by James Hunter
The armorer’s eyes just about popped out of her head when she saw the maxed-out double enchantments and curse. She floundered for a second, which was way too long if she wanted to have any haggling power with him. The effect was pretty great, considering this chick was usually an annoying loudmouth.
“Is that...” She reached out to touch it, but pulled her hand back at the last second like she couldn’t stand the thought of getting fingerprints on the shiny metal. “Who smithed this?”
Other players were stopping to stare now.
“Look, lady, I don’t have all day to stand around and talk shop,” Scott said, leaning forward against the counter. “Twenty-five hundred gold, take it or leave it.”
Obviously, she jumped on it. She didn’t think she was going to see something this amazing ever again, because Scott wasn’t dumb enough to tell her the guy who made it was just an hour and a half away by slow-travel.
The rest of his stops followed the same pattern. He threw down some incredible shit, the merchant and passing players crapped their pants at its stats, and he left with fat stacks of gold.
Except... something was wonky. Scott wasn’t having as much fun as he should’ve been.
Maybe it was having to deal with all the merchants he usually ignored, or maybe it was more proof that Chaz had Ex-Laxed him, but Scott kept getting creeped out. Usually he liked being the center of attention—he got a sense of satisfaction from losers salivating over his awesome loot—but this was different. Almost like somebody was spying on him. The hair along the back of his neck stood up and goosebumps broke out along his arms. Way more intense than what he could usually feel while logged in to the Hearthworld servers.
He shook it off—probably just the long night at work—and moved on.
When the last merchant had dropped a big, bloated coin sack into Scott’s hand in exchange for a ton of scrolls he was never going to use, he checked over his pauldron for the hundredth time.
“The fuck?” Scott muttered under his breath. He could swear that rog and that dark elf chick had been watching him since all the way back with the first armorer. He remembered thinking the elf was hot enough even though she’d gone with a gothed-out vibe for her character.
“I’m sorry, sir, I couldn’t hear you.” The magic crap seller leaned toward him.
Scott ignored the merchant and shoved his way against the flow of traffic. If those two really were following him, then they were going to have to swim upstream.
A little off the main streets, safe from the newbs and part-timers, Scott ducked into the One-Eyed Unicorn.
The wonder twins, Kellie and Kevin, were at Scott’s usual table in the corner with Mike_T_Boarkiller. Even though Mike and Kellie were in their mains, it looked like Kevin still hadn’t given up on beefing up his lame Dude_Farkowitz alt.
“What’s up, losers?” Scott grabbed a chair and dropped into it. Then, on second thought, he turned around and snapped his fingers at the bartender. “Yo, garcon! Beer for the table, on me.”
“On the way, great hero,” the bartender said, dipping his head in respect.
For once, Mike didn’t let out one of those redneck doofus whoops and slap Scott on the back. Kellie rolled her eyes at the mention of beer, but she always did that, acting like she was too good for a beer, even if somebody else was buying—and guess what, she always drank the beer anyway.
Scott would’ve just let it go, chalked it up to Kellie being difficult and Mike being away from his mic or something. He totally would have. Except Kevin wouldn’t look him in the eyes. Instead, the dork kind of hunched down into his armor, folding in on himself like some dweeby turtle.
“The hell’s up with you guys?” Scott said. “I got a mad hookup and the drinks are on me tonight. What, did you all go off the sauce for Lent or something? Mike, I know you’re not saying no to a beer.”
But the asshole shoved out of his chair and headed for the door, mumbling, “Just remembered I gotta go buy some... sword... potions.”
“Sword potions?” Scott turned to the scrunching Dude_Farkowitz. “Kev?”
Kevin stared at him, eyes wide, like a deer in the headlights.
“My goldfish are—”
“You haven’t had any fish since second grade,” Scott sneered.
“—waiting at the pet store for me to pick them up,” Kevin finished in a rush, then his character winked out of existence, leaving behind an empty chair.
Scott crossed his arms and cocked his head at Kellie.
“Well?” he said. “What’s your bullshit excuse for running away?”
Kellie let out a sigh of frustration. “It’s you, ass. You’re, like, persona non grata around the guild. Karma’s pissed with a capital P. We’re not even supposed to be talking to you or we can get ganked, too.”
Scott snorted. “What, is the crybaby mad I helped kill him?”
“Obviously,” Kellie said, rolling her eyes. “He’s got a totally new build, grinding like crazy.” She paused and stole a sidelong glance at him. “He put out a hit on you.”
“Whoop-ti-shit.”
“Members of the guild and anybody who wants in are supposed to kill you on sight,” Kellie said. “Even in non-PvP zones.”
Hearing that, Scott had to work to keep a sneer on his face. You could kill other players in town, but you got red flagged and hit with ginormous debuffs and penalties, not to mention stupid-high bounties for other players to kill you back.
“Whatever. Nobody’s going to go for that.”
“Yeah-huh.” Kellie nodded. “Karma said he would make it worth it. Majorly. The guild vault is wide open to anybody who racks up a PK from you.”
“So, what, then?” Scott asked. “You gonna gank me, Kel? After everything we’ve been through together, after all I’ve done for our party?”
“After that time you spilled spiked punch on me at prom and told Coach C I was the one who’d been drinking?” she drawled, brow raised.
“Fucking do it, then.” Scott threw his arms open wide. “If you’re such a hotshot, Kellie, do it. I’ll give you a freebie. Take me out. Then you can go running back to BK and blow him like everybody else around here.”
“You’re such a dick.” She drained the last of her wine and stood up.
Scott turned in his chair, arms still open, mirroring her exit, daring her to one-shot him even though she wasn’t looking his way anymore.
“Whoa.” Kellie almost ran into somebody in the doorway. “Look out.”
The hot goth chick and the rog who’d been following Scott earlier came into the Unicorn, Kellie shoving past them. This time he was sure it was them because he’d made sure to check their tags earlier: GothicTerror and Ya_Boy_Flappie_Sak.
“Watch where you’re going,” the goth snapped.
The last Scott saw of Kellie, she was giving them the finger. The goth chick pointed a wicked-looking black crossbow at Kel’s back, but didn’t pull the trigger.
“Oh no, pardon us,” Flappie_Sak called after her. “No way, it was our fault. Do allow us to get out of your way.”
Scott sat back in his chair, crossing his arms again while he checked Flappie_Sak’s and GothicTerror’s stats. Yep. Wannabe guild members, just starting the Pledge stage.
Well, shit. And just when he was starting to think that goth chick might be all right.
He grabbed his Unique Mace of Elemental Culmination, blue lightning popping and sparking between its razor-sharp flanges, and knocked over his chair standing up.
GothicTerror snorted. “Cute stick. Did your boyfriend win it for you?”
“Nah, I stole it out of your mom’s top drawer.” Scott raised a fist to call down Doomsweep, his new most powerful elemental spell.
But the goth chick split into three identical dark elves, which his Doomsweep wouldn’t cover until at least level 3, when he unlocked the Chain Cast version. GothicTerror’s triplets spread out around the room and pointed their crossbows at Scott.
“Whatever, hoochie.” S
cott rolled his eyes. “I one-shotted a mermaid mob at Tidal Cliffs who could do the same fancy-shmancy trick, so don’t act like you’re hot shit.”
The middle one of her smirked. “My doppelgangers all get full Health.”
“For a level 11, that’s what, like, 36 HP? Big fucking deal.”
“Bad_Karma says hi,” the one of her farthest to Scott’s right said.
“Fuck Bad_Kar—”
All three bolts hit him at the same time, frying his bones with some kind of Undead Chaos Combo. Basically a nightmare for any cleric. But that wasn’t what killed Scott.
Nope, what killed him was the rog he’d forgotten about. The shitstick had snuck around behind Scott while GothicTerror kept him talking, and when her asshole triplets shot him, her buddy Flappie_Sak chopped off his head.
[2x Stealth Modifier]
Scott watched his headless corpse tumble across the floor in that exaggerated rag-doll effect he found hilarious when it happened to someone else. As the One-Eyed Unicorn faded to black, he caught sight of the goth chick—just one of her now—picking up his head and dropping it into her Inventory.
Those dickfaces were going to get murdered to death when he respawned. Them and anybody else who wanted a piece.
Transmuting Troubles
ROARK WATCHED FROM the carved onyx throne nestled deep in the heart of the Citadel as the latest company of Heralds swooped into the entry hall six floors overhead. This time, Lowen had sent sixteen of the winged nuisances, as if greater numbers would guarantee strength enough to bash their way through Roark’s newest addition to the Citadel’s portal plates.
It wouldn’t.
He began the countdown in his head. Four... three... two...
The last gold-skinned Herald flew over the threshold, glittering in the oily torchlight of the crumbling Citadel.
“Now!” Druz barked.
A dozen Thursrs, Reavers, and even a lowly Changeling popped out of their hiding places and sent a volley of spears and arrows screaming toward the Heralds. Simple weapons that could hardly harm even the lowliest heroes in Hearthworld, never mind the top-level Heralds. But, as always, the winged menace answered back with magical wards and dazzling bursts of Divine attack spells.
With a flash of blue, the Heavenly Ward runes activated, and the Heralds were immediately transported, whisked away to the treacherous cliffs adorning the Star Iron Hills. If they were truly motivated and utilized portal magick, they could be back to the bailey within the hour. If not, it would be much longer. Assuming they returned at all. There were always a few who didn’t survive the damage they suffered from the Discordant Inversion and Deflection spell. Viago in particular had stopped returning with the raids, probably trying to regain the levels he’d lost every time he’d been sent for respawn.
Roark grinned.
“Like clockwork,” he muttered to himself.
For the past few days, Lowen’s toadies had been attacking in turns, trying to suss out the weaknesses in the new defenses Roark had installed. Thus far, none of them had made it past the first floor. The moment they saw Druz’s patrol, they began firing off spells, triggering Heavenly Ward and transporting themselves far, far away. One squadron had tried as many as eight times in as many hours before growing frustrated and flying off in a huff.
Most gave up long before that.
Roark closed the Dungeon Lord’s Grimoire and stood, heading for his study. This newest batch didn’t have the look of commitment that the record-holding squadron had. He gave them one more time, two at the most, before they fluttered away in defeat.
So far, not a single one of Lowen’s glorified moths had realized the secret—if they just walked through the Citadel using their swords and axes, they would be unstoppable. But Lowen and his ilk would never think of that. They’d been trained in magick from the day their families had knelt to lick Marek’s boots. Some of them even before. They’d never been forced to solve a problem without it, and so they had come to rely on it far too heavily. Roark would be willing to lay money down that half of them couldn’t use the privy without magick.
Not a habit Roark had had the luxury of falling into.
Danella, the golden-haired thief who’d first shown him how to cheat and steal his way to food in his belly and a roof over his head, had found the spells he could do interesting, but ultimately impractical. Her mind had run more toward the pocketful of blinding peppered sand and the hidden dagger in the kidney. After her, there had been Pauli Ironsides, the leader of the resistance in Frahoi and the first of the T’verzet to take Roark seriously as a man who wanted revenge rather than just another angry boy. Pauli had taken his surname from his days as the undefeated bare-knuckle fighting champion across all of Traisbin, and he’d taken the time to pass on quite a bit of his brawling knowledge to Roark. While Pauli trained him, Roark hadn’t been allowed to use the same attack twice.
Our opponents aren’t what kill us, boy, our habits are. Pauli had explained as he picked a much younger Roark up off the dirt floor of a safe house after nearly taking his head off. A man with a sharp eye and a keen memory will see you feint the first time and do just enough to save himself. Then he’ll see you feint the second time and open your guts.
Unfortunately, Roark knew all too well that Lowen had a sharp eye and a keen memory. At no older than Roark was, the insufferable, overwriting ass had been the one to hang Pauli’s hole-riddled corpse from a pole in the Frahoi square, making jokes about blackthorn beds all the while.
Roark shouldered his way through the heavy oak door into his study. He didn’t intend to give Lowen the satisfaction of opening his guts. His magick and weapon-play had fallen into a rut of late, but he wasn’t going to stay there any longer. Especially not now that he’d unlocked a new World Stone ability. With a thought, Roark’s grimoire appeared before his eyes, automatically opening to his character page. Roark hadn’t distributed the ten stat points he’d earned from leveling to 40—he’d wanted to discover what exactly Transmute Flesh did before divvying up the points. As a Jotnar Infernali, his strengths leaned toward Intelligence and, to a lesser extent, Dexterity, but perhaps having a few added points in Strength or Constitution would be a boon when altering his physical form.
Unfortunately, after days of trial and error, he was still no closer to cracking the strange enigma that was Transmute Flesh.
Roark would figure out the secret eventually, but hanging onto those precious points until he did was too risky to keep up. Any edge could be the difference between life and death.
Given what little he did know, Roark decided to drop five points into Intelligence—which governed his Infernali Magick—two points into Strength, another two into Dexterity, and a single point into Constitution.
╠═╦╬╧╪
╠═╦╬╧╪
IT SEEMED HE HAD ALSO earned a new Jotnar Spell, Infernal Thunder. He glanced over the specifications.
╠═╦╬╧╪
Infernal Thunder
Attack Spell
Range: 40 feet
Casting Time: Instant
Casting Cost: 11% Base Magicka
With a shout of your booming voice, Infernal Thunder shakes the earth, inflicting (2 Damage x character level) and tripping opponents with less than .5n where n is caster’s Dexterity.
Note: Infernal Thunder disrupts concentration-based spells when it causes opponent to trip or lose eye contact.
Note: Divine creatures are invulnerable to Infernal spells.
╠═╦╬╧╪
A useful spell, to be sure, but it wasn’t what Roark was most interested in of his new acquisitions. Eagerly, Roark turned to the page marked with a ribbon that said World Stone.
╠═╦╬╧╪
World Stone Pendant
Durability: Indestructible
Level Restriction: 1
Property: Soul-Forge – Imbue the undead with life and will.
Current World Stone Authority: Greater Vassal 11/18; Lesser Vassal 65/
125
Property: Glamour Cloak – Use arcane power to disguise your appearance even to the keenest of eyes. Cast 1 per day; duration, 3 hours.
Property: Transmute Energy – Meld and merge the primal energies and magicks in the world around you to your will.
Property: Transmute Flesh – Twist and shape the very fabric of living flesh, crafting unspeakable creations fit to serve your bidding and will.
Property: ???
Property: ???
The World Stone can bend, shape, and distort reality, allowing the bearer the power of Creation and Life itself ...
╠═╦╬╧╪
Roark read and reread the description as he ran his thumb absently over the face of the pendant, trying to discern its true purpose. Its origins. His conversation with PwnrBwner earlier made him more aware than ever just how valuable and powerful this stone really was. Marek had magickal powers beyond what was considered possible by the standards of Traisbin. If this stone allowed powers to pass from one realm to another, as PwnrBwner had described, that would explain so very much. The possibility kindled an ember of hope inside Roark.
The World Stone, however, was in no rush to reveal its abilities in full.
Even the description of his new ability, Transmute Flesh, was as vague as every other ability he’d gained from the stolen pendant.
Twist and shape the very fabric of living flesh, crafting unspeakable creations fit to serve your bidding and will.
So far, every World Stone ability he’d unlocked had been earth-shaking—granting life to the mindless creatures of Hearthworld, forging elaborate glamours, even allowing him to fundamentally alter magick itself. Likewise, this new skill sounded powerful, but so far, his attempts to use it had been experiments in futility. In theory, he should have been able to alter and edit creatures the same way he could alter, edit, and even merge spells. Perhaps even find a way to change his nature from that of a Jotnar to something else entirely, something more powerful and, hopefully, with a higher Evolutionary level cap.