by Ember Lane
Lincoln decided it had been a good day so far and waited for Grimble to catch up, then the pair walked under the city gates and into Brokenford. As soon as they were in the city limits, Grimble led Lincoln along the wall, ducking past the hubbub of the traders and their colorful, aromatic carts. Before long, the narrow path opened up to a small park, blanketed with lush, green grass and dotted with crescent-shaped shrubberies. A temple of fluted, stone pillars and white marble steps stood in its center. Lincoln fancied a gander, but Grimble skirted it like it was contagious and didn’t stop until he came to a bunch of crowded picnic tables that, in all probability, signaled their arrival at the Temple Inn. The dwarf threaded his way through them, eventually dumping himself down next to a chunky dwarf with a faded, purple Mohican.
“Ozmic?” Lincoln muttered.
“Ozmic,” the chunky dwarf confirmed. “Mighty pleased ta met ya,” and Ozmic offered Lincoln his chubby hand. Its vice-like grip crushing Lincoln’s outstretched palm.
Apart from his colorful haircut, Ozmic was a mess of rags, and belts, and braces. It looked like he’d piled as many clothes on as possible just to cover his bulky frame. Now studying him closer, Lincoln could see that Ozmic wasn’t as fat as he’d first thought. The dwarf was a powerhouse of muscle, with a potbelly, admittedly, but certainly not fat.
“Grimble tells me you gonna build a city.” He laughed like a hyena, then stopped just as abruptly. “Where?” He curled his bushy eyebrows up in curiosity.
“Not a clue,” Lincoln replied. “Can I get you both an ale? I think I might celebrate.” Lincoln told them about Fawkes and Finequill.
“Every city’s got its scams,” Grimble grumbled. “Picking on you afore yea even left the respawn’s a bit low, eh?”
“Low,” agreed Ozmic. “So, what are yer gonna do ‘bout it?”
“I was thinking of sellin’ my deeds back to Finequill, and then visitin’ Spillwhistle for my proper map.”
“And then going north?”
“In a day or so—I really need to get some skills opened up.” Lincoln raised his glass. “Cheers,” he said.
“May your pick be always sharp!” Ozmic cried.
“And your anvil never crack!” Grimble added.
“Amen to that,” said Lincoln. “Tell me, where do you come from?”
“A long yarn deserving of time fer telling,” Ozmic muttered. “Say, you’re headed north in a day or so, we’ll soon be headed north. Why don’t yer hop aboard me cart. If you spring fer a barrel o’ale and a few sides of salted pork, we’ll say n’more about it.”
Lincoln spat on his hand and held it out, “Deal?”
They looked at him like he was plain vile.
“Why d’ya spit on yer hand, eh?” asked Grimble.
Lincoln stuttered, and the dwarves started smirking.
Having paid the princely sum of twenty bronze for lunch, Lincoln had to evaluate his exchange rate. It seemed Allaise’s tavern overpriced their ale to newcomers, but he bore her no ill will as the token had covered most of it. He left Grimble and Ozmic at the Temple Inn and went off in search of Finequill.
On the way, he bought himself some new boots, a pair of pants, a thick, red shirt, and a nice, heavy jacket. He kept the deadman’s coat as well. Somehow it suited him. He hid his copper dagger down his boots and concealed the one from Alexa’s starter sack in his jacket. As he was about to leave the market area, he saw a hat—a flatish cap just like he had once on earth. He paid the storekeep two bronze and went about his merry way. Just before he got to the bridge, he turned off and into The Shambles, and he walked to Finequill’s without incident. He blended in better now.
The ceratog looked shocked when he walked in and looked positively sick when Lincoln held up the deeds.
“I believe you buy these back,” he said, slapping the scroll on the desk. “Or is it just a worthless map and the plot was not yours to allot? Just a scam, Finequill?”
“What…but…where…how?” Finequill asked. “How can it be a scam when you’ve been paid for the plot?” he asked, as he appeared to recover from the shock of seeing Lincoln again.
“I haven’t been to see Spillwhistle yet, but I hazard a guess that she will charge me my profit plus spare coin for a useless map, and I would have walked out of this city a pauper.” Lincoln sat in the chair opposite the ceratog. “Didn’t you say ‘I arbit, and I’ll swing if I get caught stealing’? You did say that…”
“You wouldn’t!” Finequill said.
Lincoln smiled and crossed his legs, sitting back. “I wouldn’t have cause if Spillwhistle proves to be a bonafide seller of mystical maps that do indeed lead to good plots of land.” He held Finequill’s nervous stare. “And, just to be clear, I met two dwarves today. They know the land to the north like the back of their hands.”
“Land to the north…” Finequill muttered.
“Now, shall we say ten gold for the deeds?”
“Ten?” Finequill looked positively sick.
Lincoln shrugged. “Four for me and six for Fawkes. You get your deeds back for six gold—the amount you said they should fetch. Fawkes neither gains nor loses. And I get another four gold for my troubles.”
Finequill scratched his head. “So everyone wins,” he said, then ruffling his fur and reached into his pocket. “Ten gold?”
“But six of those are Fawkes’, so it only costs you four.”
“Four gold,” Finequill nodded. “A good deal for a bit of land.”
“A very good deal,” Lincoln assured him, stood and offered Finequill his hand.
“Thank you, Lincoln. It’s rare to meet a player so fair. Shall we celebrate with an ale?”
“The night is drawing in,” Lincoln agreed.
“You go ahead,” Finequill said. “I’ll just shut up shop.”
Lincoln nodded, his eyes searching out any hint of mischief in the ceratog’s, but he could see nothing but beady black. Backing out of the shop, Lincoln hurried to the tavern, hugging the shadows and skipping past the alleyways. He knew he had a couple of hours of protection left, and no more. Was there anything to stop them from dragging him down a dark street and waiting the time out? He wondered if he’d been wise scamming Finequill back. With bursting lungs, Lincoln finally gained the sanctuary of the Orc ‘n Goblin, and only then did he let his bursting lungs sigh with relief. Training tomorrow—training with Pete. It was hard playing the weakling in a land of fully leveled NPCs, of that Lincoln was convinced.
But Allaise was behind the tavern’s counter with a smile and waiting ale, and that made everything better. As his time ticked down, he prayed Alexa Drey would forgive him, and he flipped Allaise his spare lodgings token, Alexa’s lodgings token. He was in no doubt she’d be well dead, or well past needing it, when he’d eventually get to see her.
“I believe the going rate is less than five bronze an ale,” he told Allaise.
“Five bronze is the rate for noobs. Look at you.” She took his cap off his head and tousled his hair. “Quite the citizen now, aren’t you?”
Congratulations! You haggled down the price of your ale. You have leveled up. You now have level 2 commerce.
It was then Lincoln noticed Fawkes sitting along the bar. The man had murder in his eyes. Fortunately for Lincoln, Pete came over and handed him a small sack full of his purchases from the market. Lincoln borrowed a pestle and mortar from Allaise and set to work. He eyed a tapped barrel of ale on the side, and then tried to guess its volume. A couple of pinches of orange peel, a spoon of coriander, and some junipers all went into the mortar and then he ground them to a fine paste with the pestle. When done, he sniffed the mixture and added the peppercorns one by one until he decided it was just right.
“Now, pass me one of those barrels, Pete,” he asked the half-giant, and Pete duly obliged.
Taking the tap out, he spooned the mixture into the barrel, sprinkled some yeast after, and then hovered his hand over his sack and picked out a speed-up. By now, quite the crowd had gathe
red around. Lincoln looked at the speed-up. It was a small script-like piece of parchment, and at first Lincoln wondered how to use it. In the games he’d played before, you just selected it or added it to a process. This barrel was already brewed. Scratching his head, he was just about to fold it and throw it into the barrel when a prompt opened up, with a notification straight after.
Congratulations! You have opened up the skill Brewing. You are a level 1 novice, though your actions are those of a level 15 master. Your skill has no cap.
Status Notification. Ale is now brewing. Ale will be twice-brewed in two weeks. Do you wish to use a speed-up? Y/N
Lincoln mentally pressed yes, and the speed-up in his hand crumbled to dust.
Status notification. Speed-up x1000 used. Ale will be twice-brewed in twenty minutes.
A strange feeling started growing in Lincoln’s stomach. He recognized it immediately for what it was but could do nothing about it. It was a warm glow that began to radiate out, bursting from his stomach as a ray of light. Lincoln stood, a feeling of intense euphoria coursing through his body. He saw the crowd back away from him, tumbling over each other, wide-eyed, fearful. He heard someone spit, “Warlock!” But then Allaise was there, shooing everyone farther back, a proud smile on her elfish lips, and her hands clasped by her heart. Pete was clapping. Fawkes was scowling, but Finequill missed it; he’d already hightailed it home to Mrs. Finequill.
The light spread out like a fan around Lincoln’s midriff, and then grew both up and down until he was enshrouded in a ball of gleaming brilliance. He felt his feet lift from the floor, his back arched as he was held aloft in ecstasy.
Congratulations! You have unlocked 5 skills. You have been awarded 100 experience points (XP). Experience points allow you to increase your levels. XP also gives you reputation in the land. Currently, your reputation is “Nobody.”
You have 100 XP; you have leveled up. You are now level 2. You have 6 attribute points to allocate.
Lincoln settled back on the floor, and his aura faded back to an embarrassed glow.
“Well,” he said, “that was unexpected.” But Allaise was already closing and soon held him in her arms.
“That was beautiful; the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I wish we leveled up like that.”
“You can fly,” Pete’s voice sounded out, like an avalanche of boulders.
Lincoln spied Fawkes as he looked over Allaise’s shoulder, and he felt his stats being scrutinized. That man was going to be trouble, Lincoln decided—of that there was no doubt.
“Twenty minutes are up,” someone cried, and so Lincoln carried the barrel around the bar counter, replaced the tap and set it. He poured the first ale, took a sip, and then smiled. He poured a fresh mug and passed it to Fawkes.
“Tell me what you think,” Lincoln told him. “For your troubles, this morning.”
Fawkes eyed him up and down once more, but cajoling faces had gathered around urging him on.
“If you try one at the same time,” Fawkes replied, his stare never wavering.
Lincoln poured himself another froth-topped mug, and they drank together. Even Fawkes’ face cracked a smile.
“Got to hand it to you; that’s one nice ale,” he said, though his teeth were gritted and his shoulders stiff.
Inside, Lincoln was smiling. He could brew ale a hundred times better than this effort. Yes, he thought, my settlement, my village; my city will be the one they flock to. Why? Because of the ale, I will serve the best ale in the land.
It was a simple plan, but a plan nonetheless.
4
The Atreman
Lincoln sized up his opponent. The boy was probably around ten years old, but most kids looked young to Lincoln nowadays. He had the build of a rake, and rags that made poor excuses for clothes. His curly hair appeared to have a life of its own, bouncing as he jumped up and down and loosened his neck, shoulders, and arms as he readied himself for the upcoming fight.
The ring, if it could be called that, was about twenty feet square. No rope signaled its boundaries, just a scuffed line on the warehouse’s dirt floor, hay bales for corners. Light streamed in, slanted by the pitched but patchy roof. Pete’s gravelly laughter rang around.
“You’re going to get beaten up by a child,” he called, and Lincoln had a feeling he might just be right.
The kid started hopping from foot to foot, and began pounding one fist into an open palm, and then vice versa. His eyes beckoned Lincoln closer.
“Come on, old man,” the boy smirked.
Sitting on a three-legged wooden stool, the trainer looked impassively out over the ring. His skin was the color of midnight; his black hair was cut close. The man wasn’t as large as Pete, but he was big. And he wasn’t one for wasted words, something that Lincoln had thought oddly comforting. At least he knew that each word he would hear would be important.
According to Pete, the man hailed from Atremeny, a land north of Irydia; a land baked by a near eternal sun. The man’s arms looked like stacked bowling balls, his chest a mass of rippling muscle, yet he had a narrow waist that led to powerful legs. Lincoln wondered if all who hailed from Atremeny were built like this powerhouse, and resolved to ask Pete later. Though, in truth, the kid scared him more than the trainer at that particular instant.
Lincoln stood on the balls of his feet. He quickly dumped three of his unallocated points into agility, and three into vitality, deciding to worry about his city another time. The kid smiled, clearly monitoring his stats.
Squeezing his eyes as if it would help, Lincoln tried to see the kid’s stats, but he still had no perception, or whatever it was called in this land. The kid smiled at his feeble efforts and shook his head slowly, a chill smile spreading over his bony, young face.
“Go,” said the trainer.
The kid darted forward, ducking under Lincoln’s gaze. Lincoln felt his stomach implode and then the back of his legs received a sharp crack. He fell to his knees. A soft kick in the middle of his back saw him eating dirt. All before he’d blinked.
“Lesson one,” the trainer’s deep-throated voice rang out. “Never fight an opponent you can’t see.”
Congratulations! Aezal has granted you the skill, Perception. You are a level 1 novice. Clearly.
Well, that was something at least, Lincoln thought, as he pushed himself up and pulled his legs under him. Squatting, he saw that the boy had resumed his position in the corner of the ring. Lincoln tried his new skill, but received only minimal information.
Name: Shrimp. Race: Apachalant. Type: Treehopper.
Age: 12. Alignment: None. XP: 11,500. Level: 7.
Profession: Scout. Un/Al pts: 0. Reputation: Somebody.
Health Points: 150/150 Energy: 250/250 Mana: 40/40
HP Regen: 15/Min EN Regen: 25/Min MA Regen: 1/Min
Attributes: (Level, Bonuses)
Vitality: (15, 0), Stamina: (25, 0), Intelligence: (4, 0),
Wisdom: (1, 0), Luck: (0, 0),
Strength: (12, 0), Agility: (20, 0)
Shrimp grinned.
“You should see my skills,” he said with a smile, but little humor.
“Apachalants,” Aezal said, “are the fastest of the human-like races on this land. Only once they get to level 10 are they allowed to put any points into luck, and if you knew where they heralded from, you’d understand the discipline involved in that restraint. What level Running do you have, Shrimp?”
“Thirty one.”
Aezal lofted his eyes to the decrepit roof. “Show him.”
The warehouse was few hundred yards long and lined on both sides with stacked straw bales. It had that dusty, dirty feel that shade-filled places hoard. Screwing his eyes up, Lincoln could just see its end through motes of disturbed dust that danced in the slanting light. Shrimp blurred, shimmered, and vanished. The dust swirled where he’d been. Then he was standing back there, all before Lincoln had truly understood what had happened. He had an apple in his hand.
“From the tre
e outside,” Shrimp simply said.
And Lincoln looked down the warehouse and saw its door slowly shutting, the slice of its intruding light thinning until stifled. “Level 31,” Lincoln muttered.
Aezal smiled.
“Apachalants scout for the king, but the king doesn’t pay so well, and so Shrimp doubles his income by working for me.” Then Aezal stood, and his head reached Pete’s shoulder while Lincoln himself barely made the giant’s breast. He wondered again if all from Atremeny were as large as Aezal. Now stood, the Atreman’s white cloak flopped down to his booted feet, and his sword straightened against his legs. A bright-green sash divided his body in two and appeared to act as a belt, cinching his robe. “Now, let me tell a few truths. Do you mind?”
“Truth is a rare quality,” Lincoln acknowledged.
“You will not best Shrimp in Close-Quarter Fighting, nor Blades, nor Swordsmanship. Staff fighting, he’s not so accomplished at, but he’ll still have you on the floor in two moves.”
Lincoln nodded. “Then what is the point?”
Aezal walked toward Lincoln, or rather he drifted. Each of his movements was fluid and conservative, those of a true warrior. It confused Lincoln. Why was Aezal in this warehouse if he was such a warrior? Or was their glory to only be found in tall tales?
“The point?” Aezal scratched his fine, clean-shaven chin. “The point is simple. I hear you recently came in to a few gold, and I need a source of gold.”
Lincoln looked at Pete, and Pete shrugged. “What can I say? I've got a big mouth.” The half-giant looked right at home in this hay barn. A pitchfork in his massive hands and he’d slot straight in.
“The few gold I have?” Lincoln replied. Aezal’s words confused him. How could a clearly accomplished warrior need his few gold?