by James Hunter
A tense, uneasy silence settled over us. We needed to talk about this, but it was obvious no one wanted to. It was one thing to complain about Osmark and grumble about the awful skirmishes, but it was another thing entirely to come up with a workable plan to oppose him.
“I think I have a solution or at least a direction for us to move in,” the chief said, breaking the quiet. “A word of warning, though. Following this course could be”—he faltered, eyes downcast as he picked needlessly at his robes—“dangerous. That crown you wear,” he said, waving toward my helm, a rough crown composed of chunks of polished jade and spikes of bone, “Dokkalfar legends speak of it. Though I’ve never seen it in the flesh, I am sure it is the Crown of the Jade Lord, yes?”
I nodded.
I’d acquired the crown as a loot drop from Gentleman Georgie, the former head of the Rowanheath Thieves’ Guild, who’d been corrupted by one of the black priests of Serth-Rog. The item itself was a phenomenal find and part of a rare armor set tailor-made for Dark Templars, and it came with a unique quest chain. According to my quest log, I was supposed to take the crown to the Dark Conclave and talk to them about some mysterious event known as “the Downfall.” With everything that’d happened over the past week, however, I hadn’t had the time.
“May I see it?” Chief Kolle asked, an uncharacteristic tremble to his words.
I frowned, confused, but slipped it from my head and handed it over with a shrug. The chief sat and stared at the crown for a long spell, running reverent fingers over the elegant metalwork and the yellowed bone, lingering on the pieces of jade. A single tear escaped and rolled down his cheek. An older Wode woman—her face worn and tired, her hair streaked heavily with silver—slipped into the room a moment later, giving me a much-needed distraction. The woman carried a heavy tray loaded down with a pot of steaming coffee and several porcelain mugs.
Quickly, she set about pouring drinks for everyone present.
I passed her a fat silver coin as a tip before she ghosted away, then turned to my cup, lifting it to my nose and taking a deep whiff of the rich aroma. The tension in my shoulders melted away in anticipation as I took that first sip, savoring the nutty, slightly bitter flavor. When I’d transitioned to VGO, I’d thought for sure coffee was one of those things I was giving up for good, and I was so incredibly happy to be wrong—even if the stuff did cost an arm and a leg to import. A notification screen popped up a second later:
∞∞∞
Buffs Added
Western Brew: Restore 150 HP over 30 seconds. Increase Health Regen by 18%; duration, 30 minutes.
Caffeinated: Base Intelligence increased by (5) points; duration, 30 minutes. Base Vitality increased by (3) points; duration, 30 minutes. Base Strength increased by (3) points; duration, 30 minutes.
Remember, with enough good coffee, all things are possible.
∞∞∞
I smiled and dismissed the notice with a thought. When I glanced back up, the chief was holding the crown out to me; the deep creases of his weather-beaten face were somehow content and sad all at once. “It is truly a wonder to see,” he said as I accepted the helm and slipped it back on. “I didn’t want to broach the subject until you were ready, Grim Jack, but the time is right, I think.”
“The time for what, exactly?” Abby asked, stealing a curious sidelong glance at the crown before taking a long sip from her cup.
“Time for Jack to meet with the Shadow Conclave and embark on the greatest quest of his life: a quest to unify the Storme Marshes and resurrect the Nangkri Dynasty. It is time for him to once again accomplish the impossible …” He faltered as he searched our faces, noting the dark purple bags under my eyes. “But, the Nangkri Dynasty has waited five hundred years. I think, perhaps, it will wait one more day. Go and sleep, all of you. Get your rest—you’ll need it to face the trials in store for us …”
FOUR:
Departure
I startled awake, eyes shooting open as I blinked against the sparse firelight coming from the wall-mounted candelabras. My heart thudded away, sweat dotted my forehead, and confusion raced through me as I tried to figure out where I was and how I’d gotten there. I thrust out a hand, groping at an oversized mattress and a set of silky soft sheets much nicer than anything I’d ever had IRL. I rolled onto my side and caught the shape of a body curled up not far away; a bob of brown hair and a set of bare shoulders poked out from the tangle of sheets and blankets.
Abby, I finally remembered as the shape of her body jarred me back into reality.
Hard to forget that.
We’d come back late, exhausted out of our minds, but restless. Anxious all the way down to our toes. And that restlessness had led to sleeplessness, which, in turn, had led to some light conversation. We talked food first: she reminisced about the best pizza place in the Valley—a little mom and pop place called Peppino’s—and I couldn’t help but remember the sub shop, Richie’s, off of El Cajon and Alabama. Just small things. Things we were homesick for. Books. Movies. Games. Places. Relatives.
Then, late in the night—during an idle chat about pie of all things—her mouth was suddenly on mine, her hands running through my hair, our bodies pressed together, our limbs tangled. Watching her sleep, I couldn’t help but smile. Of all the things that’d happened since coming to VGO, she was definitely the best part.
Pretty soon, we’d be clashing head-to-head with Osmark, going to war, but I couldn’t forget that all of this—my second chance at life and my second chance with Abby—was all thanks to him. I pushed the uncomfortable thought away and instead considered running a hand across her cheek. I resisted the urge, though, not wanting to wake her. Eventually, I sighed, pulled up my interface with a lazy yawn, and checked the time. 6:15 AM. Awfully early, but I had a full day ahead of me, so I reluctantly threw back the covers and slipped my legs over the edge of the plush mattress.
Abby stirred despite my best efforts, rolling over as her arms stretched and she blinked sleepily against the light. “Jack,” she murmured, “what time is it?”
“Just after six,” I replied, stifling another yawn.
She groaned, rolled over, and pulled the blanket up over her head. “No,” she protested, voice muted by the covers. “I don’t want it to be morning. A few more hours.”
“Does that mean you’ve decided to come with me today?” I asked, a playful edge to my words, though I already knew she was going to say no.
She groaned, rolled onto her back, and flipped back the blanket, glowering at me. “Har-har, Jack. I’d love to come with you, but if we both go gallivanting off on some wonky quest, who’s gonna run the faction, huh? This place would implode without one of us behind the wheel—though I’m going on the record right now. Next time there’s a crazy adventure or an awesome dungeon dive, I say you should have to stay behind and be the adult while I go out, kill the monsters, and backstroke through piles of loot and heaps of gold.”
I snorted and cocked an eyebrow at her. “You know that’s not how it ever happens. I vaguely recall being tied up by a giant spider, then eaten. Sucked dry like a juice box. Horrible is the understatement of the century. Believe me, adventuring isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“You say that now,” she growled, “but that’s only because you haven’t been stuck doing all the admin work for the faction. Stacks of paperwork a mile deep is worse than the Spider Queen.”
“Fair enough,” I said with a shrug, raising my hands in surrender. “So, are you at least going to get up with me? We could shower together,” I said casually.
She dived back under the covers, slipped onto her side, and curled into a ball. “Not on your life. The one upside to admin is I don’t have to be in the Command Center until eight. But good luck, Jack. Call me over the new chat feature once things get going.”
“Of course,” I replied, slipping from the bed, my feet touching down on one of the thick gray carpets littering the cold stone floors. I glanced around, still shocked by all the po
lished granite, gleaming chrome, and fancy art; my Master Suite in the Darkshard Keep looked like it belonged in an upscale New York penthouse. Somehow, though, it actually belonged to little ol’ me. I shook my head in disbelief and padded toward the bathroom, which boasted loads of stylish gray tile, glossy mirrors, a huge walk-in shower, and a tub large enough to qualify as a pool.
I stripped down and opted for a hot, steamy shower to clear my sleep-addled brain. The water, nearly scorching, washed away any lingering weariness and worked out the tension in my still-sore muscles, leaving me refreshed and sporting a new buff:
∞∞∞
Buffs Added
Well-Groomed: Restore 200 HP over 30 seconds. Goods and services cost 5% less and Merchant-Craft skills are increased by (1) level; duration, (4) hours.
∞∞∞
By the time I killed the water, the mirrors had fogged over and Abby was back asleep, snoring softly, her chest rhythmically rising and falling. I geared up and silently slipped from the room, using my Stealth ability to ensure I didn’t wake Abby a second time. The Keep’s halls were empty as I made my way down to the courtyard; it seemed folks around here were night owls instead of early risers. The kitchen staff, however, was up and already hard at work.I snagged a sweet roll in passing—the bread warm and soft, the icing sweet and creamy—and a cup of Western Brew, before hopping a ride via the stone port pad into Yunnam proper.
The town was a bit livelier than the Keep; the gunmetal-skinned Murk Elf residents were already up and about their business for the day. Folks were busy making and selling food—huge pots of rice boiled over low fires, and meat roasted on wooden spits—while crafters dutifully went about their business. Seamstresses worked away in the small shops set up below their stilted houses, and smiths worked at forges, the clang of steel ringing out in the early morning air. A handful of hawkers and peddlers—mostly Outlanders, new to Yunnam, brought in by the flood of new faction members—cried their wares at passersby: weapons, food, health potions, ingredients. Anything. Everything.
I avoided them all, weaving through the lightly packed street, greeting the villagers I knew and giving polite nods to those I didn’t, constantly scanning the passing faces. Searching for Cutter. I hadn’t seen him since leaving for Rowanheath a few days ago, and I wanted to have him along on this new quest. He was egotistical, petty, and often a pain in the ass, but he’d saved my neck more times than I’d care to count—not to mention, he really was the best thief the Alliance had. He’d begrudgingly decided to train our up-and-coming Rogues, but none of them held a candle to Cutter.
A fact Cutter was more than eager to point out to literally anyone who would listen, especially if mead or Law-jiu—Murk Elf rice wine—was involved.
I wound my way toward a new area the clansfolk were calling “the training ground,” which amounted to a shallow pit the size of a basketball court filled with gritty, gray swamp sand. The Keep now boasted an agility course, an archery range, and a melee ring, but Cutter preferred to work his recruits over on the training ground. He wouldn’t tell me why, but I suspected it had something to do with the fact that Amara—Huntress, badass, and daughter to the chief—lived within a stone’s throw from the site. Just a suspicion, but a persistent one.
I rounded a bend, passing by a gnarled tree hanging with glowing moss, and nearly ran headlong into the man I’d come looking for. He pulled up short, a scowl painted across his face. “Jack,” he said with a terse nod, “just who I was coming to find.”
“What’s up?” I asked, giving him a quick once-over. He was a Wode with the wiry build of a street brawler, short blond hair, and a strong jaw riddled with stubble. He wore dark leathers and a night-black cloak. A pair of daggers, etched with runes, were tucked into his belt. He looked terrible, though—purple bags hanging under his eyes, his clothes rumpled and stained with brown mud, while a spatter of blood decorated one cheek. “What the heck happened to you?”
He grunted, dropped his hands to his hips, and scowled at me, his forehead furrowed. “It’s that bloody Chief Kolle, is what it is. The ol’ bastard thought it’d be fun to send Amara and me off on a quest to round up a bunch of Feral Bog Wolves encroaching on the southern border.” He paused and took a furtive glance around. “Little did I know, Amara intended to use me as bait. Pig-headed woman nearly cost me a leg.” He slammed a hand against a thigh, showcasing some serious bloodstains. “She’s trying to kill me, Jack. I swear to all the gods she is. Just a bloody, awful woman.”
I smiled at him, slung an arm around his shoulders, and handed him what remained of my coffee—he certainly needed it more than I did. “She’s probably only returning the favor,” I said with a noncommittal shrug. “I warned you about tasking all your recruits with attempting to pickpocket her. Your chickens are coming home to roost, buddy.”
“Whose side are you even on?” he grumbled under his breath before taking a slug of the brew. “And what brings you down here, anyway?” he asked after a second. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me now that you’re a big-shot faction leader. You finally got something fun for us to do, eh? Something with gold? And loot? Please tell me there’s loot involved. I need more loot and gold in my life, Jack, especially after that debacle yesterday.”
I grinned, then launched into the story, telling him about the Jade Crown, our appointed meeting with the Dark Conclave, and the possibility of unifying the entire Storme Marshes under the Crimson Alliance Banner. Naturally, Cutter blanched when I told him both the chief and Amara would be accompanying us—at least for the first leg of the journey to the Dark Conclave—but mostly, he looked happy. Well, greedy might be a more accurate word, but for Cutter, happy and greedy were synonymous.
“Count me in, friend,” he said, rubbing his hands together in covetous glee. It took us half an hour to round up Amara and Chief Kolle, then another ten minutes to navigate our way to Yunnam’s Mystica Ordo, but then we were off. Heading for the Conclave headquarters, located deep in the heart of the deadly bog.
FIVE:
Ancient Tomb
“Down, Cutter,” I hollered as a [Spore Ape]—a huge gorilla-like creature covered in poisonous mushrooms—charged through the trees, the underbrush cracking and snapping as it ran. The thief threw himself into an agile roll, coming down in a pile of goopy muck, as I unleashed a burning Umbra Bolt at the incoming monster. The purple javelin of energy smashed into the Spore Ape’s sloping brow, knocking it off balance just long enough for Amara to hurl a conjured spear of black obsidian through the air, skewering the creature through the neck with brutal efficiency.
The snap-crack of a breaking branch caught my ear and I spun, ducking below an incoming haymaker, courtesy of another ape—this one more mushroom than monkey—before slamming my warhammer into its exposed barrel gut. I threw my weight into the attack, triggering Savage Blow, which cost me 20 Stamina but earned me a 25% damage boost and a 15% Critical Hit increase. Sadly, though, the creature’s spongy flesh absorbed the blunt force damage with ease, and its HP didn’t drop by more than a handful of points. I twirled my weapon and backtracked, sidestepping a lumbering jab, only to catch a brutal front kick in the gut.
My conjured Night Armor, wrapped snugly around me like a second skin, absorbed a big chunk of the damage, but the blow still left me bent over, clutching my stomach and wheezing for air. I stumbled back, an eyeblink away from triggering Shadow Stride and retreating to the safety of the Shadowverse, when a hail of arrows whizzed by—only inches from my face—sinking into fungus-covered flesh with ease. Spurts of green blood flew through the air as the creature toppled, its HP dropping to zero while a small cloud of mossy spores wafted up from its body.
I scampered away from the cloud—not interested in being infected with deadly jungle spores—and wheeled around searching for more of the incoming apes. A handful charged in from the rear, but Amara held them at bay with waves of arrow fire while the chief waded through their numbers like a tank, clad in conjured plate mail
of pale white bone inscribed with gleaming emerald runes. He lashed out with a gnarled staff of blackened swamp wood, cracking skulls and breaking arms with each blow. He twirled as an ape, missing one arm, bolted for him, throwing forward his free hand and unleashing a burst of pale-green light, which washed over the monster like the incoming tide.
The ape faltered, stumbled, and fell as its body decayed in double-speed, the mushrooms wilting and shriveling as flesh sloughed away, leaving only gleaming bone behind.
Wow. Necromancers were scary as hell.
In seconds, the rest of the Spore Apes were down, the threat dispatched as quickly as it’d come. I ambled over to Cutter and offered him a hand, hoisting him from the sludgy mud. He gained his feet with a struggle, scowling down at the muck splattered all over his pants and arms. “Bloody hell,” he said, his words dripping with disgust, “I hate this place. Why did I ever leave Yunnam? Why? Sure, Yunnam is awful, of course, but this part of the swamp is a thousand times worse. Mosquitos as big as hummingbirds, snakes as fat as trees, water that smells worse than the sewers beneath Rowanheath”—he scrunched up his nose—“not to mention these disgusting beasties.”
He trotted over to one of the dead Spore Apes, then crouched and riffled through its meager belongings. He grunted, stood, and planted a sharp kick in its ribs. “Ugly bastards don’t even have the good graces to provide decent loot. Just a handful of coppers and some stupid plant spores.” Though Cutter might not have been interested in plant spores, rare ingredients were coveted by Faction Alchemists, so I scuttled around from ape-body to ape-body, collecting the ingredients while Cutter whined like a spoiled little kid.