Ranged Weapon (Two Handed Bow)

  Damage: 62 base, 72 maximum (Adornment Quality: 284)

  Quality: 345 (Normal)

  +6 Agility (Enchantment Quality: 313)

  Sharpshooting: Your ranged attacks with this weapon fly 50% faster and ignore air resistance. Your combat skill cooldowns are 50% slower.

  Not bad; however, the quality ratings across the board could be better, and Rowan had long given up on ranged weaponry. He had suffered too many missed skill shots for a life time. He tossed Skylar a message.

  Rowan LeMort (To Skylar Everbright): There’s a bow for you. Come get it by the mass grave after the dedication. Wash it first.

  The reply was instant.

  Skylar Everbright: Sweet!

  Definitely not an NPC.

  A pop-up snatched Rowan’s eye as he pondered that adornment rating.

  Tip: Certain rare metals and stones may be used to adorn equipment to increase their offensive and defensive ratings. This may be done by those with the Earth Artisan advanced profession.

  Earth Artisan required proficiency in both Metalworker and Stoneworker. The crafting section on the forums was naturally packed-tight with people gunning for this particular trio. All those newbie Swordsmen needed crafting services. The price for a decent blade was bubbling upward faster than food.

  Drawing mana from the town hall’s aura, Rowan bathed three last corpses in streams of white flames. They quickly burned down to ash.

  “Lord LeMort,” Luthias said loudly from behind.

  Already back in service. Very good. Smirking, Rowan turned down the music. Liluth’s sobbing was quieter. “Nice to see you in a good state of mind. Do you still have your crippling scar? What about the infection?”

  “The wolf bite is no more, but unfortunately, the dark magic of my old wound is rooted deeper than flesh… and I must inform you my mind has suffered. I remember little of my life.”

  Not as good. A big loss. All that experience would’ve been game-changing. The violins played a sad note as Rowan felt one of his heartstring quiver. “Damn. Did we leave your head out too long?”

  “I believe my skull was cracked.”

  “Ah, that explains it. Should’ve made yourself a helmet. Why didn’t you?”

  “Wooden helmets only appear effective on parchment, and helmets cast from molten iron are brittle. The metal requires extensive manual work to be forged into something usable in battle.”

  Memories from material science classes floated to the surface. Steel and iron were more or less the same, steel having a specific carbon content. Cast iron, surprisingly, contained too much carbon and was therefore harder but brittle.

  Rowan did not bother with a science lecture. “I understand. Keep at it. What’s the current progress on them?”

  Luthias’ head tilted. “On them?”

  “Moonfyre and Joybringer.”

  He squinted. “I remember. The iron is very close to hard steel, so melting it would—”

  “I know. I’m good with metals.”

  Luthias nodded. “I have not forged without magic in many decades. I am having much difficulty, and there is not enough metal in them for bastard swords.”

  Rowan’s cheek pinched in thought. “Can you make an alloy? A mix of blacksteel and steel.”

  “I can…” Luthias glanced at the recurve bow. “Yet doing so would greatly limit their adornment options.”

  “Why?”

  “Everything in this world has either a dark, light, or neutral affinity. Most metals are either of light or neutral.” A hint of a smile upturned Luthias’ mouth. “Fusing dark and light metals, such as silver and blacksteel, can cause spontaneous explosions; however, it is rare. Don’t attempt crafting an explosive in such a manner.”

  This wasn’t a hard decision, but Rowan gave some extra consideration. “Let me think.”

  Limiting options was never a good thing; Gabrielle would agree. But as a dense pulse of dark magic washed his innards, the dedication finishing, he realized most things spawning in the area was now going to be of dark affinity anyway. There had to be a method of renewing metals…

  He took in air through the mouth, glanced at the town hall, opened the web browser. While he searched, in the background, the beam of darkness broke with a resounding crack, but the sky remained dimmer and angrier than usual.

  A answer scrolled into view: Earth Artisans can build Enchanted Mines at max level, but the runestone cost and upkeep is more than substantial. It’s advised to farm pocket world dungeons.

  Rowan decided: “They will be blades of darkness. Forge it out of an alloy when you have a Station. For now, help gather the insect corpses.”

  “Yes, Lord LeMort, and I do appreciate the revival.” He strode off with a soldier’s gait.

  It almost sounded like he didn’t appreciate it. How ungrateful.

  Done with that conversation, Rowan turned up the music and hummed to the tune. He knelt by the Troll leader’s body and undid metallic buttons on its jacket. His fingers were sticky by the third button, and when he shuffled the garment out of its arms, the scales began disintegrating into nothingness. Destruction enchantment.

  A curse growled from Rowan’s throat.

  Even in death, they were the epitome of their name: Trolls.

  Rowan kicked the body into the pit and bathed it in cleansing flames, the shit on his fingers burning away, the red scales taking longer to break down than those rubber boots. He was tempted to blast it with hellfire and be done with it. Fertilizer was valuable, he reminded himself.

  Zaine walked around the palisade’s corner. His sword was bloodied. He said something lost to the violins.

  Rowan paused the symphony. “What did you say?”

  “Can I manage the town?” he said in an eerily happy tone given his companion’s death. Maybe he wasn’t so fond of Faenin. It mattered little.

  Rowan asked carefully, “Why do you want to?”

  “One, you are an adventurer. I know you need to leave occasionally. Two, I want to manage the town.”

  “You’re a bit young.”

  In a slightly wh
ining voice, he said, “I mined most of the gold for the idol.”

  “That is true. Mmmm… Alright, you can help manage the town, but we’ll be keeping a closer watch on you.”

  That boyish face of his brightened like a dormant star. “You will not regret this decision.”

  “Why would I?” Rowan stepped over pieces of the smashed front gate.

  Zaine was practically skipping. “I am merely saying you will not.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He said after a terse pause, “May I also be the town champion?”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “Apologies, my lord.”

  A step from the town hall, Rowan loosened his body and prepared for the worst. A softer expression emerged. Sympathy came easier than usual, for Faenin had been a good Sun Elf, a good slave. A loyal mate. Rowan pushed open heavy double doors.

  The scene inside was not as expected.

  Next to two Soul Crystals on the floor stood a stunning young redhead Human girl, her posture confident and feminine. A sprinkle of pale freckles highlighted eyes greener than the surrounding forests. Ayla Wintersbane was gorgeous—physically at least—rivaling Gabrielle, who was lovingly embracing a catatonic Liluth next to Faenin’s covered body.

  Tasha was there too, sitting against the wall, showing much sympathy. She nodded at Rowan in greeting. Bags hung under her eyes. And Ayla’s eyes. Had they stayed up all night?

  In the opposite corner, a shorter Sun Elf girl, perhaps a teenager, was standing protectively in front of a young boy. That straw hat and mouth-scarf combination was… unique, but the boy was where Rowan’s attention was focused. Their eyes met, bloody crimson connecting with dull silver. Tiny pupils fearfully narrowed. Baby blue skin whitened under jet black hair.

  Rowan did not need a description pop-up to know the boy was a Lunar Elf.

  “Demon,” the girl hissed.

  So Tasha recruited them by deceptive means. This is going to be difficult. He approached with measured steps. “The name’s Rowan LeMort. What’s yours?”

  “I am Jassin Elsinaire,” the boy said.

  The girl remained silent, her arms spreading wider. Her left hand held an unimpressed staff.

  ? : Sun Elf (Level 19)

  Class: Mage

  Health: 17%

  A Mage. An injured Mage, but Rowan saw no wounds. That last name, Elsinaire, suddenly chimed. “You’re Faenin’s family?”

  Jassin meekly said, “Elsinaire is a common family name among all Elves, Lunar and Sun.” His index finger poked the girl’s side. “She is Saeya Shatumal. She has the Arctic Plague. Can you help her?”

  Gabrielle said softly, “I already told ya we dun’ have Mana Thistle.”

  Liluth sniffed. “He can only kill and destroy! He is the bringer of death!” Her head shook, tears flowing once more.

  Rowan held back from retorting, instead thinking in pure logic: that plague was not contagious by air alone, no slivers of dark magic radiated from Saeya, and her body would not disintegrate upon death. The solution pieced itself together with amazing haste. Obvious.

  First, he said to Liluth: “Don’t forget I saved your life. I can destroy, but I can also protect. I chose to protect you and your mate.” Then to the newcomers: “Saeya, I can cure you. Pledge fealty to me and you’ll be saved. Are you willing to take a slave brand one day?” He tapped his own forehead. “And by one day I mean probably soon.”

  Saeya recoiled as though struck across the cheek. “Such lies, and I would never submit to your kind.”

  Am I going to have to recite the speech every time we recruit someone? Rowan thought with disdain.

  Ayla said in a musical voice, “I don’t think you can cure her. You’re lying.”

  “I have my ways.”

  Tasha scoffed, “Are you going to kill her and revive her with a Soul Crystal?”

  Smart, but it was a simple solution. “Good guess.”

  “Real?”

  “Yes.”

  Saeya moved. Her staff slashed a wide arc. A mystical word garbled from her lips, hot magic flaring down the hall. That tiny gem spewed an torrent of yellow flames.

  Bitting back surprise, Rowan held his hand to his face and wordlessly invoked the other half of his chosen Demonic powers. The trail of runes down his arm lit up. His palm consumed the flames as though hungry, starving. Her Elven magic, painted with a floral pattern, convert into his own euphoric brand, overfilling his mana bar momentarily.

  Her staff dropped to the floor as she coughed death into her mouth scarf.

  Rowan said, “You’d make a good fighter against the Trolls. Their weakness is fire. I’d have you in my ranks just for that. So how about it? A little stab—or a cut—then we’ll bring you right back. Or we can wait till the disease claims you. Your choice. I am a fair ruler.”

  “Yup, your choice,” Gabrielle mimicked. “We’re fair rulers. I’m a smidgen fairer, though.”

  That was true. It was her idea to be extra nice.

  Zaine grumbled impatiently. “Get on with it. We need to manage the town.” A smooth motion, his sword was drawn.

  Jassins’s eyes squeezed shut. Squirming, he sank further into the corner.

  Zaine stepped forward. His one arm raised.

  “Wait!” Saeya yelped. “I will let the Plague run its course. You can do what you wish with my remains. I do no care. My life is already approaching its end.”

  “Suit yourself. You can stay in Faenin’s room in the bedroom block. Now, leave us to work.”

  “I’m hungry,” Jassin said.

  “There’s plenty of stew in the workshop. Help yourselves. You too, girls.”

  Tasha snapped, “I’m not a girl, Rowan. I’m older than you. And do you have another spare bed? I’m exhausted.” She had booked extended immersion at Synaptic HQ the other day.

  Gabrielle answered, “Yup. Take Viola’s room. Initials V E.”

  “Cool. Thanks.” She sauntered out, Ayla and the new recruits following.

  “Time for some town management,” Rowan said, rolling his neck. This was not his favorite part of the game. Nevertheless, it had to be taken care of. So why not get it over and done with? He stepped to golden skull, and touched a dent on its forehead. Dark magic welled in his index finger, slithering up his arm and into his skull. A game window expanded.

  New Settlement

  Rank: Tier 0 (Homestead)

  Alignment: Dark

  Gods: Draesear

  Faith: 0

  Leader(s): Rowan LeMort, Gabby LeMort

  Caretaker(s): none

  Portal Restriction: anyone

  Auras (1 max)

  Mana

  Buildings (8)

  Town Hall

  Bedroom Block

  Workshop

  Storeroom

  Row and Gabby’s Happy Hovel

  Crop Farm

  Watch Tower

  Palisade

  Residents (7)

  Rowan LeMort

  Gabby LeMort

  Skylar Everbright (Farmer, Forester)

  Viola Everbright (Farmer, Forester)

  Liluth Valthrya (Forester, Woodworker)

  Luthias Ilequin (Metalworker)

  Zaine Daedan (Miner, Forester)

  Visitors (4)

  Ayla Wintersbane

  Tasha NaMuso

  Saeya Shatumal

  Jassin Elsinaire

  It was nice to have everything summed up in one place. “Okay,” Rowan said, ignoring layers of chatter and sobs behind. This hall echoed too much. He cut a look to Zaine. “What needs to be done?”

  “Change the portal restriction to manual acceptance and aura to Purification.”

  Nodding, Rowan projected his intention. Letters shifted into manual acceptance, and the section for auras expanded.

  Available Auras:

  Mana

  Might

  Protection

  Purification

  He selected the last one. Mana ruffl
ed in the skull and rippled outwards. Different mana. He could not draw from it. A calming feeling seeped into his skin. “What does it do?”

  “Prevents disease, and slowly cleanses the ground of the crows’ taint. The long drops will smell less as well.”

  “Sweet.”

  “What tastes sweet?”

  “It’s an expression. Your long drops aren’t sweet.” Rowan’s laugh echoed. “What next?”

  “Check if your god can grant a miracle to restore my arm.”

  “Ah, of course.” Rowan focused on the letters for Draesear. A separate window attached to the side.

  Available Miracles:

  Rain of Fire, 500 Faith

  “Anything?” Zaine said impatiently.

  Rowan offered his best empathetic expression. “Sorry, only more fire for five hundred Faith, which we have none of. How do we worship?”

  Zaine’s shoulders slumped an inch. “Simply offer valuables to the idol.”

  “What determines value?”

  Gabrielle called from behind, “Dun’ try sacrificing any Elves.”

  Zain grunted. “Your god, Draesear, does not have a grudge against us.”

  “Got it.”

  Zaine took a deep breath. “Construct a shrine and you will have more miracles to buy. A hundred stone or wood of at least good quality for basic shrine. We should build one.”

  Rowan glanced over his shoulder, but he saw Liluth was in no mood for a project. “Maybe later—once you’ve mined enough stone. What next?”

  “Make me a caretaker so I can manage for you. I will switch the aura when needed.”

  “You’ll be able to spend Faith points?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s no way to set permissions?”

  “Nope,” Gabrielle chirped as Liluth’s sobs continued endlessly.

  So this was a ask. A seizable risk. All it would only take a moment of rebellion for everything to be set on fire. However, Zaine so far had been cooperative. This may count as his reward—and a test of loyalty. Rowan tentatively added his name to the list of caretakers. “There.”

  Zaine had the smile of a manic imp. “I always wanted my own settlement.”

  “This isn’t your settlement, remember.” Rowan impaled the boy with a stern look until that cocky smile dropped away. “Anything else? How do I choose a champion?”

  “You will need a champion’s hall,” Gabrielle answered. “And the settlement’s name to... Actually, hold it for now. I’m still brainstorming.”