by Brian Simons
She was miffed that Harold had killed that Mud Golem. She had done most of the dirty work and deserved the XP for it. What’s worse is that she was pretty sure she would have leveled up. She checked her stats.
Name:
Alua
Gender:
Female
Race:
Human
Class:
Medium
Level:
23
Diplomacy:
10
Constitution:
28
Dexterity:
30
Defense:
25
Intelligence:
41
Strength:
23
Spirit:
38
HP:
560
Stamina:
65
MP:
76
Skill Points Available:
0
XP:
91423
XP to Next Level:
67
Yep. She sighed.
“I’m sorry I got you involved in this,” Alua said to Cedril, smoothing a wrinkle from his robe with her free hand. “It seemed like a good opportunity to spend some time together. I didn’t realize he would treat you so poorly.”
“It’s alright,” Cedril said. “I want to spend this time with you too. And if you left without me I’d just worry. No one wants to find out their girlfriend took off with a knight in shining armor.”
“Ha! You have nothing to worry about there.” She bent down to pick some more herbs. Mixed in with the healing herbs were stalks of something else, but she didn’t want to waste time separating them out just yet.
Her legs were tired from walking by the time the Ogrelands came into view. It was an assemblage of humble huts and tents sprawling for miles. As they got closer, the scent of the tented kingdom got stronger.
“That is foul,” said Harold. “How can the vermin live with that stench?”
Alua noticed a green-skinned person hurrying toward them from the encampment. “Hello!” he yelled. “Sir Harold!” He came running up to them, his large green belly flopping from side to side under a simple cloth vest. When he got within a few feet he stopped to catch his breath.
“I,” he panted, “am Prince Ploth. My mother. Said you were. Visiting. I will show. You around.”
“The King must have sent word ahead long before he ever asked me to undertake this journey,” Harold said. “It is an unnecessary honor to have your assistance, thank you.”
Prince Ploth seemed unsure how to respond. Having at least caught his breath he said, “I can take you to Thanaker’s temple right away or, if you’d like to see some of the sights—”
“The temple please, Ploth. Having smelled some of the smells I dare not see the sights. Too much wonder for one day.”
“Prince Ploth,” Alua said, offering a curtsy, “my name is Alua. As King Frederic’s court Medium, let me assure you the King is grateful for your hospitality.” She shot Harold a stern look.
“Of course,” Prince Ploth said and led the way toward the tents ahead.
The Ogrelands smelled truly awful, like the dung of a sick horse. Yet, it was a beautiful sight. The kingdom was a dense throng of people talking animatedly, eating and drinking, playing games, conducting business, all out in the open. It was a vibrant community.
“Prince Ploth,” Alua asked as they walked past one tent, “what’s going on in here?”
“That’s our hospital,” the prince said. “Our healing arts are rudimentary, but we do what we can to rehabilitate the ill.”
“Perhaps we could help,” Cedril said. He stepped inside the tent before Harold could protest.
Good boy, Cedril! Alua was keen to help too and glad Cedril took the opening before Harold could say something impolitic. When Alua went inside, she saw dozens of sick ogres on stretchers. As Cedril knelt beside one, his staff began to glow. “This is a waste of time,” Harold said. Then he seemed to catch himself, adding, “The ogres have this well under control. I don’t doubt their ability to tend to their own sick.”
“Still,” Alua said, reaching into her bag for a handful of herbs, “as an envoy of Havenstock we should offer assistance where we are able. I have some healing herbs that may assist.” Alua pulled them away from the other plant they were tangled with. Now she saw what it was. Fuddlemint. One sprig of this would inflict Confusion if eaten, so she was careful to pull the fuddlemint out and stick it back into her bag. She handed the healing herbs to an ogre nurse as Cedril finished his healing prayers.
The entire diversion took fifteen minutes. A good investment for relations between the two kingdoms. Prince Ploth would be pleased, and Alua could report back to the King that they did a good deed.
The group continued to follow the prince until they approached Thanaker’s temple. The god of death commanded an impressive house of worship. It was the only stone building that Alua had seen in the Ogrelands. It was a flat, single story affair, but the walls were built with smooth stones that were cut to equal sizes. It must have taken ages for the ogres to prepare it.
“I’ll wait here,” Cedril said just outside the temple’s entrance. “I wouldn’t want a Priest of death in Januar’s temple, I can’t imagine they want an Acolyte of rebirth in theirs. The holy orders like to keep things very separate.”
Alua and Harold left Cedril outside. Inside, the temple was very dark, lit by only a few red wax candles. There were no pews as there had been in Januar’s temple. Instead, a few ogres sat cross-legged on the dirt floor.
A boulder sat at the front of the temple with a smooth flat surface. Behind this altar stood an ogre in a dark gray robe embroidered with simple silver designs.
“He won’t speak a word of human,” Prince Ploth said, pointing toward the head priest, “but don’t worry. I’ll go speak with him and you take your time here to do whatever you need to.”
Alua thanked him and got to work.
Holy Thanaker, God of Death, she spoke with her mind, we ask mercy for the people of Havenstock.
“What’s he saying?” Harold asked.
“Nothing yet,” Alua answered. “Be quiet, I need to concentrate.”
Holy Thanaker—
Alua, the god responded, death is the greatest mercy. What more could I offer?
>> Congratulations! You have reached Level 24. To apply your 1 skill point now, open your Skills and Attributes screen.
Her heart started beating faster. She had never communed with Thanaker like this before. If he spoke to her, it was always unbidden and he never answered her questions. Now, he was willing to converse with her. The King was right, coming to the temple made a difference. And communing with Thanaker directly was providing some pretty good XP.
Alua answered, A witch in the swamp south of Havenstock is conjuring zombies that have attacked our farmers. Would you consider interceding and preventing the witch from raising your dead?
If I do not intercede, what then? Thanaker asked.
“Is it working?” Harold asked. Alua swatted at him with one hand and pressed her other up to her temple.
If the zombie threat remains, we must visit the swamp. I fear my companion, Sir Harold, will kill the witch before we can hold a trial.
I’m not inclined to stop this witch any more than I am inclined to stop your companion, Thanaker said. I smell death in the air either way, so I win no matter how this resolves. If you want me to stop death from occurring later, you’ll need to provide me a death now. Sacrifice a life on my altar and then I may intercede.
May? Kill someone in the temple and the god may intercede? That’s a terrible proposition, and a galling task that Alua wouldn’t even contemplate.
“You look upset,” Harold said. “Which means it worked. What did he say?”
“He wants me to murder someone on the altar before he’ll even consider interceding.” It didn’t occur to her to filter that message until Harold was st
orming out of the temple. “Where are you going?”
She chased after and found him holding his sword to Cedril’s throat. “In you go,” he said.
“Absolutely not!” Alua yelled. “We are not sacrificing Cedril on Thanaker’s altar!”
Cedril’s face turned as white as his robe when Alua said that. Prince Ploth came running out of the temple next. “I hope you aren’t planning a sacrifice,” he said to the group. “Such barbaric customs are outlawed here.”
Harold laughed ostentatiously. “Gods forbid something barbaric should happen here in your little filth pit!” He pushed Cedril away and re-sheathed his sword. “Your god wants a sacrifice, Ploth. Are you saying no to that?”
“Thanaker does not honor sacrifices,” Prince Ploth replied. “He ends every conversation asking for a sacrifice. It’s always a trick. We’ve learned that the hard way.”
“So this was a waste of time then?” Harold asked.
“I’m sorry Thanaker did not answer your prayers. However, I do hope your visit with our people was nonetheless valuable.”
Alua was heartbroken. She had hoped against hope to persuade the death god to help them, and stave off any trip into the swamp. Instead she had failed. What could she have possibly said differently?
“Prince Ploth,” she said, “this visit was enlightening. Thank you for showing us your kingdom and introducing us to your people. May we visit the medical hut once more before we leave?”
It would anger Harold, but she didn’t care. She needed to feel like she accomplished something before she left here. Besides, Cedril was still shaking from his near-sacrifice experience. Healing some ogres might steady his nerves.
The group went back to the medical hut. Alua reached in her bag for more healing herbs, pulling away the fuddlemint first. She went to give them to a particularly sick looking ogre. The green man was coughing profusely, his whole body wracking with each cough. He had a small paunch — far from the large healthy gut other ogres had. Alua prepared to put some healing herbs into the man’s mouth when someone grabbed her by the wrist.
“Don’t,” Harold said. “This man needs more than healing herbs. We should take him back to Havenstock where he can get real medical attention.”
Alua was dumbfounded. Harold had never shown any empathy as long as she had known him.
He won’t live, a voice said to Alua’s mind. It was Ze, the goddess of life.
“Harold,” Alua said, “he’s terminally ill.”
That’s not what she said, came Thanaker’s voice.
Why were the gods arguing inside her head? This was new territory for her. She didn’t realize that each god could hear what the others said to her.
Next thing she knew, Harold had lifted the ogre from his stretcher and carried him outside the tent. “Prince Ploth,” Harold said, “we would like to escort your subject back to Havenstock. With your blessing, we will try to heal his ailment there.”
The prince consulted with the head nurse in ogrish for a while, which Alua did not understand. When he returned, he agreed. “We regret that we are unable to cure Grum of his illness. We are grateful for your assistance. Thank you, Sir Harold.”
“I just hope this small gesture has a profound effect on our nations’ rapports,” Harold said, shaking the prince’s hand.
***
Just as Harold had suspected, Thanaker was not the answer to their problems.
Quest Update: Undead End
Thanaker refused to stop the swamp witch from raising the dead. Now you must stop the witch yourself!
Reward: 500 XP
“We’ve come far enough south that the swamp should be directly west of here,” Harold said, carrying Crum (or whatever his name was) over his shoulder. The group trudged west until the Ogrelands were invisible on the horizon. Then Harold placed the ogre onto the ground. “Ok, Crummy, ride’s over.”
“Harold,” Cedril said, taking the ogre over his shoulder, “this man is too weak to walk all that distance.” He limped along, helping the sick man walk the best he could. The emaciated ogre coughed blood into the wind as he walked, flecking Cedril’s robe with red droplets.
“Then you take him,” Harold said.
Alua stopped walking. “What are you playing at?”
“The King is so fond of these obese subhumans, let’s see how much he adores one on death’s door. They’re disgusting vile cretins that can’t even care for their ill. If he keeps inviting them into Havenstock, they’ll realize they can send us all of their sick to heal. They’ll bankrupt us.”
“You have no intention of healing Grum. You’d better hope you survive our visit with the swamp witch because with your karma, Januar may not bring you back after death.”
“You want to take him all the way back to the Ogrelands, be my guest. Your King doesn’t want you going off alone though. You are just a fragile Medium after all. I’m looking out for Havenstock. I want the King to realize we shouldn’t spend our resources helping other races. Not when the elves have built a powerful army in the forest of Diardenna. We should do the same before they see how vulnerable we are.”
Alua resumed walking and hurried to catch up to the group. “The elves are not a bellicose race,” she said, reaching inside her bag for something. Harold walked right up to her and snatched her bag out of her hands.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Healing him,” Alua said. “I have it on good authority that he’s too ill to make this trek.”
The trek isn’t the problem, Thanaker said. Alua shook her head to clear her thoughts. Thanaker had tried to trick her once today, she wouldn’t fall for his subterfuge again.
Harold dug into Alua’s bag and pulled out a dense handful of vegetation. “You’re not wasting our healing herbs on an ogre,” he said. “I want the King to see this disease before we heal him up and send him back to the Ogrelands.” Harold kept Alua’s collection of herbs and handed back her bag. He had pushed her pretty hard on this trip and he saw real hatred in her eyes. He wondered what she’d be capable of if push came to shove.
“We keep walking,” Harold said. “We need to find the swamp witch and get back to Havenstock before this day is over.” He turned and kept walking west, toward the trench that had been the River Rove. The others followed. They had to. Two intelligence builds and an ailing ogre would be too vulnerable to random mobs without Harold’s strength on their side.
What was Alua planning to feed that ogre anyway? Harold leafed through the wad of greens he confiscated. Healing herbs, and what was the other thing? He sniffed at it and felt disoriented. Fear, anger, and sadness all swirled around in his mind for a brief moment. This must be fuddlemint! A few nibbles of this would inflict a wicked mental debuff. He was glad he intervened before that ogre ate the wrong thing and went bonkers.
The group trudged west, over another unsteady footbridge, and left the grasslands behind them. The sky quickly darkened as they entered the swamp, a thick layer of black clouds blocking the early evening sun. Dark shapes leapt back and forth in the distance. Some swamp monster no doubt, but it was impossible to see their features in the low light. Harold set a course to avoid the shapes. They were either dangerous or a waste of time.
The ground was wet and their feet sank into the watery terrain with each step. Occasionally Harold’s foot pressed far enough into the ground that water poured into the sabaton covering his foot from the small gap between it and the greaves covering his shins. Unexpectedly, he stepped in a larger puddle that did some actual damage.
>> Poisoned! You lose 10 HP.
In some places, it seemed, the swamp water was more vile than in others. “Cedril!” Harold said in a low voice, careful to avoid drawing attention to their group. “Tell me you can cure the poison I just picked up.”
“I can, actually.” Cedril held out his hand and a small ball of white light escaped his palm. It settled on Harold and purified his blood. “If you’d like to avoid stepping in any more poison, I can ligh
t the way.”
“By all means,” Harold said, and watched Cedril send out another ball of light. It bobbed ahead of them illuminating the swamp just enough that Harold could see which stagnant swamp shallows to avoid. The others followed single file behind him, with Cedril still supporting the sick ogre.
Harold shot his arm out to signal his team to halt. Some dark shape was moving toward them. A person? No, a Level 34 Zombie. They must be getting closer to the swamp witch now. Harold drew his sword out, ready. As the zombie got closer the light from Cedril’s illumination spell lit up its face, or what was left of it. An entire cheek was missing, providing a window into the walking corpse’s mouth. Its few teeth were black with decay.