Having already talked his way past their lookouts on the first floor without inflicting any casualties, Roark knew that though these Kobolds were aggressive, as good and proper mobs should be, they weren’t unreasonable. Simple creatures, true, but not animals. And he felt a particular affinity toward them. He’d started out just as these poor souls, trapped in a scraggly, awkward little body and struggling to survive, and he would help them if he could. In fact, he fully intended to offer the Dungeon Lord—if they had one—a diplomatic olive branch.
“Hello there,” Roark said, raising his claw-tipped hands, showing he held no weapons.
“Watcha want, huh?” the creature growled at him, his beady eyes narrowed, fangs protruding from his reptilian jaws. “You mob like us? Why you here? Challenge? We have no lord. No ruler. No challenge. You, go away.” He shooed at Roark with a free hand.
“No, mate,” Roark said. “I’m not here to challenge. I’m actually here to help you, I think. I’m looking for a creature... a thing that doesn’t belong. I have reason to believe it may have moved into your cave system. It’s a mob that might look like you but is not one of you.” He paused, edging closer. “I’ve heard that it might be hurting your people.”
The Kobold retreated a step, cocking his head to one side as he considered Roark’s words, spidery fingers drumming on its stick. “The outsider? What you want with outsider, huh?”
“I’m hunting it. If I manage to kill it, it will respawn away from your cave system. It will move on, find a new dungeon to hunt. You and your kinsmen will be safe. And then my companion and I will be out of your hair.” He eyed the Kobold’s scaly, bald head. “So to speak,” he added with a grin.
The Kobold dithered, shifting uncertainly from foot to foot before finally nodding its assent. “Okay. I show you. But be careful. Dangerous.” The kobold turned, waved for them to follow, and hobbled off deeper into the cave system, past the rest of the little mud huts, and toward another branch, which ran away from the far side of the cavern proper. Distrustful eyes followed them, peeking from doorways. Kobolds watching the strange procession.
Their guide led them for another five minutes down the winding tunnel until it finally came to a deep fissure in the cavern wall that connected to a wide, circular hollow twenty feet across. Inside, there were no quaint homes of mud and sticks, no campfires burning, no streams burbling. There were bones, though. Piles and piles of them strewn among other bits and pieces of debris. Many of those bones appeared to be from heroes, unlucky enough to stray this far into the tunnel system, but others were smaller, more reptilian. Kobold remains, at a guess.
In the center of the hollow, staring at them through the fissure with sunken, beady eyes, was a Kobold, no different from the others Roark had seen.
Their guide faltered outside the fissure; its inhuman face was hard to read, but Roark thought he saw fear etched into its scaly features.
“Me will go no farther.” The Kobold grimaced, shook its head, then turned and left them to the timid-looking creature in the cave beyond.
“Have you ever fought a Grapple?” Zyra asked quietly, pulling her Cursed Longknives from dual sheaths.
“No,” Roark replied. “The eyewitness reports weren’t very clear, but I’m sure we can take it. Though try not to kill it too fast—I need it to transform in front of me if I’m going to gain its special skill.”
“Kill, but slowly,” she said in confirmation. “I can do that.”
Together they padded through the fissure, Roark ducking his head to avoid scraping his horns on the craggy surface of the low ceiling.
“Not sure if you understand me,” he said, raising his hands to show he meant no harm, just as he had with the other Kobolds. “But I don’t mean you any harm. I was hoping to talk with you. Maybe ask a small favor of you.”
The lone Kobold didn’t shuffle forward, didn’t make any sort of aggressive movements. Instead, it hooted affably, offering Roark a toothy smile as it waved him on with one hand. He glanced at Zyra over one shoulder, shrugged, and edged a little closer, his boots crunching on chips of yellowed bone. The creature hooted more energetically, seemingly ecstatic about Roark’s approach. Roark faltered for a beat, one hand instinctively dropping to the pommel of his rapier. He licked his lips, deliberately pulled his hand away, and pressed on. He didn’t want to alarm this thing, not if he could avoid it—though as he got closer and closer, worry bloomed inside his gut like a rose on the high steppes.
This thing looked benign, but every survival instinct in him screamed that he should be running, not drawing closer. There was nothing for it, however. If he wanted to see the creature’s transmutation in action, he would have to risk getting within striking distance.
He was five feet out when the odd Kobold stopped its energetic chirping, its arms falling limply by its sides. Its sinuous smile slipped from his face, replaced instead by a look that Roark could only describe as hungry.
In an instant the creature surged forward on all fours, changing as he moved: growing and bubbling out, its arms and legs expanding by the second.
Roark leapt back, scrambling for his rapier, but the Grapple was ungodly fast and plowed into him before he could free his blade from its sheath. The creature, no longer a Kobold, but a blob of gray skin and black shifting light, hit him like a battering ram, blasting Roark from his feet and hurling him through the air. Zyra danced out of Roark’s way just the barest instant before he could sideswipe her. She darted in, her longknives flashing with deathly light.
Roark slammed into the stone wall of the hollow. The breath rushed from his lungs all at once, and he crumpled to the floor in a heap, stars dancing at the edges of his vision.
A message appeared as the white starbursts finally stared to wink out and die away.
[You have witnessed the special Grapple ability Polymorph: Shape Form, Kobold. Would you like to add this special ability to your Change Yourself, Change Your Friends, Change the World: Transmutation Tricks Grimoire? Yes/No?]
Roark grinned despite the pain in his chest and back. Success.
He accepted and dismissed the parchment with a thought, then struggled to his feet. In front of him was the Grapple, now fully transformed. Roark had seen any number of odd creatures during his time in Hearthworld, but this was by far the strangest.
A blob of translucent sludge, more or less man-shaped, though it had four arms instead of the customary two, and no two limbs were the same. One arm looked like it might’ve belonged to a wolfman, while another had an enormous crab claw jutting from the end. A third had long, webbed, batlike fingers, and the final one kept shifting between the arm of a rog and the azure skin of a dark elf. One leg could’ve come from a Behemoth Thursr, while the other was the tail of a Naga. Patches of fur in various hues sprouted from random places, and a horde of bones floated inside its goopy torso without any real rhyme or reason. It boasted a tooth-filled maw located beneath a single ruby eye the size of Roark’s fist. Another entry for his nightmare vault.
Zyra, though, seemed entirely unconcerned.
She danced around the grotesque, slashing it with her blades and raking at it with poisoned claws, eating through its glowing Health vial with ease. The creature hit hard, but it was ponderously slow—at least in comparison to Zyra’s lithe movements and uncanny grace. Roark had simply been caught off guard, but now that he’d earned what he’d come for, it was time to put the thing down and get back to the citadel.
He summoned his Initiate’s Spell Tome, the pages flipping to his fifth-level spells. He had the perfect spell, ready and waiting. Aiming an open palm at the creature, he unleashed Rain of Fire. A red thunderhead appeared above the Grapple, swirling and churning, crimson lightning arcing in the unnatural cloud.
A pained howled ripped through the air as molten rain fell and the creature burned.
Board Meeting from Hell
THE ALARM RANDY SHOEMAKER set for himself began beeping in his ear just as Roark the Griefer was gathering up the fi
ve anomalies he spent the most time with. It seemed like one of those Gathering of the Team moments from movies, where everybody talks over the plan, then they all get geared up and go defeat the big bad.
Randy would’ve liked to listen in. There was something so addictive about following around a group of friends. Listening to their banter and discussions. Sharing in their inside jokes—like the ongoing tension between Roark and Zyra or the friendly comradery between Kaz and Mac, Griff and Mai. It was almost like having friends yourself.
But he had to tear himself away because today he somewhere to be. That alarm was his two-hour warning before the board meeting. It had been a week. Now it was time to give an update to the board.
Randy logged out, then climbed out of the Deep Dive capsule, standing beside it for a few minutes with one hand on the console to steady himself. It always took him a little bit to readjust to the pull of gravity and get his equilibrium reacquainted with the real world.
When the floor finally stopped reeling uncertainly beneath him, he took a quick scan of the VIP lounge, searching for any new—and potentially unfriendly—faces. Thankfully, the room was empty.
Not totally surprising, since this lounge was a special place, reserved only for the most important people: VPs, executives, or high-profile clients the top brass hoped to woo.
Plush carpets in deep grays lined the floors, while the walls were immaculately white, accented with clean lines of gray, black, and chrome. The furniture was all white—posh and terribly uncomfortable looking, though undoubtedly expensive. The wall adjacent to the entryway door was one giant Vidscreen, though it was currently off since the room was unoccupied. A fireplace, lifeless and cold, was built into the left wall; in front of it were a pair of white-leather club chairs and a shaggy black rug as big as Randy’s living room. The right wall boasted a full bar along with a sleek chrome expresso machine, perfect for an afternoon pick-me-up.
It was nothing even remotely similar to the employee lounge. They were planets apart.
Frankly, Randy didn’t care for the modern décor, nor the classy furniture. But the line of Deep Dive pods, like futuristic coffins, running off to the left of his pod, made this strange place a treasure more valuable than even the best loot Hearthworld had to offer.
When he could walk around without tripping, he hurried into the executive bathroom, which was equipped with a number of private showers. He slipped into a marble-and-glass monstrosity that was larger than his entire bathroom and tapped the button for the preprogrammed Shower Option 1, a quick, but thorough wash. When he was done, he stepped out of the shower cubicle, dried off, and dressed as quickly as he could in a spare set of clothes he’d brought with him from home. He dressed plainly. Dark, professional no-nonsense slacks, a cream button up, and brown penny loafers. He also sported a clear pocket protector, crammed with pens and markers, but he’d been wearing it long before they were “ironically” hip.
He stopped by the VIP bar and found a variety of snacks, ready and waiting. There were pre-sliced bagels, along with a black automatic toaster, some blueberry muffins, and several yogurt containers chilling in a white bowl full of ice.
He opted instead for a package of cold Pop Tarts, a request he’d made upon earning access to the lounge. No better way to start the day than a Pop Tart.
He checked his watch and bolted the Pop Tarts down one right after another.
That last bit started to seem like a mistake as soon as he finished the second pastry. The sugary food sat like a stone in his gut as he left the lounge and made his way back to his glass-fronted office, where he should be gathering and compiling his notes for this morning’s meeting. Except, he didn’t really have notes to compile; there were statistics, yes, and data points worth touching on... but it was all raw information, with no conclusions. He had no idea what he was supposed to tell the board. They were going to expect concrete answers, but after a week observing and gathering information on the modders, Randy had more questions than ever.
He considered himself a man of logic and order. He was a huge fan of inductive reasoning. You gathered data, and that data led you to conclusions. That was how the world should always work. But Randy had gathered and gathered and gathered the pieces of this puzzle, both from a detective standpoint and the standpoint of a programmer, and still none of the pieces fit together.
There was something missing. Some bit of information that would complete the puzzle and make all the rest of the pieces fit together logically. He just had to find it. Once he had that missing piece, he could go about figuring out how to fix the anomaly.
Randy kept his head down, trying to avoid eye contact as he made his way past the staff lounge, which was directly adjacent to his office. Unlike the chic and sleek VIP lounge, the employee lounge housed the ping-pong table, an oversized leather couch, and a seventy-inch vidwall. It was a place employees went to “unwind.” A place to play video games. To “hang out.” Or “jam.” Frontflip Studios was one of those types of companies. A place where there was no formal dress policy. Where people wore blue jeans and flip-flops to work. Frontflip insisted it “inspired an atmosphere of creativity.”
At least, that was how it was pitched to the worker bees, like Randy. He didn’t expect to see a flip-flop anywhere in sight during this morning’s brief—just expensive suits and angry scowls.
He grabbed his coffee cup off his desk, filled it up, and gulped the scalding hot liquid down while he logged into his InfiniTab Office Pro. Quickly, he scrolled through the notes he’d sent himself while in-game, searching for any connections he might have missed. But there was nothing. No smoking gun. No flash of brilliance or insight. He sighed, printed off a few pages so he at least had the appearance of preparedness, then headed out of his office.
Danny, the sharp-dressed, ever-popular Marketing director, ambushed him as he stepped into the corridor.
“Heyo, Rando!” he said, leaning out of his door and shooting him with a finger gun. “Lame board meeting today. Such a drag, amiright?”
“Whatever, Danny,” Randy mumbled under his breath.
Danny stepped out of his office, cocking an ear toward him. “What’d you say?”
Randy’s face flamed. “Nothing. Just clearing my throat.”
“Well, grab a lozenge, bud, it’s your party today,” Danny said, slapping him on the back too hard to be friendly. “Can’t have a frog in your throat for your big report.”
“Right,” Randy offered weakly, icy fingers of dread creeping through his system as he headed for the conference room and his almost certain doom.
“See you in there, buddy,” Danny called after him. “Save me a seat!”
The receptionist, a young man named Berkley with a haircut that cost more than the best suit in Randy’s closet, sent him in straight away. This was an emergency meeting with only one item on the agenda, so there wasn’t any chance he would overhear important stockholder information.
Randy took a seat near the middle of the table, far enough back that he was certain he wasn’t taking any of the regulars’ seats, and went over his notes again one final time while the board filtered in. None of them spoke to Randy. He wasn’t important enough to attract their notice or ballsy enough to talk to them first like Danny, who came in and immediately went up to Mr. Silva, the CEO and majority shareholder of Frontflip Studios, shaking his hand and talking about a great golf game he’d had.
Opposite Randy sat the company’s COO, Asif Kamal Totah, in quiet discussion with Paula Menchaca, their CFO. Eventually Danny took a seat next to the head of HR, Susan Span, and started flirting with her.
The most powerful people in the company were all sitting in this room, waiting to hear from him. Randy swallowed hard. Right then, facing down a dungeon full of Final Evolution Bloodleeches seemed like a much less intimidating way to spend the morning.
At exactly 9:05 a.m., Mr. Silva rapped his knuckles on the table.
“I’ve got a flight to Hong Kong in two hours, so let’s get
right into it.” He pointed down the table at Danny. “How are we sitting with the Hearthworld numbers?”
Danny clicked his pen and sat forward. “No change, sir. We haven’t started losing money—yet—but it looks like that initial spike of new subscriptions has hit the plateau. We’re expecting it to fall off the cliff any day now.”
Mr. Silva nodded. “Shoemaker. How close are we to eliminating these modders?”
“Uh, well, sir,” Randy started. “You see, the way the modders are interacting with the established code—”
“I don’t want to hear about the anomalies in the code,” Mr. Silva cut him off. “I want timeframes to fixes. Do you have a timeframe, Shoemaker?”
“I—without knowing exactly what the modders are—”
“So no timeframe,” Mr. Silva said. He grabbed up a piece of paper and checked something. “You logged a hundred and eleven hours this week, fifty-eight of them overtime. What the hell were you doing in there, Shoemaker? Playing on company time?”
“N-no, sir, I—”
“Because for a hundred and eleven hours—fifty-eight of which I’m paying you time and a half—I expect results, not”—he threw the paper back down—“fuck all.”
Randy swallowed past the sharp lump in his throat. “Sir, there is still the option of making the areas around the Troll Nation and the Vault of the Radiant Shield into restricted areas.”
The CFO sat forward, a shake of her head flipping shining brown hair over her shoulder. “Excuse me, but what is the Troll Nation? Your original report says that the Vault of the Radiant Shield and the Cruel Citadel were the locations of the prime anomalies.”
“They were, ma’am,” Randy said. “And the citadel still is, but this Roark the Griefer changed it. He founded a settlement there for the Trolls whose code he’s infected and named it Troll Nation.”
Troll Nation Page 20