“We can only do our best, child. No sense considering the battle lost until it’s well and truly over. I’ve seen what you can do, starborn. And I have more faith in that than I ever did in the Rimeshore forces.”
Devon patted the medicine woman’s hand, Hezbek’s arthritic knuckles large knobs under her palm. “Thank you, Hezbek. It means a lot.”
The woman huffed as if to deflect the gratitude. “I only speak what’s honest. You should know that by now.”
“I suppose I should,” Devon said. “Speaking of the final relic, do you know anything about the Stone Forest?”
Hezbek shook her head. “Never heard of it. Doesn’t sound particularly pleasant though.”
“No. It doesn’t, does it? Anyway, I suppose I ought to get over to the new workshop and congratulate Prester before the dwarves pour too much ale down his throat.”
Hezbek laughed. “Be wary of that yourself. I wouldn’t trust those runty folk.”
Chapter Twelve
WHAT THE HELL was Emerson going to do now? After acting like he’d never met Devon before, how was he supposed to backpedal and admit his identity? It would make him look like even more of a fool than he had when he’d been so startled by her “stealth training.”
“Idiot,” he muttered to himself as he trudged into town. He had balanced a stack of beetle carapaces in his arms and was carrying his sword by pinning the hilt between his upper arm and rib cage. Even so, it was still going to take a ton of trips to get all his loot dragged in to sell. Of course, he had noticed some of the villagers walking around with sacks and backpacks. He could buy one, but it seemed kind of gross to stick a bunch of gore-covered stuff in a bag. Unless maybe there was a trick for cleaning goo off of monster body parts like Devon had shown him to get the mess off his face.
Christ. What a fool he must have appeared, running around covered in bug guts. Well, okay, maybe the blood had made him look kind of tough, but he really didn’t think Devon went for that kind of thing. Or at least, he hoped it wasn’t her primary condition in her who-to-date algorithm. Because if that were the case, he certainly wasn’t going to be the top choice. Not as a level-one dude dressed in a flimsy shirt and pants. Sure, maybe if he’d been able to stride in as Valious the Brave, all decked out in gleaming armor with harrowing war stories…yeah, that would have ticked the “tough” box. But not this.
Anyway, none of that mattered if he didn’t figure out how to fix his idiot mistake of pretending not to know her.
He turned toward the forge where he’d found Dorden earlier, figuring that if the dwarf didn’t want to take the beetle shells off his hands, maybe he would point him in the right direction. As he stepped around a building that smelled like it might be the settlement’s kitchen, he heard a cheer go up from deeper into the town. Getting onto his tiptoes, he caught the scent of woodsmoke, then looked up and spied a gray column rising into the afternoon sky. It looked big enough to have been produced by a bonfire.
Was it…could it be that the villagers were celebrating the substantial dent he’d made in their vermin infestation? Emerson paused for a few seconds, trying to keep a smile from spreading across his face. He had heard that Veia altered the world based on players’ actions, a major difference from so many MMO games where quests were completed over and over by player after player, even when that made no sense. And there had been a pretty cool party after Devon returned from the underworld, proof that the citizens of Stonehaven reacted to world events in a sensible manner.
But still. As impressive as his efforts in the field had been—above average, surely—if the town threw parties for even a fraction of player quest completions, they’d never be sober. And slaying a few dozen rodents and snakes was nothing like facing off with an evil demonic god. So yeah, he probably wasn’t being honored.
With a sigh, he kept trudging for the forge.
Unfortunately, when he arrived at the stocky stone building, the furnace was merely smoldering, and no one was inside. Emerson sighed and adjusted the stack of carapaces. His arms were getting tired from holding them so stiffly, but if he relaxed the angle of his elbows, the pile would topple.
He searched the nearby cobblestone paths for someone who might be able to direct him to another crafter. An armorsmith maybe? Or was that the job of Dorden’s female colleague who usually worked in the forge with him, the one with biceps as big as Emerson’s thighs? What about a leather…leather sewer? Maybe the beetle shells would be useful for reinforcement for something like that.
As he walked to the next intersection of paths, searching for someone to help, he wished he’d spent a little more time learning his way around Stonehaven last time. He honestly had no idea where to start looking for a vendor, and at the moment, there was no one wandering around. Which probably meant they were hanging out at the party. Somewhat reluctantly—mostly, he didn’t want to cross paths with Devon until he figured out what to do—he turned for what he assumed was the bonfire.
Chapter Thirteen
WHILE MAKING HER way to the celebration for the Tailoring Workshop, Devon pulled out her new dagger, Night’s Fang, and rotated it in her grip. Looking at it edge on, she shook her head in amazement. The ivory had been honed to the sharpness of the best steel blades, a seemingly impossible feat. But the evidence in front of her face said otherwise. She’d meant to ask Hezbek if she knew anything about the blade’s mysterious origins, but the potions and the talk of the medicine woman’s past had distracted her.
She tucked the dagger back into her bag. Next time she saw the woman, she’d be sure to ask.
Before lighting the bonfire, the dwarves had at least shown the presence of mind to clear away the grass in a wide circle around the site of the blaze. Now, three tables had been set up in the cleared area, each supporting a keg of the dwarven ale. Steering a wide course around the kegs—Devon did not want to wake up tomorrow and hear about all the farm animal imitations she’d done in front of the townsfolk—she headed through the celebration to the far side where the newly constructed building stood with the door thrown open and Prester beaming just inside.
Devon grinned when she stepped under the lintel and clapped him on the shoulder. The interior of the workshop was bright, the windows placed so that plenty of natural light entered the room. Workbenches lined the walls, complete with racks for thread and shelves for fabric. Stands stood ready for the wooden forms Emmaree had recently ordered from the town’s woodcarver, solid pieces of pine shaped like human torsos in various sizes that would allow the tailors to check the fit and hang of clothing long before trial fittings on the human customers. At the far side of the workshop floor, another door stood open, revealing the storage room where bolts of cloth would await the tailors’ shears. The building smelled of fresh-cut wood planks and hard work. She nodded in appreciation.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Prester.”
The carpenter touched his brow. “Pleased to hear that, Mayor. Emmaree has been by already, and she claims she’ll be up the whole night trying out the new benches and racks. Said the tailors might actually catch up with the requested repairs and new orders by week’s end.”
“Then maybe I won’t feel so bad putting in a request for something of my own.”
Prester raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Thinking of having some finery made? Something for entertaining important emissaries, perhaps?”
Devon suppressed a laugh. Oh, man. Of course, if and when she managed to restore Ishildar she probably would have to figure out how to interact with representatives from other cities. Maybe from other kingdoms, even. But she hoped she wouldn’t be expected to put on feasts and wear ridiculous dresses. That would really suck.
“I was just thinking that I’m part sorceress, so maybe I should consider some alternate gear sets. I dunno, at least a robe I could change into if it seemed like the best choice for a situation.”
The man sucked his teeth. “Well, can’t say I know a lot about that.”
She smiled. “No, and I’m glad. Stonehaven can’t afford to lose your carpentry expertise, so don’t get any ideas about adventuring.” She elbowed him gently.
Prester looked at her, aghast. “No offense, Your Gloriousness. But I am certain anyone who wishes to engage in such pursuits is one breath shy of insane.”
She laughed. “You may be right. Anyway, I shouldn’t keep you from the party.”
“To be honest,” he said with a shrug, “I’m just waiting until they’re drunk enough that I can sneak away without anyone noticing.”
“Oh?”
He gave a sort of half-smile. “Truth is, I’d like to get back to work. We’ve got cabins to build, shops to upgrade.”
“A University to build…”
The man straightened, eyes widening. “You mean it? Tier 4?”
Devon nodded. “I think some of the other carpenters and apprentices can handle the housing and kitchen, don’t you?”
Seeming to vibrate with excitement, Prester gave her an awkward little salute and ducked out the door. Watching him go, she smiled as she pulled up the settlement interface and checked the progress toward Township.
- Advanced NPC: 11/25
- Buildings (Tier 2): 10/27
- Buildings (Tier 3): 5/15
- Buildings (Tier 4): 0/2
- Population: 485/500
Size: Hamlet
Tier 1 Buildings - Unlimited:
Housing (single occupancy): 35
Housing (double occupancy): 65
Housing (family): 29
Shops (basic): 35
Shops (upgraded): 22
Tier 2 Buildings - 10/27
1 x Medicine Woman’s Cabin (upgraded)
1 x Crafting Workshop
1 x Basic Forge
1 x Kitchen
4 x Barracks
2 x Warehouse
1 x Kitchen (in progress)
1 x Smokehouse (in progress)
2 x Warehouse (in progress)
Tier 3 Buildings - 6/15
1 x Shrine to Veia
1 x Chicken Coop
1 x Inner Keep
1 x Leatherworking Shop
1 x Woodworking Shop
1 x Tailoring Workshop
Tier 4 Buildings - 0/2
1 x University (in progress)
Overall, the town had a nice balance of construction. Sure, a University was a little impractical considering she could only build two tier 4 buildings, but it would totally be worth it. Being mayor had to have some perks, right?
***
Around half an hour later, Devon edged away from the gathering. In that time, she’d managed to dodge at least half a dozen attempts by the dwarves to pour ale down her throat, a feat that, in her opinion, should have granted a dodge skill up. Veia, however, didn’t seem to comprehend the difficulty of the evasions. And, not only had she remained sober, but she’d also tracked down Stonehaven’s wheelwright and talked to her about creating some special wheels for Tamara’s bike. According to the woman, one of the players had recently come in with ironwood for trade, and the substance would be perfect for the rims. It was lighter than iron, could be soaked in a particular mix of water and lime to render the material flexible enough for molding into a circular shape, and once cured, the resulting circles would have more give to them than iron or steel would. As for the spokes, the woman proposed straight blades of hardwood, claiming that the forge wouldn’t produce anything precise enough, and that metal rods would be brittle and heavy besides.
Given the deluge of information and expertise—Devon knew nothing about wheels—she was inclined just to let the woman do her thing. If Tamara had additional ideas for upgrades, she could work directly with the village crafters once she logged in.
As for the bike frame, Devon had talked to the village woodworker about piecing something together from more of the ironwood. From what she remembered during her ill-fated attempts at riding with Tamara, the woman’s favorite bike had been a futuristic machine with all sorts of shocks and suspension. Tamara had been particularly happy with a seat that changed height based on the angle of climb or descent. Obviously, being stuck in a preindustrial society, Devon wasn’t going to be able to get something that fancy produced. Tamara would be psyched regardless.
Her chores accomplished, Devon wanted to get back to her Christmas self-improvement quest, so she ducked her head and shoved her hands into her pockets as she casually strolled away from the fire.
“Incoming.”
The word was so quiet, a whisper at the very edge of her hearing, that Devon thought it must have been her imagination. But she turned to glance over her shoulder anyway, a habit ingrained by years of group combat where the word served as a warning that mobs were about to attack the group.
Greel was standing behind her.
“Uh, hi?” she said.
The man pressed his lips together and brandished a sheet of paper, flapping it in front of her face. “Your draft charter. Far below what I would consider the minimum standard for the establishment of law and order in a functioning settlement, I might add.”
She sucked the inside of her lip between her teeth and bit it to keep from laughing. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the paper. She removed her backpack and tucked it inside.
The lawyer’s upper lip twitched. Devon couldn’t tell whether it was disgust over her Sparklebomb Backpack or her decision to read the paper later. Probably both. Balling his fists, the man spoke, “If you wish to have the paperwork filed in any reasonable amount of time, I require feedback within twenty-four hours. You’ll find the deadline for objections is incorporated into the structure of the document, allowing me the capability to proceed with filing services if you have not lodged your complaints.”
She blinked. “Objections? So this is a negotiation now?”
He scoffed. “It’s standard procedure to impose timelines upon the creation of founding documents lest a settlement be allowed to drift into uncontrolled chaos.”
Devon sighed. “Well, either way, I’ll read your notes and get you feedback before I log out today.”
“Notes?” he said, looking horrifically offended. “That is the draft of a legal charter, confined to the protocols laid out by the Pazil judges, yet squeezed, vicelike, into the space provided by a single, legal-sized sheet of parchment. Frankly, it’s a task that only the most accomplished of lawyers could even comprehend, much less accomplish.”
She patted him on the shoulder, prompting a strangled sound that reminded her of a drowning cat. “Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “I will review your draft with the greatest haste and present any questions or comments by sundown.”
The man brightened, raising an eyebrow. “Presented in written form? Because that would be the most appropriate.”
“If I can dig up the supplies, yes.”
With a sigh of relief, the man straightened as best he could with his twisted spine and scuttled off. Devon turned back, only then remembering the voice that had warned her of the lawyer’s approach.
“Hello?” she said quietly, searching the grass to either side of the footpath and squinting into the afternoon sunlight.
“Hey.” Again the voice was so quiet she could scarcely hear it, but she spied a faint light shining from amongst the stalks of grass beside her. Dropping to a crouch, she pushed apart a tuft of long savanna grass and peered. “Bob?”
The wisp just hung there. “Surprise?”
“Dude, what’s going on?” The ball of light hadn’t even attempted to boop her nose.
“Little help here?” the wisp asked, wiggling as if it were struggling to free itself from the grass.
“Uh…how?”
“I seem to be having a little trouble levitating. And let me tell you, it’s a huge pain in the ass to try to keep up with someone when you’re stuck a few inches off the ground and they like to wander around aimlessly, acting out some sort of fantasy of importan
ce.”
Devon rolled her eyes. At least the comment reassured her that this was actually Bob and not some wisp imposter. Holding out her hand, she brought her glove underneath the ball of light and lifted. The glowing sphere rose in the palm of her hand, then seemed to shake as if dusting off scraps of hay.
“Itchy,” it said. “I honestly don’t understand why you people are so fond of the mortal realm.”
Tucking the wisp in front of her, Devon hurried away from the gathering before someone else noticed her lingering and decided to strike up a conversation. She turned for the rear of the settlement, bound for the quiet area surrounding the Shrine to Veia and the spring that trickled from the base of the cliff. Once there, she found a cushion of moss and set Bob on top of it.
“So…” she said. “What the heck?”
The wisp didn’t respond at first. It was honestly disconcerting to watch the glowing ball just…sit there. Devon was so accustomed to the wisp’s constant motion, she wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“I’m not feeling too well, obviously.”
“Okay…I got that part. But why, Bob? What’s wrong?”
“You remember that time I followed you into the hell plane and saved your sorry butt when Zaa wanted you to torture some innocent players?”
Devon dropped to a seat on the moss beside the wisp. “I prefer to think of it as us having defeated Zaa’s trials as a team. But however you want to spin it, yeah, I think I remember something like that.”
“Okay, well, it turns out I wasn’t supposed to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Save the players’ sanity by dragging them into the arcane realm.”
Devon blinked, remembering when she had conjured simulacra of the players to cover for Bob teleporting the real players out of the dungeon. She’d put the puppets through an elaborate torture pantomime, something she didn’t like thinking about. In the end, the gambit had worked. She’d convinced Zaa that she was truly the ruthless demon, Ezraxis, and he’d whisked her away to a council with his other generals, including Raazel, the demon alter-ego of her former guildmate, Owen.
Vault of the Magi: A LitRPG Adventure (Stonehaven League Book 5) Page 9