Patch 17 (Realm of Arkon)

by G. Akella

  But as the saying goes, courage is not the absence of fear but the ability to overcome it. This took me several seconds. It's not that I was a particularly brave individual; rather, I really didn't give a damn. Losing twenty percent of my levels and taking a trip back to the graveyard at Lamorna wasn't the worst thing that could happen. In fact, I'd personally been through worse just in the past several days. Of course, it would suck to lose time and my gear. It was unlikely that I'd find this place again, so retrieving it could be a problem.

  Anyway, like another wise man once said, when your back is against the wall, strike while it's hot! Wait... no, that wasn't right. Do what you can, and let the cards fall where they may. Yep, that was it. And in my case, the best thing I could do was not get in the way—back in Lamorna the karriga had clearly demonstrated my lacking defensive capabilities, and I didn't want a repeat of the same. What I could do was assist on the target that was already being attacked. There was no way I could steal aggro from level 200+ NPCs.

  The combat mechanics of RPG games, which featured groups and raids completing dungeons and various quests, hardly changed in the past thirty-forty years.

  Every raid comprised three roles:

  Tanks—players whose role it was to keep the attention of bosses or mobs, drawing more aggro than the other players and thus protecting the rest of the group or raid from sustaining damage.

  Healers—characters who restored and maintained the health of the group or raid during combat.

  And finally, dps (damage per second)—characters whose main function was to deal damage to enemy players, NPCs(mobs) and bosses.

  Any NPC, whether a boss or a regular mob, attacked whichever player was at the top of their aggro list, i.e. the one they found most annoying. Tanks were well equipped to draw the mob's hatred with special attacks, though other actions, like dealing damage or healing allies, drew aggro as well. Every NPC or boss was programmed with a particular pattern of behavior in battle, usually broken down by phases, and guided by several AIs that operated within their own sets of rules. Lamorna's karriga, for instance, had basically just wanted to split, and had attacked me automatically as the weakest link, completely ignoring the mage that was unleashing a lightning bolt at its side. There were also more cunning NPCs. But at the end of the day, any battle essentially came down to the tank being able to keep the boss' attention with special tricks while the dps wreaked havoc and the healers kept the raid alive.

  If for whatever reason the tank lost aggro, allowing the boss to break loose and start beating on the squishy healers and dps, in most cases the result was a wipe, that is the entire raid dying.

  As the players respawned at a nearby graveyard, the arguing and finger-pointing commenced: the tank cursing the dps that had stolen aggro from him, the dps blaming the hapless tank, and the healers slamming both the tank and the dps for good measure. Eventually everyone would rebuff and start the process all over again.

  With my laughably low level, however, it was virtually impossible to steal aggro from the legionnaires or the coachmen, as their damage output was incomparable to mine.

  "Everybody, dismount and get in the middle! I've got the leader, so heals on me, Ylsan!" Spurring his lizard, Lirrak slipped past our yaks as they drew right next to the wagon in front, obeying Harn's shouts and whip. The demon hopped off, ripped the shield off his back and bared his sword. The remaining nine legionnaires were pulling up on all sides, assuming combat form on the go.

  Bow-strings snapped, unleashing feathery death at the attackers. Two worgen dropped to the ground, and then the entire pack howled. It was a revolting, plangent howl that seemed to penetrate every cell of my brain; I also noticed the grimace on Rioh's face as he kept firing arrows at the worgen. Harn swore loudly, followed by the clanging of iron and the swooshing of steel slicing through the air as the legionnaires, having assumed a kind of wedge formation and put forward their shields, bore the brunt of the pack's attack. The roars, battle cries and squeals of wounded beasts all blended into a terrible medley. The coachmen—still in their regular form—had managed to release no more than four-five arrows at the half-wolves before the attackers had closed in, and were now firing at them at point-blank range.

  Four worgen broke through the ranks and to our wagon. One collapsed on the ground with a sob and two arrows in his nape; the remaining three tried to hop onto the wagon; and one of the three succeeded. Unsheathing their swords, Harn and Rioh engaged the beast before it even landed. Alas, hunters were terrible at close range, and the worgen's health bar was about two thirds full. With a howl, the monster landed a mighty blow that threw Harn off the wagon and into the paws of its kin. And at that point, I joined the battle at last.

  My Tongue of Flame struck the worgen with fiery and icy flourishes, knocking a little over fifteen hundred HP out of his fifty thousand. Not bad! I wrinkled my nose at the stench coming from him, while continuing to land blows that ripped his leather armor to shreds. I heard Harn shouting down below, fighting two enemies at once, his health bar already dipping into yellow. Rioh wasn't faring much better. Finally, I lucked out when my icy blade procced a freeze, turning the worgen into an ice statue, from his ears to the tip of his tail, for five whole seconds.

  Hopping off the wagon, Rioh rushed to his father's aid. Pulling out his bow quick as lightning, he fired point-blank at the Harn's opponents, while I finally managed to finish off the would-be snowman. The killing blow broke the armor, tore through the brown fur and split open the ribcage. And yes, it was as graphic and unpleasant a sight as it sounds.

  I drew away from the puddle of blood spreading along the wagon's bottom and looked around. In front of the caravan, the red-eyed pack leader was frantically attacking Lirrak, who was blocking the attacks with his shield while goading the beast. Several legionnaires and the commander's reptilian mount were attacking him from the sides. Still standing in his own wagon, Ylsan threw up his hands periodically, a greenish glow emanating from them, while the rest were finishing off the few surviving worgen. A horse was convulsing in agony before our wagon, its throat ripped open. A little to the side, Rioh was working over his father sitting on the ground, bandaging his wounds.

  My blood pumped with adrenaline, demanding the "show to go on." I teleported to the pack leader and began helping the legionnaires hack away at the howling beast. Eight million HP—goddamn! And that was just the remaining third of his health bar! My feet nearly slipped on some glaucous scraps; the scents of dog's flesh and blood were overwhelming. A few times when I didn't jump back in time the wolf knocked me to the ground with his torso, and once I was nearly trampled by Lirrak's own lizard.

  I was out of control. Having lost my grip on reality, I kept hacking away, getting up and hacking some more. When my energy inevitably ran out, I gulped down a green potion and resumed my rotation: Tongue of Flame, Ice Blade...

  When the monster's health bar reached ten percent, he threw up his head and howled. It was the kind of howl that made all his previous wailing seem like nursery rhymes as compared to death metal.

  "Everybody, get back!" I heard the caravan's commander's shout from afar. "Archers, finish him off."

  I jumped twenty yards to the side, and just in time, too, as huge black spikes stuck out of the monster's sides, and he started spinning in place like an urchin out of some nightmare. The hunters continued pelting the boss from a safe distance, each arrow plunging into the target with a sickening crunch, while Ylsan kept topping off Lirrak's health as he continued tanking. As for me and the other legionnaires, we simply stood by and watched. Lirrak's lizard, having taken too long to move away, was also nearby, panting and licking its side, ripped open by the spikes. Its health bar had dropped to half, but the mount would be as good as new soon enough. Finally, sprouting arrows like a porcupine, the beast collapsed on the ground, wheezing in agony.

  Obviously, I didn't get any experience for the kill since I hadn't been invited to any raid. And in order to get the experience in this scenario
, I would need to deal the most damage to the boss. Alas! My first real battle didn't bring me any experience or loot. But truthfully, I wasn't upset at all. In fact, I was happy to have gone through it. What did concern me slightly was the fact that I had seemed to have lost my head there for a while, succumbing to adrenaline rage. I had never experienced anything like that before.

  A sudden wave of weariness came over me. Why does everything hurt?! I grimaced and sat on the ground. I glanced at my HP bar—it was over two thirds full. When did I manage to get hit? Swearing through my teeth, I reached for a healing potion, but Ylsan preempted me. A cool wave of freshness washed over me, lifting the pain and the fatigue. I got back up to my feet, grabbing onto the offered hand.

  "Sure you're a mage, Krian?" the healer regarded me musingly, shaking his head. "You don't look like a light one either. The way you blocked the pain... Though I did read that we're not the only ones who can do that."

  Blocked? Uh huh. It was my 33% to toughness, but it wasn't like I could explain it to an NPC. But it did illustrate that losing one third of your life for an extended period of time was entirely bearable. In fact, I didn't even really notice it while in combat. What was the limit, I wondered? And what would happen when that limit was reached? Would I convulse in a pain shock or simply pass out? I wasn't looking forward to it—I never was a masochist and I didn't feel like experimenting now.

  "What do you mean by 'blocking the pain?'" I asked the mage. I had to say something—he was clearly expecting an answer.

  "Just like a hartoga that got its paw broken. The creature isolates the paw from the rest of its nervous system while it heals. You weren't in our party, and I didn't see that you needed heals. But you fought through the pain and made it. Well done."

  I didn't know what a hartoga was, but I got the gist of what he was saying. Could that be the reason why I had fought with such abandon, and not my toughness? Nah, doubtful.

  I looked around. The legionnaires were chatting quietly while looting. The hunters were deftly skinning the red-eyed wolf. Those who had never witnessed such a spectacle would never understand why it nearly turned me inside out. An animal carcass being worked by men with knives and elbows deep in blood! Like proper residents of the Medieval Times: caught, killed, and skinned. We weren't expected to eat the wolf meat, were we? At least worgen couldn't be skinned, otherwise I would surely lose my dinner. And there was another weird thing: relieving oneself wasn't allowed, but puking—sure, knock yourself out. I thanked the mage and started toward my wagon, away from the hunters and their wretched smells. I slipped on somebody's entrails, and nearly retched for the umpteenth time. I pulled out my flask and took a hearty swig. Phew, much better...

  Upon making it to the wagon, I shoved the dead half-wolf out and retook my former spot, trying to avoid the blood on the floor that had nearly dried. Thankfully, there weren't any mirrors around—I could only imagine what I looked like. No matter, the clothes and the armor would self-clean in eight hours.

  That particular feature I'd learned from experience, after accidentally spilling wine on my shirt sleeve on the first day of our journey. By morning the stain was gone, and the shirt was as good as new. This must have been somehow connected to the vanishing of discarded items. At some point, this principle had been introduced to keep the littering in the game in check.

  The coachmen came back ten minutes later, engaged in a lively discussion. If their task had to be done in the real world, it probably would have taken them half the day. But they made for quite a sight just the same.

  "Where else am I going to earn twenty gold for half an hour's work?" Rioh bent over the worgen carcass I had thrown out of the wagon. "Another silver!" he tossed the coin and caught it.

  "You're still young," Harn wiped his hands—still stained with the pack leader's blood—on his pants and looked around for his whip. "It was a miracle they didn't rip us apart. Who needs gold when your guts are spilling out of you?" Having finally found his whip, he shouted at the yaks to move back, giving some room to the anterior wagon.

  "Why do you need this one's hide?" I pointed at the skinned carcass.

  "It will sell for about fifty coins—either to some merchant or to Master Rius, one of the court's mages. Whether they turn it into a scarecrow or whatever, I don't know, and it's none of our business really. But they will pay for it."

  Obeying Lirrak's command, Harn guided the wagon to the middle of the road.

  The caravan's commander pulled up to us on his two-legged croc and handed me some gold.

  "Twenty one coins," he said to me, "your share of the loot. Thanks for your help."

  I nodded and accepted the money. I couldn't well refuse the first gold I'd actually earned, now could I?!

  "What is that structure we're heading to?"

  "An inn, by the looks of it. The kind that's often placed along roads. We'll know for sure when we get closer," he said and set his lizard toward the head wagon.

  We were joined by one of the legionnaires—the one whose horse ended up being torn to pieces.

  "Ser, how much do you get paid per service contract?" Rioh asked him without preamble.

  "My name is Zaran," he smacked the boy on the shoulder. "One silver per day when on the road, and twenty five copper in between assignments. All in all, almost two gold per month. Plus your fair share of the loot. How much did you and your father make today? Thought so!" he smiled.

  "Moving out!" Lirrak shouted, and the wagons began picking up speed, moaning and groaning their way toward the solitary structure ahead.

  "What are you thinking, son?" Harn asked sternly, without turning around.

  "Come on, pop, how much did we make all of last year? Especially with all the undead crawling around the village lately?"

  "And when some beast separates your head from your body, how will all that gold help you?"

  "I've been with Lirrak for fifteen years, and we've never come across anything like today," the legionnaire stepped in for the boy. "Our squad hasn't lost a man in all those years. The guy you're replacing has moved out west to his family. He now works as Prince Shiren's steward."

  "Let him explain that to his mother," Harn waved dismissively at his son and turned around.

  It took us an hour to roll up to the structure, fenced off by a ten-foot-tall palisade. The scouts returned to report that the inn was empty, and the caravan began to slowly pull into the gate, the doors of which were lying on the ground nearby. I hopped off the cart while the soldiers and coachmen unsaddled the horses and yaks, hanging bags of grain to their muzzles. Behind the palisade was a spacious stables, two wells and a smithy some fifty feet away from the main buildings, evidently for fire safety considerations. A moat ran along the perimeter, filled with stagnant water and overgrown with reddish-brown seaweed. Standing on the inside of the wall were several wooden dais for archers. The main building was growing decrepit, its size roughly that of Kort's inn.

  "Where did all this come from?" I asked the mage as he examined carefully one of the gate's doors.

  "Ask me something easier," he shrugged. "It's my first time in a rift."

  "What's this?" Lirrak walked up to us, having dismounted his lizard.

  "Not clear. The doors are intact, but someone was clearly trying to break in," the mage motioned at the deep furrows in the wood. "And it wasn't our friend either," he added, evidently alluding to the slain pack leader, "but someone larger. I can't tell when it happened, there's a strange magical veil here," he cocked his head and looked at me. I shrugged, sensing no magic whatsoever. Isolated threads of power here and there, but no more. "The gate wasn't broken, but restoring it is going to be tough. See, the doors are all crooked, and the bindings have been removed," he finished.

  "We're not going to bother with that. We've got enough people to hold out, if need be," the commander dismissed the idea. "We'll sleep in the main hall; I doubt there's going to be any more trouble."

  The front door screeched, and I followed Ylsan insi
de. My throat began to tickle almost instantly from the raised billows of dust. The mage swore softly and uttered something, and the dust clouds were instantly blown out the window by a gust of wind. It was now possible to breathe.

  I looked around the place. It was completely deserted, with rickety and seemingly worthless furnishings. Several tables overturned, the staircase to the second floor crumbling, the bar of light brown wood stained with something black. Hanging lopsidedly off a single nail on the wall was a rural painting.

  True to the scouts' report, the place was empty of anyone living. And of anyone dead, thankfully. The legionnaires that had gotten here before us were hastily dragging the tables and staircase debris to the corners of the hall. One of the coachmen was starting up the fireplace with all the scattered fragments.

  "Zaran, Ghejt, check upstairs. Ylsan, cover them, just in case," Lirrak was the last to come inside. "You," he stuck a finger at the coachmen, "board up the windows."

  "There's a basement here," a soldier appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, gesturing behind him.

  "Let's check it out," the commander nodded.

  I still couldn't shake the foul taste of dust in my mouth. Feeling completely useless, I skirted Zaran as he aimed to hook a rope to the ceiling, and moved deeper into the dining hall. Everything seemed to be fine, except for the strange almond-like smell that stirred a feeling of unease.

  Oddly enough, nobody was rushing to sleep. The soldiers were spreading their beddings on the floor without any fuss. Back from the cellar with a small keg of something, Lirrak assigned night shifts and announced dinner. Ylsan appeared upstairs and, avoiding the hassle of climbing down the rope, simply teleported and reported that the second floor was all clear.

  "What's in the cellar?" he asked the commander.

  "Empty. A few split-open kegs and a pile of rotten vegetables. This," the demon patted on the keg he was carrying, "is all that's left."