[Warning: Destroying items results in a small amount of materials lost to waste, therefore destroyed items cannot be reforged as they were without the addition of more material. Are you sure you want to destroy this Quality Steel Longsword? Yes / No]
Though Quality weapons and armor were a step up from the Shoddy ones most heroes dropped on their first death in the citadel, Roark had leveled his Blacksmithing Trade Skill enough that he could forge better himself. When he confirmed that he wanted to destroy the weapon, the heavy clang of metal being tossed on a scrap pile rang through the smithy. A page appeared listing the reclaimed components.
[Quality Steel Longsword yielded (1) Iron Ingot, (1) Powdered Gemstone, (4) Rivets, and (5) Leather Strips]
Without looking, Roark knew the new components had also been added to the totals on his Crafting and Inventory pages. Over the past hour, he’d amassed quite the treasure trove of smithing ingredients as the pile of scrap items from the raid dwindled. Now only a handful of daggers remained. Once those were dismantled, he would begin forging new weapons and armor to outfit the Trolls of the first floor. An off-rotation group of Trolls milled about the forge now—mostly Changelings, though there was one level 4 Thursr mixed in with the crowd—eager to see what their Floor Overseer would create for them.
Roark returned to the heap of scrap weapons and picked up the daggers, inspecting the blades on instinct. As he went through the process of destroying each one, his mind wandered. As much as he loved working the smithy, with nearly fifty Lesser Vassals to outfit, it wasn’t practical for him to be the only one crafting gear. But from what he’d read about Trade Skills, the only ways to acquire one was by apprenticeship with a Guild or by reading an enchanted Trade Skill book.
Between daggers, Roark pulled up the character page for the level 4 Changeling skulking by the workbench.
As a Lesser Vassal, the Changeling only had one Trade Skill slot to fill, whereas Greater Vassals such as Kaz and Zyra had two.
Roark frowned as he dismissed the screen and plunged the next blade into the coals. Forty-nine unused Trade Skill slots running around. Something had to be done about that wasted potential as soon as possible.
In addition to that, Roark had noticed that a few of the Trolls beneath him were leveling their weapons skills every time they fought, whereas he himself had never gained a single level with his rapier. Even the Level 4 Changeling whose page he’d checked earlier had unlocked a skill called Backstab Modifier. The few Vassals who had unlocked their weapons skills were getting better at combat, but Roark seemed to be stuck with only what he’d known of fighting when he leapt through the portal into Hearthworld.
According to his mystic grimoire, weapons abilities fell under Melee Skills, which had to be unlocked by trainer, book, or guild apprenticeship before he could begin to level them up. Until then, every hero he fought was wasted potential, not to mention the fact that he couldn’t hope to level up enough to take on the Dungeon Lord, Azibek the Cruel, on his griefing and Trade Skills alone. The Exarch had ruled the citadel for as long as any of the Trolls there could remember, so odds were good that he was higher than the Final Jotnar evolution level of 36. If Roark was going to dethrone that tyrant, he needed experience points coming in from all the areas he could get.
No matter which way Roark looked at it, a trip back to the Averi Marketplace was becoming unavoidable. He could search Mogrifa & Mogrifa for a Melee Skill book for himself while finding Trade Skill books for his Lesser Vassals. With their recent influx of gold and saleable loot, they might be able to afford as many as a dozen.
Roark finished dismantling the final dagger, then forced himself to go straight to the workbench and select a set of scrolling pliers to start making Superior Ringmail Shirts. They were the cheapest material spend to Armor rating, and they had no Strength or Dexterity restrictions, so even the Changelings could wear them.
What he really wanted to do, however, was craft something from the pair of Obsidian Ingots he’d acquired from a Double-Bladed Battle-axe found on one of the heroes’ corpses. He’d never worked with the black lava glass before. Still, he resisted the terrible temptation, forcing himself to complete four Ringmail Shirts, two sets of Fulgurite Gauntlets, and a myriad of wicked-bladed Steel Machetes, Khopeshes, and Falcatas.
While he was at the grindstone improving the newly forged items from Quality to Superior, another notification appeared.
[Congratulations, you have leveled up your Blacksmithing Trade Skill to Level 7! You may now improve and repair Enchanted weapons and armor.]
Very interesting. He would have to try that later with some of the enchanted items they’d looted. But for now, he had a date with some lava glass. After all, keeping promises to yourself was just as important—perhaps more so—as keeping promises to others. That was the way of self-discipline.
Roark fished out the Obsidian ingot from his Inventory, tracing the intricate whorls and lines on its surface with the pad of his thumb and grinning with excitement. If there was one thing that made him feel like a child holding a brightly wrapped present, it was smithing with new materials.
At his thought, a page appeared listing the items he could craft from the Obsidian, along with slowly rotating images of each option. He read through them and was about to choose a Tower Shield for its impressive defensive numbers and gorgeous lines when he caught sight of a new category at the bottom: Repairs.
The page turned to reveal an image of Neveret’s Last Laugh: the eyeless, mouthless mask he’d found in the hot coals of the torture chamber what seemed like ages ago. He’d used the mask early on to defeat PwnrBwner and his miscreant crew of heroes. A crack angled from where the mouth should’ve been across the left cheek to where the wearer’s ear would sit.
[To repair Neveret’s Last Laugh, you will use (1) Obsidian Ingot, (1) Iron Ingot, (2) Powdered Gemstones, and (8) Rivets. Repair? Yes / No]
From Roark’s limited experience with the mask, he would never have guessed Obsidian had gone into its making. He knew different kinds of gemstones were used in Enchanting, though he’d had no chance to try it out for himself yet. Did the Powdered Gemstone in the mask power its enchantment?
Intrigued, Roark selected yes.
Though this was his first experience with lava glass, the knowledge he’d gained from Trade Skill books led him through the process as if he were a master. First, he settled the Obsidian and Iron into a large crucible along with a fistful of Powdered Gemstones. Then, he picked the melting pot up with tongs and stuck it in the forge, the muscles in his back straining with effort, perspiration dotting his brow and trickling down his chest and back. Lucky he was a Jotnar now. As a Changeling, there was no bloody way he could’ve managed to lift that.
After a few minutes spent stoking the heat up to the right temperature, he grabbed the mask with the tongs and stuck it into the bed of glowing coals beside the crucible. The metal began to blush and soften. Roark grinned to himself, his brooding over skill levels forgotten, and pulled the mask from the fire. The next several minutes were spent pinching the crack closed and hammering rivets into it.
Roark had been concerned the work would be made awkward by his new height—when he’d evolved into a Jotnar, he had grown to nearly seven and a half feet tall—but the anvil seemed to have grown with him. It sat at the perfect height.
With the crack fastened together, Roark returned to the forge. The Obsidian and Iron in the crucible had melted and mixed with the Powdered Gemstone to form a brilliant yellow compound, not so different in appearance from liquid gold.
Carefully, Roark used the tongs to pull the pot from the fire. He took it to the workbench, where a small, hinged cast sat magically open and waiting. Sparks flew from the mold as he poured half of the molten Obsidian-Iron compound into the bottom. As expected, the liquid stone settled into the nadir of the bowl. Roark grabbed the mask and lowered it in place with a hiss, pressing the fiery mixture up the sides in an even layer. Then he added the rest of the Obsidian a
nd Iron, closed the cast, and screwed shut the bolts so it wouldn’t shift as it cooled.
Roark took the Iron Gauntlets of Minor Endurance they’d taken in the raid to the grindstone while he waited—planning to improve the few enchanted items they had—but found his gaze returning over and over again to the workbench. Finally, he set aside the gauntlets and checked the cast.
Whereas back in Traisbin, it would have taken hours or even overnight for the mask to finish cooling enough to open the cast, in Hearthworld it took only a handful of minutes. Roark unscrewed the bolts holding the halves together. The mask had shrunk as it cooled, so the top piece came away easily. Roark lifted the repaired mask from the mold.
╠═╦╬╧╪
Neveret’s Last Laugh
Durability: 52/52
Armor Rating: 12
Properties: Grants the wearer 100% resistance to unenchanted weapons at the cost of (2 x character level) HP / second!
“You can only listen to a bloke run his mouth so long before you’ve got to shut it for him … permanently.”
╠═╦╬╧╪
He dismissed the information with a thought and returned his attention to the mask.
Hells, it was beautiful. In the red-orange glow from the forge, it shined a rich jet like spilled ink. Roark turned the piece over in his hands, reveling in the contrast of his smoke-white fingers against the mask’s luxurious black. Looking at it, he could almost forget the thing was meant to burn a man’s eyes and mouth shut.
“Are you going to wear that thing or mate with it?” a dusky voice from behind Roark asked. “Because the rest of us would like some warning if we need to leave the two of you alone.”
Resisting the urge to guiltily tuck the mask away in his Inventory, Roark slowly turned around. Just because he’d been caught admiring his own handiwork was no reason to react like a youth caught ogling a bawdy painting … though the grouchy old bag of a mage-smith Roark had been apprenticed to at the academy had always treated the two as equally depraved.
Zyra was crouched by the forge, patting Macaroni’s sides fondly. Her expression was hidden in the shadowy depths of her ever-present hood, but when she stood, the slant of her shoulders and hips conveyed the laughter her face couldn’t.
“Some of my best work yet,” Roark said, deciding to take the honest, if slightly conceited, road. He held out the mask to give the hooded Reaver a better look at it. “Not counting your new flechettes, of course.”
Zyra waved one leather-wrapped hand.
“You don’t have to worry about me getting jealous and stealing your fancy trinket, Griefer. I prefer the sorts of masks you can see out of.” With a lazy rotation of her wrist, one Breath of the Cockatrice appeared in her fingers. “Besides, these little beauties still have that new weapon shine to them. They just helped me take down a pair of heroes and level up my Ranged Attack. I’m just here to give my compliments to the smith.”
Roark’s brow furrowed as he recalled his resolution to search out Melee and Trade Skill books. He scratched at his jaw with one black claw.
“We need to find Kaz,” he said.
“I said smith,” Zyra enunciated. “Not chef.”
“I know, but he’ll be brokenhearted if he misses a trip to the marketplace.” Roark returned the mask to his Inventory and headed for the smithy door. “Come on.”
THREE:
Scott “PwnrBwner_OG” Bayani
The game had force logged Scott “PwnrBwner_OG” Bayani out, and the haptic feedback had cut off the second he took off the helmet, but he could still feel the contact poison burning in his veins.
“Better luck next time, mate.” Scott stomped across the living room and grabbed his helmet off the floor. “Fake-ass pirate accent bullshit. Think you’re so fucking cool.”
They would see how cool that dickface Roark thought he was when Scott reported his ass. Hearthworld’s customer service might be completely worthless when it came to overcharges and bugs, but they didn’t screw around when there was an unsanctioned modder messing with their game.
Scott tossed his helmet onto the crappy couch crammed up against the short wall of his studio and grabbed his InfiniTab. It’d cost a buttload—and he’d had to go to an actual physical store and stand in line for like two days to get one—but the InfiniTab ran the best sensory graphics of any all-in-one on the market at a sleek quarter-inch thick. It was the perfect tablet for the serious gamer pressed for space.
“Hey,” he said to wake it up.
The projector flipped on, throwing up the holographic image of a smoking hot naked redhead. She grinned.
“Hey, sexy.” She slid her fingers through her hair, letting it fall across her eyes. “What can I do for you today?”
“Search my Trash for unread Hearthworld announcements. Something like, ‘Play as a mob’ or ‘dungeon giveaway,’ or whatever.”
She blinked and bit the corner of her full bottom lip.
“You don’t have any unread Hearthworld announcements containing those or similar terms. Should I search again for limited time offers and special events?”
“Yeah. But this time run both for read and unread.”
“Hmm.” She raised her arms over her head and stretched. “You have one read announcement for Rising Sun Casts Diamonds onto Dewy Grass – Rogs of the Great Plains Expansion Pack. Would you like me to read it?”
“Delete forever.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Message deleted.” The redhead reclined on some nonexistent surface in midair and braced herself on her arms. “Is there anything else I can do for you today, Scott?”
“Open Hearthworld H-boards,” he said, dropping onto the couch beside his helmet. “Search for posters with Roark in their handle.”
“I’m sorry, sexy, did you mean Rory?”
“No. R-O-A-R-K.”
“I can’t seem to find any posters with Roark in their username. There are over 1200 usernames containing Rory, though.”
“Forget it,” Scott said, rolling his eyes. “Search the posts for ‘Roark the Griefer’ and ‘Cruel Citadel.’”
She bounced forward and started back at the beginning of her motion loop, tousling her hair into her eyes again.
“There are 879 posts and replies containing those terms. Would you like me to read them?”
Scott shook his head. He had seven times that in feed-followers alone.
“No, see if any of them are talking about lodging a complaint with HW customer service.”
“There are sixty-four posts and replies contai—”
“So nobody basically.” He sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees, letting the InfiniTab dangle from his hand. Its horizon line detector compensated so the holographic redhead wasn’t suddenly sideways. “Fine, I’ll do the heavy lifting on this crap. Start a new post from my OG account.”
The redhead grinned and bit her lip. “You got it, sexy.”
“Title: Some asshole modder. Post: Some asshole modder going by Roark the Griefer set himself up in the Cruel Citadel outside Averi City, and he’s getting around the PvP debuffs by making himself a high-level Troll instead of a player, coding in all his own OP spells and shit. He’s even changing all the mob scripts in the dungeon so they’ll grief anybody who goes in. Hearthworld’s customer service isn’t going to do crap about this dickweed unless we all lodge complaints, so get off your butts and put this Griefer in his place. Contact customer service and threaten to cancel your membership if they don’t deal with him, and then round up your posse, bend the son of a bitch over, and gank him so hard his mom walks funny for a week. End post.”
“Would you like me to read that back to you?”
“Yeah.” Scott listened to his post, added in a bunch of exclamation points, and decided it was good. “Submit post to the Overall, Hearthworld Issues and Troubleshooting, Strafe It, and PvP Reporting boards.”
“Done.” The redhead raised her arms over her head and stretche
d. “Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
“Yeah, PM the link to all my followers, then open a new message to Hearthworld Customer Service.”
As soon as he finished dictating his complaint, Scott pulled his UIVR helmet back on and logged in again. Time to grind some levels so he could lay the smack down on that chump Roark.
FOUR:
Market Run
“…and the skewers!” Kaz said, clasping his wide belly as he gazed fondly into the dancing flames of the kitchen’s hearth. “So juicy and yet so crisp. It was that moment that Kaz fell in love with food,” he concluded, bobbing his oversized head enthusiastically.
“Love at first bite?” Zyra offered.
Roark chuckled as he equipped the Ilexim Royal Guard Helm the huge Thursr had looted from his latest turn at griefing. On their first trip to the Averi market, Kaz had passed himself off as a hero, hiding his face behind a menpō faceplate from the boxy wooden O-Rogiri armor. Too small to do the same at the time, Roark had posed as Kaz’s unique Changeling familiar. Now, however, as a Jotnar, Roark was tall enough to pass for one of the pale elves. He hooked the black veil across the helm’s opening, obscuring his nose and mouth. An over-gangly and very pale elf, true, but still passable.
So long as no one looked too closely.
“Are we ready?” he asked, eyeing Zyra and Kaz in turn as he pulled the Town Portal scroll from his Inventory. He cracked the seal with a razor-sharp thumbnail and tossed the parchment to the flagstones. A shimmering violet portal opened just this side of the rough-hewn table.
“Yes!” Kaz lowered his menpō into place with a clunk as though gearing up to go into battle.
Zyra hesitated, fiddling with her hand wrappings. “On second thought, I’m going to stay here. Catch a couple more rounds of griefing.” She shrugged, doing an appalling job of projecting indifference. “I’m not too far from level 7. And with you two out, someone’s got to keep an eye on the citadel. Make sure none of the Changelings burn the place down.”
Civil War Page 2