by James Hunter
Solieau choked on his mead.
“In an unrelated matter,” Roark continued cheerfully over the sound of the musician’s spluttering, “I’ve a bit of work I need done, and your expertise in particular might come in handy.”
He laid out the details, making certain that Solieau knew he could refuse without fear of being on the sharp end of a Dungeon Lord’s curse. Within the hour, they had polished the plan to a quality shine and agreed to meet at first light.
Roark was standing by the tunnels to the training arena when Griff showed up in the morning.
The grizzled trainer stopped in his tracks and squinted at Roark.
“Don’t suppose this is a social visit?” he asked.
“Business,” Roark said. “But I think you’ll appreciate it.”
“It’s him!” an admirer cried, leaning around the edge of the tunnel. “Griff’s finally here!”
Griff cringed, folding in on himself like a beaten hound. An ecstatic shriek went up in the already swollen crowd gathered around the arena, followed by a chorus of excited shouts directed at the old trainer.
“Hi, Griff!”
“Griff, I love you!”
“Griff, you ssstill haven’t accepted my offer to fertilize my eggsss! Yesss or no?”
“I said no, Resss!” Griff snapped. He turned back to Roark. “Let’s get in the pit before they get it into their heads to mob me again.”
The feminine shouts carried on as they crossed into the churned earth of the pit, but Griff seemed determined to ignore them. The recruits for his first training session of the day were already there stretching, sparring, and working on combos he had shown them the day before.
As Griff turned to call them to order, Roark laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Hold off a moment,” he said, indicating the new arrival coming from the tunnels.
Griff scowled. “I thought you warded it so that nobody without permission from me could get down here?”
“Permission from you or from me,” Roark said. “And I invited him.”
“You invited a musician who can barely grow enough wool to shave into a fighting pit?” Griff asked skeptically, eyeing the bard askew. “I’ve trained a few soft ones in my time, Griefer, but never a child.”
“He may look young, Griff, but I get the feeling he’s hiding a core of solid steel. And believe it or not, he’s the answer to your admirer problem.”
The trainer grunted in disbelief, but Roark gave Solieau a nod to begin. They could stand around arguing all day, but results were all that mattered.
The musician walked out into the middle of the pit and turned to face the audience, a grin as bright as a Ball Lightning spell lighting his face despite how much he and Roark had drank the night before.
“Ladies and ... ladylike mobs, Griff’s been kind enough to give me a spot playing before each of his training sessions today in order to promote my new house gig at the Portal to Flavortown. I hope you all don’t mind.”
They didn’t. Though for a moment it looked as if they might riot at the delay between them and Griff, Solieau quickly turned the crowd in his favor, cranking his worn hurdy-gurdy and singing out a jaunty tune about the only girl he’d ever loved. Soon they were clapping and dancing along and swooning over the charming young musician. From there, Solieau changed the tempo with a sad and haunting air about a lost soul who only wished he’d lived long enough to see his love once more, bringing tears to several eyes, and when that was over, he cheered the lovestruck audience back up once more with a merry drinking song.
The music must have had some sort of charm woven into it to manipulate the emotions so effectively, Roark decided. Even a few of the recruits in the pit waiting for Griff to start their training session broke out in happy jigs listening to Solieau play. Or, he amended, perhaps it was just the nature of music.
The surprise concert lasted only six songs in all, but by the time it was finished, nearly all of the women and female creatures who’d been clamoring for Griff’s attention had become enamored with the talented young musician.
Solieau took several deep bows.
“Thank you all, each and every one. You especially,” he said, nodding to no one in particular, but making half a dozen onlookers squeal giddily. “If you ever feel like hearing more, and perhaps with a little less distance separating us, I’d love to have you join me at the Portal to Flavortown any time. I’ll be heading over there to play another round shortly.”
Wild cheering answered him. Solieau sent Roark an appreciative wave, then headed off for the inn. Nearly all of the onlookers disappeared from around the pit. Only a few of the most determined and infatuated fans of Griff’s remained.
“Not a bad solution, lad,” Griff admitted begrudgingly.
“Honestly, it went off better than I expected,” Roark said. “Solieau’ll play before each of your training sessions today. That should steal away a good number of your admirers. In a week, you won’t have a fan left.”
“Doubt I’ll shed too many tears over them.” A grin tugged at the old trainer’s scar-crossed face, relief shining through like the sun. He shook his head, looking off in the direction Solieau had exited. “I just hope the kid knows what he’s getting himself into. That crowd can exhaust a man right fast.”
“What was it you said the other day?” Roark asked. “He’s young yet?”
Griff laughed. “He is that. Maybe he can handle it.” He pounded Roark on the back. “Now, I’ve got a new Rumble Crew to train.”
Alliances
“I DON’T KNOW WHY YOU’RE in such a great mood, you pirate douchebag,” Scott grumbled, scowling at Roark as he paced the Cruel Citadel’s boss room. “You think it’s funny that I had to walk all the way here from way out by Skozhelm? I had to fucking switch zones and spawn in as this alt PwnrBwner_69 piece of crap. Try running across the map on a level 7’s Stamina, buddy boy, tell me if you’re laughing, then.”
That had been a tsunami of bullshit in itself. Yeah, he’d leveled his dinky little Ranger-Cleric to 9 by killing like a million wild roaming mobs on the way, but the trip had taken him almost four hours in total. Four hours of gameplay that he could never get back.
Scott stopped pacing and faced Roark. “I’ve got freaking superpowers IRL now. Like for sure. People should be building statues of me and shit, but instead I’m getting my ass handed to me by some dumb hoochie who didn’t get the memo that screamo’s dead and a bunch of twelve-year-olds and neckbeards who probably live in their mom’s basements.”
Roark cocked his eyebrow. “And you say these... uh... that is, they work for Bad_Karma?”
“Duh, yeah, obviously.” Scott rolled his eyes. “Have you been listening to anything I’m saying? Karma put a hit out on me because I helped you stomp his ass to the tune of one point five million viewers and kill his stupid Hardcore build. Now his whole guild and every loser who wants in has major murder boners for me. Surprise, dude’s petty AF. Are you caught up yet? Can we move on with the lesson and get to the part where you help me figure out what the fuck to do? Don’t forget, you got me into this bullshit in the first place.”
Roark leaned forward on the badass Dungeon Lord throne and rested his elbows on his knees. Altogether, the scene looked pretty baller, especially with the Infernal wings and shit. Scott from a year ago would’ve screenshotted it for his seedFeed, but since it was the Griefer doing it, right-now Scott just crossed his arms and pasted an unimpressed expression on his face.
“Bad_Karma hasn’t come against you personally,” Roark said.
“No. He’s too scared because he’s a pwnable little bitch right now. Will be for a while, too.”
“So, he sends his followers, who are presumably higher level than his new form.”
Scott nodded. “And there’s a shit ton of them, and they’re basically everywhere.”
“His strength lies in the size of his army,” Roark said. “What did you call it? His guild.”
“Oh my God, dude, are y
ou like away from keyboard and just letting AI repeat everything I say so it sounds like you’re listening? Yes, his guild is fucking strafing me.”
“What about your core party?” Roark asked. “RogStarKel and Dude_Farkowitz?”
“Fuckers abandoned me like we hadn’t been best friends since Xbox19.” Scott shook his head. “Screw those losers, anyway.”
“And none of your followers will lift a finger to fight back?”
Scott opened his mouth, then stopped. He actually hadn’t thought of sending out a message to his seedFeed asking for help. Most of them were Karma-lickers who unsubscribed when BK disavowed him, anyway.
“I’ve only got a couple hundred left,” he said. “Nobody with any serious skills.”
Roark’s eyes narrowed. “How loyal are they?”
“I don’t know.” Scott shrugged. “I mean, I guess some of them have been followers since I started my OG build, but most of them are probably bots, and the rest just forgot to hit unsubscribe. Or they’re following me, waiting for me to pop up somewhere nearby so they can rack up a kill to impress Karma. Are you gonna help me or just sit around asking stupid questions all day?”
The Griefer got up and started pacing the throne room, too, hands clasped behind his back below his wings.
“You’re right, that was a stupid question,” he said. “The question I should’ve been asking was how loyal are Bad_Karma’s followers?”
“Pretty fucking loyal,” Scott said. “They’re camping out in a no-PvP zone losing XP, getting flagged, and taking penalties so they can serial kill me. BK made it worth all the red tape by busting open the guild vault and making it rain rare shit and memberships. And once they’re in, they get access to more gear, more money, and elite raids and shit.”
Roark stopped suddenly and pointed a claw-tipped finger at him. “That’s what I mean. That isn’t loyalty, that’s mercenary. He bought them. What’s to stop you from doing the same? Starting your own guild?”
Scott laughed. “It’s not like I can just be like, ‘Oh, I think I’ll start a guild today.’ It takes a metric assload of start-up coin. You gotta have officers, a location—all kinds of crap I don’t.”
“Follow me.” Roark jerked his head at the throne room’s side door.
Rolling his eyes at the douchey dramatic pause, Scott let out a loud sigh, then begrudgingly followed him. They stepped out into the narrow alley behind the Keep and came to a spot Scott recognized as the door Roark had led him and his party through back when they were trying to kill the last Dungeon Lord. The tunnel on the other side led up to a crypt in the cemetery outside the Cruel Citadel, an alternate route so players didn’t have to walk back through the dungeon.
“What’s in the crypt upstairs that you need to show me?” Scott asked, pulling back suspiciously. He’d had a shitty enough day already. He wasn’t about to get one-shotted by the Griefer for old time’s sake.
“I’ve made some adjustments to the Citadel’s layout since you came through here,” Roark said. “Moved the escape tunnel behind the marketplace and changed this to an enclosed room.” He threw open the door. “It’s the Troll Nation vault now.”
Scott let out a low whistle as he followed the Griefer into the room, trying to play it off like his jaw wasn’t hitting the floor. Dude had Unique weapons and armor out the ass, and stacks on stacks on stacks of top-tier scrolls. Piles of Flawless and above-average gems sparkled at him from every direction. And the gold. There was an economy-breaking amount of coin in that vault.
“How have the devs not nerfed this yet?” he asked, trying not to sound impressed. Some of it got through anyway. “They have to be able to see how much cash you’ve got hoarded here, and it’s not like they’d just be cool with letting you fuck up their game economy.”
Roark shrugged, his wings moving with his shoulders. “From what Randy says, I don’t think they can interfere. Something about my presence in Hearthworld is stopping them. For now, at least.” He turned to face Scott. “But until they do find a way to stop me, maybe you and I could help each other.”
Scott frowned. “Like how?”
“You need money to start a guild and rare items to attract new members. I need heroes who can gain Experience from killing mobs and who don’t lose levels when they’re sent for respawn.”
“You’re wanting to make some kind of alliance deal?” Scott asked.
“Not so different from what I’ve already done with many of the other dungeons. And I can obviously deliver my end of the bargain. You already know I can make unique weapons and armor unmatched by anything else out there, and we’ve got a fair bit of gold at our disposal. If it’s elite raids your people want access to, I happen to know quite a few powerful Dungeon Lords who might enjoy testing their new layouts and troop distributions against parties of well-equipped heroes.”
Slowly, Scott started nodding.
“All right, I’m listening,” he said. “How would this alliance work exactly? What’s the legalese?”
“I don’t know what legalese is,” Roark said.
“The fine print,” Scott said. “The catch. The details I should know about before I sign my life away. You want to bankroll my guild, right? So, what are you wanting from me in return?”
The lightbulb went on when Roark finally got it.
“Ah, yes. I see,” he said. “In return for funding your guild and helping you with everything you need, I expect help with anything I need.”
“Yeah, but you’ve got an ‘anything’ in mind already, right? So what is it?”
“I’ve found a way to create hybrids between Trolls and other creatures,” Roark said like he wasn’t dropping an atomic-level bombshell. “I’ve spent the last twelve hours poring over the WikiLore, research suggestions from Randy, and generally searching for the perfect creature to hybridize myself with, and I think I’ve finally found the answer.”
“Wow, shit.” Scott squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Okay, I’m ready. Lay it on me. What kind of mob are we talking?”
“Aczol the Eternal, NecroDragon of Daemonhold Deep,” Roark said matter-of-factly. “His lair is in the Jungles of Eternal Night. I want you to help me find and kill him. The catch or fine print, as you called it, is that I have to be the one to strike the killing blow.”
“Necrodragon?” Scott shook his head at this new shitstorm of crazy. “The fuck you want to fight a NecroDragon for?”
Roark opened his mouth, but Scott cut him off.
“And not just any ol’ NecroDragon —the NecroDragon! You want Aczol right out of the gate.” He threw his hands up. “Balls, man! There’s a reason everybody calls Aczol the Endgame Dragon. You kill him, you basically beat Hearthworld. There’s no mob to work up to after Aczol. Everybody who’s ever killed him is on the Immortals board in the WikiLore, and there are like five total.”
“Then I’ll be the sixth.”
“It’s like you don’t have any concept of what’s within your level! There are rules to this shit, dude.”
The Griefer crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s not as if I’ll be fighting him alone.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot your new level 9 Ranger-Cleric buddy who can’t get access to his fucking main. I’m sure you’ll get real far with the help of a dual-class lowbie.”
“You still gain levels fairly quickly, don’t you?” Roark said. “By the time we’ve ground our way to the Jungles of Eternal Night, you should be at least level 10.”
Scott groaned. “And let’s not forget that little nugget while we’re mining shit here—the Jungles of Eternal Night. They. Are. The. Worst! They’re Nocturnus territory, and even if your whole party’s OP, those spiders still suck. The chick in charge is Isara the Spinner, and if you think you’re a dirty fucking cheater, just wait ’til you meet her.”
The Griefer smirked. “I like her already.”
“You won’t when she’s slurping out your liquified guts. She’s a Roark the Griefer level douchebag, and she gets to eat you while you�
��re still alive. Sound fun?” Creepy fucking spiders. It was bullshit how they moved in fewer frames per second than everybody else did. Here, then suddenly there. Scott shuddered involuntarily. “We’ll have to grind through all that Nocturnus spider crap just to get to the entrance to the Underworld Cairns, and if we make it through that, we’ll still have to crawl through Daemonhold, the worst dungeon ever. Total labyrinth with zero loot or low-level mobs to warm up on before you come face-to-face with fucking Aczol Holyfield Gracie Lee.”
“I don’t intend to fight my way through the Jungles of Eternal Night,” Roark said. He glanced to the side. “I may have an inside man—or Nocturnus—who can get us to the entrance to Daemonhold Deep without a battle. In addition to the three of us, a select few others will be joining this raid. Enough to dispatch Aczol, but not enough that you won’t get a very large share of whatever loot we find. Additionally, as Dungeon Lord, I can offer you this.”
A quest alert popped up.
╠═╦╬╧╪
Loyalty Mission
Roark the Griefer, Dungeon Lord of the Cruel Citadel and Leader of the Troll Nation, has requested that you help him kill Aczol the NecroDragon in exchange for full backing to create your own hero guild.
Objective: Accompany Roark the Griefer to the Underworld Cairns and aid him in defeating Aczol the NecroDragon of Daemonhold Deep.
Reward: 2,000 Experience, 2,000 gold, Backing to Create Hero Guild, Future Guild Alliance with the Troll Nation, and Access to any Unique Item from the Troll Nation Treasury
Restrictions: Only Roark the Griefer may strike the killing blow on Aczol the NecroDragon of Daemonhold Deep.
You can’t earn loyalty in a day. Unless you complete this quest in a day. Then you can.
Accept quest? Yes/No?
╠═╦╬╧╪
Scott licked his lips and tried to keep an indifferent sneer on his face. The Experience wasn’t a gamer changer, but everything else was—with access to the gold and loot Roark had, maybe he really could form his own guild and get even with both BK and that goth thot.