“All right, we’ll come up with a worthy name later. Let’s get back to our promotional activities in the meantime.”
By the end of the promotional activities, Chip and I had amassed a fantastical sum of six hundred fifty gold coins, and that’s not including the bounty we’d gotten for liquidating the dangerous outlaw Prickly Sloe. Only two vendors refused our promotional offer: An itinerant pirc merchant, whose tent was a temporary construction and a cantankerous old shrub who was the only jeweler in the entire Tree. Despite the high cost of his merchandise, this biota refused to pay even a single coin to the ‘unknown pair of freeloaders.’
“That old root will regret scrimping his gold soon enough,” I prophesied unkindly. “When he changes his mind, we’ll shake no less than 300 out of him.”
“Three hundred?” Chip jerked up his lip menacingly, displaying a fang as long as my finger. “For 300 we’ll deign to hear his case…” He showed me the note to the jewelry store: ‘Pierre’s Jewels. A paltry selection of wares at inflated prices is unlikely to pique the interest of the Trees’ residents and visitors.’
“Maybe I should add something else?” he said pensively. “By the way. Why should he change his mind anyway? The moldy stump, I mean.” The pirc waved his thumb over his shoulder.
“Can’t say. Top Secret. Although…Give me your comm number out in reality. Confidentiality won’t apply out there.”
The pirc thought for a few seconds and then nodded a bit uncertainly.
“Only my camera’s on the fizz at the moment,” he warned. “I keep forgetting to fix it.”
“The hell with the camera. We can email, if you prefer. It’s just quicker by voice. You don’t even have to get out of the capsule, merely leave full immersion mode.”
Five minutes later I was relating to Chip the schism that had taken place among the biota elite and the imminent embassy with its logical consequence that the borders would be opened to players from different races.
“Interesting,” Chip concluded when I had finished. His voice sounded a little strange. It had some light metallic timbre to it, as well as a tinge of…was it tension? As if Pavel, as Chip introduced himself, was worried about some catch or unpleasant question. As I suspected, he was simply trying to conceal his advanced age. Considering he’d mentioned being a pilot for thirty years, and some simple calculation that he couldn’t have started any earlier than 18, my furry friend was probably over fifty. It’s no surprise that he was trying to mask his voice a bit. Who wants to admit that he’s started playing games at his respected age—and that he behaves in them like an ordinary teenager, even if a very well-read one. So he used a speech scrambler, judging by the metallic tone.
I have a lot of respect for the privacy of others. If Chip needs to guard a secret, that’s his lawful right.
“You can’t mention any of this in the game. I’m restricted from talking and if I spill any of this, I’ll be fined heftily. But keep these future developments in mind. If we gain some reputation and get an invite to the palace, we’ll have a chance of attaching ourselves to some embassy and traveling with them to the wider world.”
“Don’t worry, my field bouquet, if there’s anything I have it’s an understanding of confidentiality and secrecy,” Chip assured me. “The only thing is that you shouldn’t tell anyone else, since as the Arabic proverb has it, what two know the bulrushes know too.”
“What about Sloe? He seems like an experienced player. He might have good advice for us.”
“What guarantee do you have that he’s not working for the local counterintel?” Chip objected. “If there is a secret, then there is someone charged with keeping it secret. I don’t feel like tangling with spooks in a video game. So on the whole, you shouldn’t. It’s too early. Once we know who this Sloe is, we can think about it.”
“You seem to be taking this game fairly seriously,” I was flabbergasted by such a response, “but you’re right, we have plenty of time to tell him. All right. Let’s get back.”
I have to admit that I was a bit apprehensive as I re-entered Barliona. I’d read on the fora some panicked threads about the system’s capability to track what you said to people even outside of the game. As I should’ve expected, the rumors were just rumors. My reputation didn’t change for the worse—nothing changed for the worse—except maybe the pirc’s mug. He looked concentrated and consternated, as if he was trying to solve some kind of problem. As it turned out, I had guessed correctly. He barely laid eyes on me before beginning without introduction:
“Right. We need to solve the riddle of the seasons as well as learn about the local climate: when it rains here, when it snows and for how long.”
“Why don’t you take care of that?” I found an excuse to avoid wading deeper into various cartographic details that were clearly superfluous to the game. “I need to work on my class quest and go see the instructor to see if he has anything new for me. I have to research the other class’s skills too, to see which ones I might take.”
“That’s right…by the way…” Chip recalled his to-do list. “I still have to try out the magic classes. Level 10 is around the corner and I need to decide soon. I won’t get a chance to see what the magic stuff is all about later.”
“In that case, here’s the plan,” I proposed. “We leave the money in the bank, fill in the rest of the map, remembering to mark Cypro’s sigils, level up our cartography skills to ten, unlock the specializations—and then you kill me, I go out to reality and when I return, I’ll complete my class quest. Meanwhile, you can try being a mage and learn all you can about the local climate. After that we’ll pick up another couple quests for the festival. And when Sloe returns, we’ll brainstorm further.”
“Deal,” the pirc nodded. We popped into the bank and returned to drafting the Tree’s map.
Orphis, the cartography instructor was pleased with our progress on the map, and Chip managed to squeeze him for a small discount for unlocking the specialization. The golden glow that surrounded him, indicated that Chip would soon transform from a warrior to a merchant.
New cartographer specialization unlocked: ‘Scroll Scribe.’ This specialization allows you to enchant scrolls with spells of up to level 50 inclusive. Additionally, you may write down recipes for new items of up to level 50 inclusive. Bards unlock the ability to create their own songs.
‘Scroll Scribe’ specialization bonus: +5% to Intellect.
“Interesting,” Chip muttered to himself, staring straight ahead. “The ‘Eagle Eye’ specialization increases your attentiveness. +5% chance of seeing creatures in stealth, secret items, areas and doors.”
“Sounds legit. Let’s go to some remote location so that you can bring me to justice. I want to go to sleep.”
“Damn, I feel like some serial killer creep…going with a girl to some dark corner to kill her,” the pirc joked. It didn’t seem like he was pleased at having to kill me. Must be his conscience.
“Everything’s worth trying once,” I quipped a little glibly. “Never imagined that a military person would object to the PKing part of the game.”
“It’s not the kind of experience worth seeking,” Chip replied and didn’t say a word more.
We walked over to one of the quiet dead ends of the branch. I bet many generations of young biota came here to spend time alone concealed by the leafage. Well, and how am I worse after all?
“Why are you so grim?” I objected, noticing Chip’s expression. “It’s just a game. So you’ll smack me a couple times and that’s it. It’ll be fun.”
After my exchange with Sloe, I didn’t forget to keep leveling my Intellect and now was worried about accidentally slaying our tank with a spell. The damage was high, after all, and we were in the forest, which granted a double bonus. It would be better to avoid magic altogether.
“Let’s see now, what’s that script again…? You good-for-nothing, deadbeat bastard! You’ve ruined my life! I’ve wasted my best years on you!” I launched into the most mel
odramatic, boilerplate argument I could think off and swung as hard as I could at the pirc. The attack didn’t come off: Due to our difference in height, I had to stand on my tippy-toes and the blow glanced off his armor doing no damage.
“Damn it…”
“…and you thought you were marrying a future General of Aviation,” Chip muttered barely audibly. And then added in a normal voice:
“You should try with your lute. With your body composition you’re going to be hopping and swinging until the next carrot harvest. Try singing something.”
“I don’t sing so bad that they’ll call me a murderer if I do. All right,” I muttered getting a better grip on the lute. “Who told you that the guitar isn’t capable of blunt force trauma?”
Swinging with all my vegetable might, I smashed the pirc in the face with the lute while screaming: “I’ve had it! I’m going to my mother’s house!”
This time I managed to do some damage and the system instantly declared me a wanted outlaw.
“Sorry,” Chip pressed his ears guiltily to his skull and took a grand swipe with his halberd.
A damage notification flashed past me and I instantly found myself looking at the game’s splash screen. Well, let’s hope that the cozy dead end works out better for future generations of young biota.
Despite my weariness, I just couldn’t fall asleep: My thoughts kept coming back to the history of ancient battles and the schism of the Council. A motif for a future song kept spinning in my head, and as a result I sat embraced with my guitar synth until the middle of the night, trying to find the right words for the melody that was slowly coming through. Something told me that a new ballad would soon see the light of day.
I fell asleep around morning. In my dreams, I dreamed of the blighted creatures. Wave after wave of them rushed at the Tree, rising far above, each wave smashing against the bristling wedge of an allied Kartossian army.
Chapter Nine
I returned to Barliona well-rested and set on making the best of my time. In the coming days I would need to make decisions about my character’s development, complete Coleus’ quest and continue my training, solve the riddle of the Tenth’s sigils, delve into the local library in search of the records of the past I was interested in, solve the secret of the blight that had afflicted the Hidden Forest, find my way into the high-level meeting and leverage that to find a way out of the starting location to meet with my friends. And that didn’t include all the little quests I had taken on as well as my cartographic obligations to the merchants.
Stopping by the bank, I sent a letter to Chip, withdrew all the gold that had accumulated in there and went off to purchase supplies. I was planning on picking up gear and jewelry for Constitution. If every item would grant me +1 to Const, I could reckon on an extra 160–170 HP. I can’t recall how many necklaces and bracelets I can wear here, but that doesn’t matter. Either way, my survivability would shoot through the roof and I’ll be able to start leveling up solo.
Unfortunately, my dreams were soon smashed upon the reefs of reality: A single trifle with stat bonuses cost no less than 30 gold. Even if I spend all my cash on hand, I won’t have enough for a full set. On top of it all, the miserly Pierre, the jeweler, quoted me a price that was so inflated that I swore to myself I’d include him in one of my songs as a ghoul and use all the unflattering words I could think of to do so. The lack of competition has gone to his head, the damn vegetable-patch monopolist.
By the time the pirc and Sloe showed up, I was a hundred coins poorer. In exchange, I had a new cape and boots, and was 30 HP ‘fatter.’
“Hello, Othello!” I greeted the pirc without looking up from my belt which increased my Constitution by almost two points. It was quite attractive from all angles, only it cost 55 gold. If things keep going this way, I’ll spend my meager share of earnings in one day.
“Uh, which one of us is that directed at?” Chip inquired carefully, counting his share of my blood money. It really was a cute little scam we were running here.
“You’re the one who killed me,” I reminded him, deciding to pull the trigger on the belt purchase. Easy come easy go.
Unused to the interest of poor players, the merchant became so ecstatic at the deal that you could think I’d bought not just a simple belt but had swept up all his wares from his shelves.
“By the way, when can we expect the completed map?” the merchant reminded delicately, looking from me to Chip and back.
“Soon!” I promised with some bluster. To my surprise, Chip went further, bluffing completely:
“It’s half-done already, my esteemed friend.”
The merchant beamed. I led the pirc aside and ignoring Sloe’s puzzled look, whispered:
“What’s with you? What half? We’ve barely done two branches.”
“Well, while a certain someone was drooling onto her pillow,” Chip replied with a note of self-satisfaction, “a certain hardworking someone was occupied with being productive. I’ve crawled all over this Tree and drawn most of it in. That’s how we do it!” He stuck his elbows out, slid his hat over one ear and winked:
“Ain’t I jive old pirc?”
“What?” I asked, simultaneously referencing the work he’d done and the meaning of the strange word.
“Could you let me in on the loop too? What are you talking about?” our horned friend reminded us of his presence.
“We’re doing a cartography quest,” the pirc smirked. “We’ve decided to become cartographers and we’ve been tasked with making a map of the Tree.”
I didn’t fail to notice that Chip hadn’t mentioned our small but profitable side-venture.
“Well and while the decorative element of our collective was off resting,” the pirc bowed to me clownishly, “I decided to make some extra progress. As for ‘jive,’ my young lady, that’s a bit of ancient slang. I’m asking for your approval in a nutshell. A quote from the past, so to say.”
“A real literary shmuck,” Sloe hummed to this and deciding that the topic was closed, launched into the business at hand. “Anyway, here’s the deal. We need to make our way out of this forest into the world at large. The guilds can help us level up out there, as well as supply us with gear and help us to our two feet in general. The only catch is we have to figure out how to get out of here.”
“Well we already know that the critters don’t pose much of a threat to us. We can head towards the border and cross it, the three of us,” I offered.
“Uh-huh, on our own two feet…I thought the same, so I tried to sneak past the mobs while in camouflage. It turns out that the further you get from the Tree, the larger the monsters become. And some of them can detect you while you’re camouflaged.”
“As I understood it, you have friends in the world outside,” Chip butted in. “Why don’t you give them a whistle? Then they can come riding in to break us out of here. Like the cavalry in the ancient Westerns.” The pirc began to whoop like an Apache.
“They can’t cross the Arras,” I reminded. “Without a biota or a pirc with them, they simply won’t be able to cross. And if someone leads them through, the penalty will be hatred status with the biota.”
“Look at that,” Sloe said, surprised. “I’ll keep that in mind. In either case, good luck even reaching the Arras. I sent the guys my coordinates for a portal. Well, it sent them to the very border of the Arras—they ended up in a swamp full of a bunch of angry mobs. Those who got away, drowned later. Five people all together were sent to respawn. We tried shifting the coordinates a bit to avoid the swamp. But that time my friends emerged from the portal on the very edge of a precipice, surrounded by a bunch of aggressive undead: everything from phantoms to skeletons and zombies.
“The Stone Maw,” I recalled the name of the crevice that the Tenth had created.
I suppose the fallen enemies of that ancient conflict never found their rest and turned into aggressive monsters doomed to continue their invasion and therefore defend the meagre borderlands afforded them. I
wonder if the Sixth had had a vengeful hand in all this. She’s a specialist in the dead and clearly wouldn’t wish an easy death on her enemies.
“How do you know this?” Sloe asked, surprised at my geographical knowledge.
“I had a vision about how there was a battle there once,” I replied briefly. “So we have to reach the forest boundaries on foot. By the way, what guild are you from? Just so I know…”
“Day of Wrath,” he spoke proudly, as if there was some sacred sense to the words. But, seeing Chip and my nonplussed faces, Sloe slumped a bit and waved his hand: “I keep forgetting that you two are newbs. It’s one of the continent’s leet hundred, number 43 in Kartoss.”
“The continent’s leet hundred?” the pirc echoed. “Sounds like the first cohort of a Roman legion or something. Is it like a military unit or what?”
“The leet hundred are simply the hundred most successful guilds in the game,” I spoke up before Sloe could unleashed the tirade of gaming slang he’d readied. “Typically, it’s a composite of multiple factors: The number of members, their levels, the level of their gear, their progress with dungeons and so on. The top ten are like corporations. The top 100 are large public companies with a decent income.”
“Something like that,” Sloe nodded, understanding the need to communicate with more everyday phrases.
“A guild? All these weird organizations are starting to confuse me—party, guild, hundred…What’s the difference finally?” Chip made a bewildered face.
“It’s simple. The top hundred is a simple rating, like the top wealthiest people of the planet,” Sloe began to explain. “A party is simply several players who form a small team in order to do quests or dungeons, the way we’re doing. A raiding party is theoretically the same group but with more members and assembled for a serious goal like the completion of a complicated dungeon or capturing a city. Although, technically, there’s no difference between a party and a raid. A guild is more of a political or economic organization: It has a leader, a deputy, a treasurer, officers and rank and file members, such as raiders, craftsmen and gatherers. Each guild sets this up on their own, but in general the idea’s the same. Guilds busy themselves with earning gaming cash or other boons. They protect their gatherers and craftsmen, negotiate trade deals, wage war with other guilds and launch sieges. They can also build their own castles. Large guilds pay salaries to their members. The more important officers earn as well or better as they would in real life.”
The Renegades Page 13