by G. Akella
Chapter 2
I finally made it out of that damned village at night, after its inhabitants had crawled into their houses. How I had kept my sanity thus far, I would never know. Evidently, it was the hatred seething on the inside that had sustained me. Time after time I would resurrect and rush toward the gate, cursing the scumbag that had deemed himself master of the world. Vivid images of me ripping his throat with my teeth flooded my mind, and I felt better. Until eventually there came a moment when I materialized outside the stables all alone.
There was still light in their homes, and the inn was bustling with the loud voices of hammered villagers. I picked up my things, downed a liter of water from my flask and started toward the gate, looking around warily as I went.
Stopping at a safe distance, which I'd already calculated down to the last inch, I took to watching the two sentries outside the gate, clearly bored to death. Every so often they would take a swig from some container and exchange a few words. I wasn't eavesdropping—I was simply waiting for an opportunity to escape.
With my stats, there was no way I could climb the ten-foot palisade ringing the village, nor was it placed there to be climbed by random noobs. Wandering off in search of a ladder would increase my chances of stumbling into some peasant or getting made by a sentry in one of the three guard towers around the village's perimeter. The fourth tower stood to the right of the gate, empty. Such was this small but fairly fortified village called Lamorna.
One of the sentries started in the direction of the inn, ostensibly for another round of booze; at the same time, the other turned and went to close the gate. I wasted no time and ran. As I was passing through the gate, the sentry saw me and bellowed some obscenity, but at that moment I hit sprint and made my way out into the open space.
I saw the graveyard right away, and rushed toward it without thinking, confident that nobody in heavy armor would be able to catch me. Quickly binding to the resurrection spot, I collapsed to the ground in exhaustion.
The monstrous fatigue of the past day took its toll, as I passed out on the warm ground, next to the gravestone.
I had to admit it—the full immersion element of the game was something incredible! You could spend hours listening to a seasoned sailor recount his tales of adventure, read books penned by the great explorers, listen to interviews of celebrated mountain-climbers. Some would only see the vivid sequence of these characters' experiences, the hurdles and adversities they overcame, and empathize with them, but others would go further and picture themselves in their shoes. But the data was clear: when it came to their own adventure, ninety nine people out of a hundred never ventured beyond a picnic with friends in the country.
And perhaps that was a good thing.
But those who nonetheless dared to embark on a path of adventure quickly sobered up to the fact that sea sickness was more than just two words in a book; actually writhing on the floor in your own vomit, the words suddenly acquired a whole new meaning. Feet covered with bloody blisters, the rainy nights in damp woods, the aches of a long road, the nauseating stench of horse sweat—these and many other pleasantries awaited them on their journey. It was one thing to know, and quite another to actually feel it on your own skin.
Those who played games with full immersion never left their comfort zone. You skipped the sicknesses and the blisters; hell, you didn't even need to feed, unsaddle or wash horses, simply dispatching a mount when it wasn't needed and summoning it back already clean and fed. The last thing on your mind was what the horse had eaten or what shampoo it had used.
Upon awakening fifteen minutes ago, I'd munched on a cracker and washed it down with water, and was now sitting on the ground, leaning against a warm boulder, silently surveying my environment—the only comparison that came to mind was an African savanna in dry season. As far as the eye could see sprawled a slightly hilly plain—vacant stretches of yellow-brown grass alternated with copses and dense shrubbery. A little over a mile to the west lay a small mountain formation and a tall hill, the road to it covered with the same withered grass. Herds of animals grazed there—barely visible at this distance, there was no way to make out the species.
Somehow the landscape was at odds with the zone's name—Demon Grounds. Where were the erupting volcanoes? The cracks in the ground that stretched for miles, with molten lava splashing out? Where was the ash raining down from the crimson skies? The developers must know better, I supposed.
I had absolutely no desire to go anywhere or do anything. Nor did I have the opportunity to. About sixty feet away I glimpsed a non-aggressive critter that resembled a beaver with a pig's snout stirring in the grass. The sign above it read: level 16 Gopher. Damn! In this zone, even a mouse would kill me with one bite. How much time did I have left here—five, six hours? It appeared that I'd slept almost a full day. With another mental wish for Cheney and his jackals to rot in hell, I tried not to think about my future. Looking for a distraction, I opened my character menu.
Sorcerer Krian, level 1.
Race: human [demon].
Agility: 10.
Strength: 6.
Constitution: 1.
Vigor: 1.
Spirit: 1.
Intellect: 1.
HP: 10.
Energy: 10.
Mana: 10.
Armor: 20.
Magic resistances: none against water, none against air, none against earth, none against fire, 75% against mental, 1% against dark, none against nature, 1% against light.
Passive skills. Toughness: 31%.
Bonus to physical damage with swords: +2%.
Bonus to heavy armor: +2%.
Relations with other races: Humans—hostile, Elves—hostile, Orcs—hostile, Dark Elves—hostile, Dwarves—hostile, Drow—hostile, Demons—hostile.
I chuckled. Being both human and demon at once, I enjoyed the negative reputations of both.
Were my character simply human, I would have neutral relations with elves and dwarves, and hostile relations with dark elves, drow and orcs. I had no idea about demons, since their race hadn't been patched in yet. I was the first among demon players, even if I wasn't really a demon at all.
It didn't escape my attention that one of my passive skills was definitely overpowered. In fact, under normal circumstances, any caster would sell their soul to the devil to be able to wear heavy armor. Only it didn't matter much to me. I had no heavy armor to wear—my robe, trousers, boots and novice's belt would hardly qualify. The filthy rags that passed for gear, totaling 20 armor, my novice's staff with 5-9 damage that looked a rake shaft, two crackers and a quarter-full water flask in my bag—these were all my worldly possessions.
When the sun had nearly set beyond the mountain range, a rider came galloping out from behind a hill and, spurring his horse, guided it in the direction of the blasted village directly behind me. A moment later five mobs—seemingly in the canine family, though nearly the size of his horse—were already hot on his trail. Quite a frightening sight if you didn't know it was all virtual. It was all over in about twenty seconds—the pack leader caught up to the horse and lunged at its throat, toppling the mount along with its human rider, or rather demon since there couldn't have been any humans in this zone. Shivers ran down my spine as the horse roared in agony and the rider wailed as he was devoured alive. The beasts ate in silence, finishing their meal in less than five minutes. Once they were done, as they were leaving the site of their late dinner, one of them glanced in my direction, its eyes a pair of crimson flares in the moonlight. The pups made a menacing sight, somehow resembling Dobermans. I couldn't make out their name and level from here, but I was willing to bet it was in the high hundreds.
Suddenly the skies grew dark and the ground shook, then dozens of branchy bolts of lightning sundered the gathering dusk. The sentries at the gate grabbed their pole-axes leaning against the palisade, and looked up anxiously at the sky. The earth shifted under my feet, tossing me into the air with such power that I fell back down totally disorie
nted. There was a crash coming from the village, followed by screams. The palisade bent in half, and one of the gate doors collapsed to the ground. In the west, an electric discharge of titanic proportions hit the peak of the highest mountain, splintering off huge chunks of rock.
The picture faded.
That was it—my time had come to an end. I felt a chill come over with me, thinking of what lay ahead. Seconds passed, but nothing was happening. A software malfunction, perhaps? Suddenly I felt a shock, as if hit by electric current. I twitched with pain and must have lost consciousness.
I came to in the same spot as before—on the ground next to the gravestone, my staff lying nearby. I sat up, mechanically dusting off my soiled sleeve, and stared at the stream of system messages.
Attention all players! The latest system patch 17 is now live in the Realm of Arkon!
New planes and game zones have been added to the game: Divine Planes, Gray Frontier, Netherworld, Demon Grounds, Lemuria and Pangea.
New gods have entered this world, and with them new species of creatures, animals and plans. Explore the new frontier to find new secret quests, artifacts, epic items and gear sets, as well as rare resources.
New active and passive skills have also been added, including new professions…
The players' sensations have been improved to total, 100% immersion. Some can be reduced by raising certain skills. For instance, pain sensitivity can be reduced to 20% by leveling the Toughness skill…
Changes to game mechanics:
…The system of reputation accrual has been revised, but the reputation values already achieved with various factions and societies, races and gods have been preserved…
…All active and passive skills have been reset to allow every player to allocate their skill points strategically…
…Unique and hidden skills and abilities achieved during gameplay have been preserved and left unchanged…
…The dynamics of death have been revised. Now, players will resurrect at their bind point after 6 hours. The time it takes for player corpses to rot has been increased from 5 days to 15…
…The perception of the world among NPCs has been heightened.
A death penalty of 20% of a player's levels has been instituted, though the player will not fall below level 13. Furthermore, all passive and active skills and defenses will remain on the previous level, while the player's top stat will be reduced by 3 for each level lost. The player can recover the lost stat points by regaining the previous level, but a new talent point will only be gained upon reaching a previously unattained level. If killed by another player, prior to resurrection the deceased can change their bind point to any previous bind point…
…Due to planar rifts from the Netherworld and the Gray Frontier, permanent portals between capital cities no longer function properly. All game characters on the Karn Continent have been sent back to their factions' starting cities…
…From here on, communication in the game is limited to mail. Mail correspondence between members of non-hostile races is only possible after a permanent portal between the capital cities has been established…
To help in completing group quests, when players join a party or a raid, the voices of raid leaders, officers and party leaders are magically amplified. The leaders are also granted the ability to communicate mentally…
…To create a teleportation portal, players are required to visit the same place again…
…Players can still call each other by phone…
…Invite their friends and acquaintances into the game…
…The Wikipedia button on the display has been renamed "Chronicles," and its information is constantly being updated…
…The game forum has been shut down…
…The Logout and Contact the Administration buttons have been removed from the options menu as unnecessary.
RP-17 Sage wishes you happy gaming.
I stared in stupor at the creeping lines of information, struggling to decide if it was me who'd lost his sanity or RP-17, an AI?
What lunacy was this? Divine planes, Lemuria… Had the devs lost their goddamned minds? I checked the options—Logout and Contact the Administration were indeed gone from the menu. How was this possible? There was a mention of using the phone… I opened the phone call option and nearly squealed with joy—it was working! Only, damn, I had not a penny on me, or rather not a gold coin. I realized immediately what an idiot I was—911 was always free. I had to seize this unexpected chance. The call would be placed from my physical cell phone, even if it was turned off. I only hoped those twats didn't toss it somewhere along the way.
"Nine one one, what is your emergency?" asked a woman's voice with concern—how did they pull off this concern day in and day out? At any rate, to me, her voice was a divine revelation. I launched into describing my situation as succinctly as possible.
"The call has been traced, a patrol car will be on location in about four minutes. Please remain on the line." Easy listening music began playing in the virtual phone.
I got up off the ground and stretched, letting the breeze brush my face. You're done, Cheney, you ass! I thought to myself. Then I got comfortable, put my noob staff on my knees, and set to watching the earthquake-shaken village, its residents swarming like ants on a disturbed ant hill. Two sentries and five more men that had run up to help were desperately trying to put the gate door back in place, shouting and swearing all the while.
Perhaps now I wouldn't even need to quit my job. And I wouldn't need to hide any longer. What was happening with me in real life? A broken jaw, a concussion? At least I was alive—that mattered above all else.
It had been half an hour—what was taking them so long! They should have no trouble recognizing my maimed carcass with all the equipment the cops had nowadays. No need to look for documents—simply point a small device at the person, and a global computer immediately spits out all their info. Naturally, some people were frothing at the mouth about the country becoming a police state, but for many ordinary citizens the trade-off was worth their peace of mind.
I kept waiting. The demons had already put the gate back together and had moved on to the palisade. An enormous moon had crawled out onto the sky amid the faintly glimmering stars, and it got a bit chilly. Finally, the hold music stopped.
"Captain Greg Ward, San Fransisco police," spoke a tense male voice. "Introduce yourself."
"Roman Kozhevnikov," I had already given my name to the operator. "What is going on? When will my body be recovered?"
"You claim that Adam Walker Cheney's people abducted you in the neighborhood of Market Street," the cop ignored my questions, "delivered you to an unknown place where Cheney beat you, allegedly breaking your jaw. Then, you were placed in a game capsule linked to the Realm of Arkon. Do I have that right?"
"Yes! Now, tell me what's happening! Did you find me?" I yelled into the virtual phone.
"Currently we have six police squads in Mr. Cheney's country estate, as well as twelve ambulances," the officer's voice sounded weary. "In the basement, we have found fifty four dead bodies in game capsules: Cheney himself, his three bodyguards, and fifty more people, out of which so far thirty nine have been identified. One of the identified bodies is one Roman Kozhevnikov, citizen of the Russian Federation, born in 2006."
"Are you saying that I'm dead?" I muttered, dumbstruck. "But I… I'm talking to you right now!"
"I'm not saying anything, but we do have hundreds of similar cases in the Bay area alone, and thousands nationwide. Leave your contact information with the operator, and we'll be in touch. And now you must excuse me, I need to get back to work."
Easy listening music came back on, and I hung up. What friggin' contact information? Lamorna Village, Eastern Wastes, Jarus Province, Ashtar Dominion that's in Demon Grounds. Look for me by a gravestone at a local cemetery. You can't miss me—there are six stones in all. And, oh, I'm dead. So, you know, no rush. Talk soon! I took a deep breath. Cheney did mention that people h
ad lost their minds from dying so much, so maybe… I pinched myself. It hurt! The multiplication table popped into my head.
How do you test if you've lost your marbles? If a horse tells you that you're crazy, then surely you are, I remember the old gag. There was a horse around not too long ago, but it was eaten by a pack of dog-like beasts. I could always ask the demons repairing that palisade over there. Recognizing the idiocy of my predicament, I couldn't hold back a smile. That settles it. A crazy person wouldn't be contemplating his madness.
And then it hit me: I'm dead! But that's… that's… I began to shake from the implications. Then I sat still for about five minutes, staring at a crack on a nearby monument, completely oblivious to my surroundings, but eventually reason prevailed. Stop! I yelled at myself. I'm having thoughts, so I must be alive. And I don't give a damn that this is a game, and not real life. I was just speaking to a cop, and, last I checked, corpses are not speech capable. Although, in a video game, some are… Wait, what the hell am I saying! Calm down, breathe! Everything's fine. I'm not a loon and I'm not a corpse. This must all be some kind of misunderstanding. Somehow I've been imported into the game, so let's roll with it.
So, what have we got? I opened my character's window. No changes from before… Wait, what about immortality? I'm immortal now! the realization washed over me, and I froze still, trying to digest it. I'll figure that part out later. What else? My relations with all of Arkon's factions is hostile; their NPCs would kill me on sight. There are no players here, no quest-givers, and I cannot level on these mobs. Well, I can technically, but not in this zone. There didn't appear to be a solution. How many miles was it to the closest starting zone? Two hundred? Five? I would need to run from graveyard to graveyard, dying hundreds of times along the way.
The hatred that filled me for Cheney at that moment seemed almost capable of materializing in physical form.
That shithead! Lousy bastard! If not for RP-17, I'd be dying again, or worse. If only you were here, Cheney, you scum! But I'm going to live, you'll see! I will survive! And when I get out of here, I'm going to find you and your cronies and rip out your throats! After all, I know how to find you…
I forced myself to calm down. What did I know about reputation? Some of the game's social and military communities were a faction unto themselves, irrespective of race. Traders' and mages' guilds, knight orders, mercenary squads and various brotherhoods. As a rule, everybody started off neutral with them, unless, of course, your character's race or class was specifically targeted by this particular foundation. A dark mage visiting a Temple of Myrt—a light deity of the human race—would be a fool to expect a warm welcome. Demons looked to have their own social order, so, on the face of it, not all was lost.
There was no use continuing to hang around gravestones—I had to start doing something. Ah! The rider devoured by the dogs earlier—the remains were some seven hundred yards from here. Looking through them, I might avail myself of something useful.
I made it to the remains of the rider and his horse without incident. Lasting at least a quarter mile, the road was narrow but even, and I came across no aggressive animals. Only the familiar gophers were around, casting glances of contemplative loathing at the ragged human plodding down the road.
Still a dozen yards away, I could already smell blood, and when I saw what had remained of the rider and his horse, my stomach nearly turned inside out. Chunks of meat, bones with teeth markings, scraps of fur, entrails and some other matter scattered across a radius of ten or so yards. And all that was punctuated by the most revolting stench of wet fur. No complains on the realism front, I thought to myself.
I had never experienced anything like it before. I was far from a hardcore gamer—my level thirty five had been achieved in three days when I and three other coworkers were powerleveled across several noob locations. On my own, I had only reached level ten in Still Creek. In fact, my last quest was about a horse that had wandered off and had ultimately been killed by wolves. I had to locate the dead horse, remove its harness and deliver it to the local groom. The groom then gave the quest to exterminate the wolves. Compared to what I was seeing now, that horse might as well have been borrowed from a G-rated movie: carcass lying neatly next to a pool of blood, the animal's entire front side virtually untouched, and no smell to speak of. But this… Struggling to hold back nausea, I touched what had remained of the demon.
A ringing sound signaled the falling of coins in my bag. Whoa—1 gold, 4 silver and 25 copper. Also, two sealed letters, a chained badge, and a cloak. What did we have here… I focused my eyes on the badge and nearly squealed with joy.
Courier's Chest Badge.
Unusual item.
Raises the negative attitude of all sentient races in Demon Grounds to unfriendly. Any positive reputation held with representatives of sentient races remains unchanged.
Always warring at one another, dominions resort to using special messengers to carry out postal correspondence. These couriers can be recognized by a special badge worn on their chests, and attacking them unprovoked in Demon Grounds is strictly forbidden.
A typical metallic circle three inches in diameter without any special attributes, a glyph inscribed along the side and somebody's strange face at the center, but for me this piece of metal trumped any epic artifact! It must have been the governing AI giving me a way out of a dead-end situation. After all, everything in the Realm of Arkon was done for the players, or at least for their money. I wasted no time putting the chain on my neck. The badge locked into the amulet slot, which had been empty until now (and would probably have remained empty for the foreseeable future).
Spring Whisperer's Cloak of Haste
Cloth
Durability: 163/200
Unusual item.
Minimum level to equip: 190.
Armor: 520.
+80 to agility.
+60 to constitution.
+50 to stamina.
Weight: 5 lbs.
Not a bad cloak for a melee-specced druid, rogue or ranged dps. In truth, it wasn't anything special, and wouldn't fetch more than a few gold at the auction house. Like in many other games, items in Arkon fell into a range of classes: from plain items to artifacts. There were also sets that comprised several items of the same type, all unusual or above, from two to eight pieces per set. Combining several or more pieces resulted in decent set bonuses to their owner. I put the cloak away in my bag and reached for the larger letter.
You've accessed the quest: Special Delivery.
Quest type: normal.
Deliver the letter of Ar-Iraz, the prince of Jarus Province, to Nittal and hand it to Lady Janam the Beautiful, second wife of Astarot, the lord of Ashtar Dominion.
Reward: 5 gold, experience.
I accepted, naturally.
I took the letter in my hands warily. It was a scroll of fine leather, inscribed from top to bottom with strange symbols and sealed with red wax, the symbols flashing scarlet periodically. Thankfully, I was never the curious type, and especially not at this level. Besides, reading other people's mail was a clear sign of bad manners.
The other letter was a bit more plain:
You've accessed the quest: Sales Report.
Quest type: normal.
Deliver a sales report from Jarus Province to Nittal and hand it to Venerable Yldiz, head of the traders' guild of Ashtar Dominion.
Reward: 2 gold, experience.
The human mood is a strange thing indeed. It hadn't been twenty minutes since I wanted to howl at the moon from despair, and now I smiled up at it like an old girlfriend. Who was I twenty minutes ago? A pauper without a penny to my name, without a home or occupation, hated by everybody around save for perhaps those gophers. But now I had things to do, quests to complete. I only needed to find out the location of Nittal, which, seeing as the lord lived there, was probably the dominion's capital city.
I got on the road and headed toward Lamorna. Bit by bit, a plan was taking shape in my head. All of A
rkon's kingdoms had similar layouts. For example, in the human kingdom of Erantia, the capital—the humans' starting city—was situated roughly in the center. Abutting the capital were the royal lands—zones ranging from early levels to low 50s. Beyond the royal lands stretched the Great Princedoms, its zones offering content from roughly level 30 through 180s. Further still lay the Borderlands, designed for players levels 150 through 250, brimming with fortresses, wild tribes, lawless gangs and no large cities to speak of.
To the south Erantia adjoined the Great Forest—home of light and dark elves; to the southwest loomed the Kraet Peaks, populated by dwarves and drow; and to the east stretched the steppe, inhabited by orcs. The kingdoms' borders were not strictly defined, which led to frequent conflicts between warring races. That fact, however, hardly precluded dark elves, drow and orcs from traveling throughout Vaedarr and taking up service with its human rulers.
The realm employed a sophisticated system of reputations, ranks and titles. In theory, any player could become the king of Erantia, but the reality was much closer to the real world. Taking an honest look around, what chances did a regular person have of becoming president? Or governor? Truly powerful clans built their castles on vacant territories and entered into vassalages and alliances. You could build a castle for free and without anyone's permission in the unclaimed lands abutting Erantia to the southeast, which, as the rumor had it, contained the Shadow Empire of Darkaan. But there hadn't been any volunteers to build a castle in places teeming with hostile NPCs and 200+ level monsters. To my knowledge, at least.
Demon Grounds were probably planned similarly, which meant I had to make it to the capital and start my path from there. My "unfriendly" reputation would make most of the quests unavailable to me, but I should be able to make do just fine with what was left. Besides, reputation was a flexible thing that could be changed. The one glaring disadvantage was that I was alone. A tank and a healer in one. I didn't even have anyone to talk to—NPCs didn't really count. Among my few available resources was the game wiki, which had virtually zero information on Demon Grounds or its capital. There was no one to reach out to—the zone chat was unavailable. Mail service with the other planes hadn't yet been established, and I didn't have any local contacts.
Then I remembered that I had money and could call my sister! I dialed her number, but for some reason she wouldn't pick up. Could she be sleeping? But it should be daytime in Moscow. Weird. I stopped and considered whom else to call.
"Who are you and what are you doing here, o human with a demon's soul?" a deep, imperious voice sounded behind me, catching me off-guard. Startled, I spun around… And my jaw nearly hit the ground.
Standing before me was a ghost with a level of 516… 516!!! In life, the stranger had been human—above average height and roughly fifty years of age, with strong-willed features, a neatly trimmed beard and shoulder-length hair bound at the forehead with an ornate band. His piercing gaze regarded me as though I were a fly that had had the rotten luck of landing in his soup. "Ghost of Archmage Altus"—read the legend above his head. Level 516! The baddest raid boss killed by the Azure Dragons wasn't higher than 350! My eyes bulging, I stared at this NPC that had showed up out of nowhere, thinking frantically of what to answer him…
"Are you deaf?" the mage cocked his head, as if eavesdropping on my deliberations.
"No, not deaf," I sighed. "I don't know how I ended up here. I was born in Vaedarr," I wasn't going to traumatize the NPC with my tales of skyscrapers and airplanes, "fell asleep by some kind of temple, and woke up here. The gods must have chosen me to carry out some mission yet unbeknown to me," I concluded with a glorious fib.
"What year is it, and who governs in Vaedarr?" the mage continued his questions.
"Year 1376 from the last Chaos War," I quickly looked up the answer in the wiki. "And Rayan I Erast, dubbed 'the Wise,' is the ruler."
Archmage Altus fell in thought for a moment, then made a casual gesture and two chairs materialized out of thin air. He took a seat on one, putting the staff, which he had been holding in his right hand, on his knees.
"Sit and tell me what the temple at which you fell asleep looked like." He frowned. "And what are these rags you're wearing? Are you a beggar?"
"I am a mage!" I declared, trying to instill my voice with confidence. Noticing Altus' look of irony and amusement, I corrected myself, "Well, um, I intend on becoming one."
"How the times have changed," the archmage shook his head despondently. "Used to be that the gift would only awaken among the noble, but now…" he sighed heavily. "So, about the temple?"
The two of us made a quite a comical sight—a human and a ghost, sitting in the middle of a road at night, a quarter mile from the closed gate of a demon village, engaged in a calm conversation.
"I'm not sure, it was nighttime," I was scanning the information on gods, out of which only Myrt was known to me. "It might have been Setara or Loaetia," I added, finally pulling up the list of Arkon's pantheon.
Your reputation with Archmage Altus of Erantia has increased! Archmage Altus is neutral to you.
The bar above the NPC's head changed color from pale red to yellow.
"Setara, you say," said the archmage contemplatively, "perhaps it was her who sent you—to put an end to my three-hundred-year-old solitude."
In this scenario, I was supposed to be offered a quest…
"How may I be of service?" I spoke the standard phrase for such a situation.
He sighed and gave me an intent look, whereupon he seemed to have reached a decision.
You've accessed the quest: Duty Calls.
Quest type: hidden, chain.
Help Archmage Altus perform his final duty to his people.
You've accessed the quest: Duty Calls, Part I.
Quest type: hidden.
Listen to Archmage Altus' story.
Reward: experience.
Hidden quests were highly coveted by all players. Acquiring one was only possible by being in the right place at the right time, and after fulfilling a heap of conditions to boot. In one example, a player from South Korea spent a whole month pummeling a mannequin. The sheer stubbornness must have had its effect, as the governing AI eventually took mercy on the poor bastard, whom his fellows Koreans were already beginning to perceive as an NPC, and offered him a secret quest for some unique profession.
I accepted the quest, looked at the archmage sitting across from me, and was transfixed by his gaze…