I ignore him and turn back to the woman. “Have anything that could help with MIND or SPEED?”
“I may have something for you, young man, something that would go perfectly with your long, brown hair. My husband had brown hair; it wasn’t thick like yours, but it was brown on the sides.” She frowns. “He was bald.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“You’d think an alchemist in one of the universities of Solidus would come up with a way to cure male pattern baldness.”
“Yeah, you’d think,” I say.
She retrieves a dusty, wooden case from beneath the table, and from it she takes another, smaller case. She opens it to show me a pair of glitzy, dangling earrings.
“These will add one point to your MIND attribute,” she says.
Wolf raises an eyebrow at her.
I clear my throat. “Dangly earrings will get in the way in my line of work.”
“What’s that line of work?” the old man nearby asks.
“I’m an herbalist; I was in the mountains looking for sunset root.”
“I thought you said you were hunting.”
“I was hunting for sunset root. Anything you’d like to add?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him. He gets the hint and returns to his wares.
“Let’s go,” I tell Wolf. “Thank you, ma’am.” I nod to the female merchant. “I’ll grab some earrings next time I’m in Karuna.”
Chapter Four: The Ferry to Tin Ingot
The Karuna Harbor is known for its promenade, crafted from imported Scudonan lumber. Overlooking the harbor are hostels, taverns, and coffee shops. This particular city is frequented by real-world writers who dive to Unigaea to take part in monthly writing retreats.
Above the harbor, Seagulls squawk and zip through the air, dive-bombing anyone that looks like they may have food. There are far too many, and Wolf can’t help but track a few of them.
“Don’t do it,” I tell him as we approach the ferry. I’ve dismounted from him and walk alongside the canine magnus now. We both spot a particularly large seagull, twice the size of the others, perched on top of a post.
Wolf licks his lips.
“We’ll eat something when we get there,” I tell him as I pat the side of his neck. “I still have chicken from yesterday, you know.”
The previous evening, Wolf and I – well, mostly Wolf – caught a chicken. Actually, we stole a chicken, from a barnyard on the northern side of Karuna. I’m not proud of it, but we were a bit broke and hungry, which will always and forever be a bad combination in terms of sound decision making.
He whines and I pat my hand against his side. “Look, you’ll have food soon; we’ll get lira later and I promise I’ll treat you to the biggest steak we can find, the best dog groomer, and I’ll let you sleep all day tomorrow. How does that sound?”
We approach the ferry conductor, who sits at a collapsible desk next to a couple of crates. There’s probably some loot in there – definitely some loot in there – but I’d like to not get caught red-handed.
The ferry conductor takes one look at Wolf and me and shakes his head.
He’s in the uniform of an official from Solidus, a crisp blue frock with a popped collar and a blue bowtie with a pin in its knot. He has a few chins, which he tries to cover with the help of a small, pointed goatee.
“Ferry is full.”
I sigh. It was my choice to be a Player Killer, I get that; but even with INFAMY at 40, I’m still not that dangerous. Hardly. I once met a Witcher from Drachma with an INFAMY of 1,200. She didn’t kill me either, which was nice.
“The ferry clearly isn’t full,” I grumble. “I can see who’s on the ferry now – two men with carts, a couple with a single horse, and a pair of students in Tin Ingot school uniforms. How is that considered crowded?”
“Seems crowded to me.”
“How much will it be?” I ask him. “We’re not here to cause you any trouble, I can promise you that.”
“A thousand lira.”
Wolf growls. “Easy, boy,” I tell the big mutt. I’ve never been good with managing lira in my current form. I’d wager it has something to do with the fact that my MIND attribute is so low, but I’m not smart enough to think deeply about it.
Lira comes and lira goes, yet I remain.
I was up five thousand just a few days ago, now I’m barely pushing a thousand.
“Six hundred,” I tell him, which is the amount I took off the dwarves. That gives me roughly five-hundred to keep in the coffers and he’s still able to charge me triple the price.
“Eight hundred.”
“Six hundred.”
“Seven-fifty.”
“Six hundred,” I grit.
“Seven hundred and not a penny less.”
“Six hundred and I let you keep your life when we arrive in Tin Ingot.”
“Are you threatening me?” He looks around for a spare soldier and finds none. The majority of Karuna’s law enforcement stay on the side of town closest to the Farthing Mountains. Aside from the occasional water dragon or pirate ship, not much comes from the sea.
“I’m not threatening you; he is.” I place my hand on Wolf’s shoulder.
The man clears his throat. “Fine, six hundred, but … ”
“But what?”
Wolf bares his teeth and the man wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead. “Nothing, six hundred.”
(^_^)
Everyone is suspicious of me, from the family of gnomes at the front of the ferry to the merchants with their carts in the middle, to the small group of Solidus soldiers in training, designated as such because of the strip of blue leather stitched across their chest plates.
They look so young.
All NPCs, the group of soldiers looks like they should still be in school, rather than loaded to the teeth in poor-fitting armor with swords strapped to their sides. Two have crossbows on their backs. One has a buster sword.
The one with the sword looks at my splintered version and scoffs.
Wolf’s lips start to curl at the ballsy grunt.
“Come on.” I place my hand on his head and turn his attention to the sea.
Wolf tenses his leg muscles.
“It’s just water,” I remind him. He starts panting frantically.
“I’m not going to throw you in, I promise.”
Eventually, I’m able to coax him onto the ferry. He’s not happy – never is around water – and as soon as he’s on, he gets to the center of the ferry, lies down, and buries his head in his paws.
Powering the ferry are a pair of NPC giants on crudely made bicycles. With each pump of their veiny, bulging leg muscles, chains crank a stern wheel easily the size of a two-story building. The giants of Unigaea, who can be found in the far north near the Tagvornin city of Tael, are known for their scholarly pursuits. Many teach at the great universities in Solidus and Stater.
They are Tagvornin, but even this distinction bears them no ill. The two peddling the ferry are students on sabbatical. Cast before them on wood stands are books of math, alchemy, and science. The two barely pay attention to the crowd, so focused are they on their study and their peddling.
Tagvornin is the general name given to anyone from the north-eastern part of the continent, a place also known as the Rune Lands. Tensions between the north and south wax and wane and not all the cities in the north share the same sentiments as their neighbors. Tagvornin and Drachma generally share the same sentiment – Tael and Metica, not so much.
There are smaller villages between the four cities, outposts, abandoned towns and of course, small villages started by Player Characters, like the one I started in my last incarnation.
The village of Ducat, with a population of NPCs and Player Characters alike, was south of the Rune Lands, north of the Eastern Split Mountains, along the coastline. I had chosen the position for its natural beauty. Snow-tipped mountains in the foreground and a relatively calm bay made the place an ideal spot.
The village became a po
pular place for Unigaeans, both of the north and the south, to trade their wares. Merchants from Scudo would sail there to trade with merchants from Drachma. They’d exchange rare herbs, fish, and timber. Book sellers from Tael would come before the start of each semester, selling their scrolls and leather-bound tomes.
More money came into Ducat and with it came more people, more businesses, more ways to both help and take advantage of one another.
I had never taken a class so seriously, and I had really grown accustomed to the role of a governing official. I’d seen and visited other villages started by players that had quickly floundered.
Not Ducat.
It flourished, especially after I started a small council of NPCs and PCs to elect on changes for the city. I listened to them, did my best to let them decide the direction of the city.
Then the Drachma Killers came.
The madness they brought flickers across my mind’s eye as the waves of the sea sluice and slap together. In their shimmering reflection, I relive what happened next. As I have in the past, I even remind myself that this is a game. It is not real, Oric.
Your name isn’t even Oric, Eric.
But it has been Oric for many incarnations now and regardless of the fact that I’m living in a Proxima world – a neuronally constructed virtual entertainment world only accessible in an REM-like state of consciousness – it doesn’t make what happened in Ducat any less real.
I’ve been permalogged in for …
My interface appears before me and I check the current date and time in the real world, the world up there, Chicago.
[May 5th, 2069. 20:54 PM]
I smile. Has it really been that long?
(^_^)
The ferry approaches the city of Tin Ingot. The sky has turned the color of a deep body of water. A breeze blows along the tops of the waves, bringing with it the smells of the city in the distance. Smoke, fisheries, life – it doesn’t appeal to Wolf in the least.
He sneezes, sniffs the air, and sneezes again.
I don’t blame him.
A small girl sitting on her father’s shoulder laughs at Wolf. He turns to look at her with his big, blue-green eyes and she gasps in astonishment.
“He’s a big pussycat,” I tell her.
Her father backs away. “Easy, now,” he tells me. His teeth start to chatter. “We’re just making our way to the city to see her mother.”
I nod and return my gaze to the water, watching as it hits the wooden side of the ferry. Wolf sneezes again and the girl tries not to laugh this time.
As we approach the port, I review the details for the quest tonight.
Apparently, the governor of Rial Resort Town owes the city government of Tin Ingot a lot of money. Rather than go to war with the popular tourist destination, Tin Ingot has decided to go to the root of the problem, the governor, who is as fond of whoring and gambling as a cow is of eating and shitting.
The governor’s vices led him to make a pretty substantial bet, which he lost and then paid off by borrowing money from the city government of Tin Ingot, disguising the loan as a down payment for a new landmark hotel that was never built.
I have some questions about the whole affair, but that can wait.
What’s important is that I, along with two other mercenaries, bring him back alive. I don’t know what they plan to do with him yet. I have a feeling that turning him upside down and trying to shake the lira out of him will do no good, but we’ve been told to bring him back alive and that’s what we’re going to do.
“Can you say it with me?” I ask Wolf as the ferry docks. “Eleven thousand. We’ll be able to get some serious gear with that. All new armor, and I’ll have something custom made for you.”
He snorts, shakes his head.
“Fine. If you don’t want to wear anything, at least I can get you groomed and maybe get you a collar, or something that will give you some bonus attribute points.”
Wolf’s ears flatten.
“Okay, no collar. A bandana?”
The ferry tilts ever-so-slightly and Wolf gets scared again. He starts panting, eyes everyone suspiciously for a moment, and then tucks his head back between his paws.
“Good, a bandana. With the type of lira we’re about to run into, I’m sure we’ll be able to find a badass bandana.” I smile at him. “And it’s only water, really, you drink it all the time. It can’t be that dangerous.”
(^_^)
The Port of Tin Ingot is brimming with life. Merchants and fishermen have spread their wares out on burlap sacks that have been sewn into blankets. They yell prices out at the crowd. A young woman in a dirty milk maiden’s dress stands atop a stool shouting about a flash sale, her hands cupped around her mouth.
“Horned carp, ten leee-ra! Farthing mountain trout, fifteen leee-ra!”
There’s no way around the crowd, so Wolf and I pass straight through. A few people scoff, which is to be expected, yet the port is so busy that we – a nearly seven-foot-tall Player Killer with long brown hair and piercing blue eyes and his big, bad wolf companion – are barely noticed.
The road splits into three. The right path leads to the expansive Tin Ingot flea market, which is known for its rare goods from other fantasy Proxima worlds such as Tritania. The middle route heads up and over a hill to the city center, and the left path wraps around to the backside of the port and its infamous red light district.
We take the middle path, ignoring the hustle and bustle of horse-drawn carts heading towards the market. The street is lined with two-story buildings, homes on top and storefronts on the bottom. A few geese scatter past us, chased by their owner.
Wolf’s eyes dart from the geese to me.
“No way,” I laugh, imagining how quickly he’d crush the poor fowl in his big jaws.
A begging woman with bristly gray hair matted to her head grabs at my arm. Her bottom teeth jut out of her mouth, brittle and crooked.
“Player Killer!” she seethes.
I yank my arm away.
“Tonight!” she calls after me. “I have seen what will come!”
I’m not superstitious now and I doubt I ever will be, especially in Unigaea. The locals are a whole different beast. The NPCs in the various areas of the continent have their own gods, their own beliefs, their own wives’ tales, omens, and customs. Yada, yada, yada.
I generally stay out of it unless a quest is involved.
An apothecary up ahead catches my eye. Healing potions are available at various shops and restaurants, but the cheapest place to get them is the apothecary. I have the ingredients to make a pretty good potion, one sunset root and two mandrake flowers, but that’ll take time and time is something I don’t have.
I’m not late yet, but in fifteen minutes, I will be.
“Two healing potions,” I tell the man at the window counter. He’s a thin guy with a bowl haircut and a face that looks like it was stomped out in a fire.
“Hundred lira,” he says.
“The price should be half that,” I tell him, “unless I asked for four bottles; then a hundred is the correct price.”
“That’s the price, Player Killer,” he growls. “If you have a problem with it, I’ll call for the city guards.”
A quick glance right and I catch a pair of men in enough samurai-inspired armor to outfit a battleship. I don’t know how they move around in armor so dense, but even if I beat them, which I would, I’d have half the city trying to track me down.
“A hundred it is,” I tell him. I dump some lira from the bag into my hand and once he’s placed the two healing potions on the counter, I toss them into his shop.
“Hey!”
I’ve already merged back into the crowd by the time he aims a few curse words in my general direction.
Wolf and I continue up a flight of steps wide enough for twenty people holding hands to walk up. We pass under a series of colorful circle banners hanging from a rope above us, indicating the various houses of Tin Ingot.
I fin
ally get to the square, a rather large area with statues in the middle dedicated to a past governor, who is perched on a large throne.
The two mercenaries joining me on the quest stick out like a pair of sore thumbs. One, female Player Killer, is in black leather armor formed to look like an a-line dress. Her boots have sharp heels and she wears absolutely no other armor, aside from a pair of black gloves.
A sliver of skin is visible over a small portion of her chest and her face and arms are bleached white – a blinding white, even. Her hair is gray, the color of brittle bone. On her right eye is a patch that matches the general look of her armor.
Her whole getup seems impractical, but then again, I’ve come to expect that type of thing in a fantasy world like Unigaea.
Her handle appears, her subclass still a mystery to me.
[Deathdale, Level 10]
Next to her, chomping down on an apple, is muscular guy in chainmail made to look like a tank top, silver tassets, and knee-high fur boots with enough buckles to outfit all the mall Santas in Chicago. Swirling Unigaean tattoos cover his arms and multiple piercings line his ears.
The written Unigaean language, which resembles Thai, is technically a dead language. Scholars can read it, and noob players love to get tattoos of it, but I’ve yet to encounter anyone in Unigaea who speaks it fluently or uses it daily.
[Czech Meyout, Level 18]
He’s definitely an archer, evident in the multi-fire crossbow on his back and the two shorter crossbows at his side. He’s also most definitely a douche, evident in his less-than-clever handle, his tank top, and his Unigaean tattoos.
I stop and glance down at Wolf.
He looks up at me and I swear in that moment he winks.
“Let’s get this over with,” I tell him.
Chapter Five: A Day in the Life of a Mercenary
“I’m Oric,” I tell the two mercenaries. “Oric Rune.”
“And your class?” the archer asks.
“Herbalist.”
“Aren’t you forgetting the Player Killer part? Odd combination. Me? I’m an Archer, subclass of Scout. Call me Czech,” the Archer says, snapping his finger at the mention of his name. “Meyout. Ha! Get it?”
The Last Warrior of Unigaea: A LitRPG Trilogy Page 3