With the claw-tipped thumb and forefinger of one hand, Roark massaged his temples. “Please tell me there isn’t some Troll taboo against weapons trainers,” he said.
“None,” Zyra said. “This is a matter of uncertainty. You got them to trust one another. The trick now is getting them to trust an outsider.”
Roark dragged his hand down his face, then nodded. Leading a revolt to overthrow both a tyrant and the status quo was fraught with far more nuisances than he would’ve imagined. True, he’d dealt with the bureaucratic numbskullery of the T’verzet—the Rebel Council—back in Korvo, but he hadn’t been a leader then. In truth, he’d been an outsider, even amongst his fellow rebels.
“Very well,” he finally said. “Go get Kaz. Sometimes the only way forward is in front of the pack.”
As the hooded Reaver stalked off toward the kitchens, Roark strode up to the table. Every eye in the room followed him, Troll and human alike. Macaroni was busy climbing up the wall and frisking after another Stone Salamander, not paying much attention to the goings-on below.
Griff folded his scarred hands in front of him and tilted his head back until he could look Roark in the eye.
“What can I do you for?” he said, as though this were the first time they’d ever met.
“I’d like training in the rapier,” Roark said, fishing a stack of golden coins from his Inventory and dropping them on the table.
The grizzled old fighter nodded and swept the coins into a small purse before standing with a groan.
“Let’s see your blade,” he prompted, twirling one hand through the air. Let’s get along with it, that gesture said.
Roark presented his Slender Rapier of the Falcon for the older man’s inspection. Griff raised the pommel to his nose, staring straight down the blade, then rested the flat on his finger less than an inch from the guard, checking the balance.
╠═╦╬╧╪
Slender Rapier of the Falcon (Superior)
One-Handed Damage: 20 - 29
Durability: 50 of 50
Level Requirement: 5
Strength Requirement: 12
Blade Class Weapon - Fast Attack Speed
+10% Attack Speed
╠═╦╬╧╪
“Quality work.” With a flick of his wrist, Griff tossed the rapier up and snatched it by the hilt.
Though Roark was well versed in the rapier, he watched Griff’s motions with keen fascination. The blade sliced through the air in a complicated series of mandritto and riverso slashes, all dal polso, or from the wrist. Roark tended to favor dalla spalla, swinging from his shoulder for the added momentum, but that technique left the body open to a counterattack for a comparatively long time. By contrast, Griff’s quick, precise cuts hardly left openings long enough to spot them, let alone exploit them. Any doubts Roark had regarding Griff’s skill vanished at once.
This man was competent and deadly.
“Next time you’re blade to blade with an opponent, give this a shot,” Griff said. He moved away from the table, then danced across the floor, his footwork impeccable. He flicked his wrist, bringing the blade around in a tight circle, stramazzone. “Why, that’ll throw him right off and free you to cut his hand up something cussed.”
The old fighter handed the rapier back to Roark and motioned for him to try the move. Roark settled into a defensive guard, imagining that he had just attached swords with someone to the inside, then twirled the blade in that same close circle Griff had demonstrated.
[Congratulations! You have unlocked a Melee Skill: Bladed Weapons! Once unlocked, Melee Skills, like all combat skills, gain abilities and levels through use. You can also purchase additional levels from trainers once per day. Warning: Players only have (3) Melee Skill Slots, are you sure you would like to add Bladed Weapons? Yes/No?]
[Congratulations! You have unlocked a Weapon Specialty: Rapier! When using a Specialty Weapon, you level up more quickly, deal additional damage, and have an increased chance to score a Critical Hit! Warning: Players only have (1) Weapon Specialty Slot, are you sure you would like to add Rapier? Yes/No?]
Roark read and reread the prompt, thinking through it for only a moment before accepting both prompts. Obviously, he needed access to Bladed Weapons, and since his favored weapon was the rapier, it made no sense not to accept the added benefits. An ascending chime rang through the room and another message appeared, this one gold and glimmering.
[LEVEL UP!]
[You have 10 undistributed Stat Points!]
Level 9, finally.
Only three more levels before he hit his next evolution: Elite Jotnar. He needed to distribute his Stat points, but that could wait until he was no longer pinned down under the staring eyes of fifty Trolls. Roark dismissed the magical grimoire page with a thought, then returned the rapier to the narrow sheath hanging from the leather frog at his belt.
“Much appreciated, mate.”
Griff grunted. “Come back when you’re ready to add the dagger to your off hand, and I’ll teach you this little trick I learned in the arena.”
Though Roark was tempted to spend the extra gold right then to find out what the trick was, he saw Kaz and Zyra loitering at the back of the crowd, watching curiously. Roark caught Kaz’s eye, then jerked his head at the trainer.
The Thursr’s onyx eyes widened with understanding and his huge mouth formed an O. As if he’d just stepped out on a massive stage, Kaz pulled himself up to his full height and strode through the crowd to Griff. “Kaz would like to purchase a level of training as well,” he said in a loud, stilted voice. Thespian would never be in the cards for Kaz, but bless his soul for trying.
Griff rubbed his calloused hands together. “What’s your weapon of choice, big fella?”
Kaz handed over his twin hooked swords while Roark slipped to the back of the room. The rest of the Trolls weren’t ready to swarm the table demanding the trainer take their money yet, but it wouldn’t be long, he suspected. With the crowd creeping closer to the trainer, it was easy to fade into the background with Zyra and simply observe.
Roark spoke up before the hooded Reaver could make a clever quip.
“Get your gold ready,” he said, gesturing to the front. “You’re next in line.”
The hood swiveled in his direction. “I’ve already unlocked my primary combat skills.”
“Then you can level one of your abilities. It’s faster than griefing. And far more efficient.”
Zyra sniffed, then begrudgingly admitted that was true. When Griff finished with Kaz, she took his place, presenting the trainer with a handful of her matte-black flechettes. The lower-level Trolls watched eagerly as the grizzled old man demonstrated a way to throw three of the poisoned darts at the same time. Roark knew that they wanted to follow suit and train as well—it was written all over their lumpy blue faces and carved into the lines of their malformed bodies—they just needed something to push them over the edge.
The old man returned the flechettes to Zyra and had her practice the motion. Her eyes slipped out of focus for a moment, no doubt reading the notice that she’d leveled up her Ranged Attack.
“What,” a reedy teenage voice echoed off the walls, “in the hell, bro?”
SEVEN:
Customer Service
Randy Shoemaker clutched his mug of coffee as he beelined for his glass-fronted office, keeping his head down, trying to avoid eye contact—muttering a silent prayer that no one would stop him or try to make small talk. Someone invariably would, however, since his office was directly adjacent to the lounge that housed the ping-pong table, an oversized leather couch, and a seventy-inch vidwall where employees could come to “unwind.” A place to play video games. To “hang out.” Or “jam.”
Frontflip Studios—maker of the bestselling ultra-immersive MMO Hearthworld—was one of those types of companies. A place where there was no formal dress policy. Where people wore blue jeans and flip-flops to work. Frontflip insisted it “inspired an atmosphere of creativity.”
Randy Shoemaker, one of Frontflip’s many senior software engineers, didn’t approve. Not at all. He liked things to be orderly, for everything to have its place. For the rules to be spelled out.
He dressed plainly. Dark, professional no-nonsense slacks, a white button up, and penny loafers. He also sported a clear pocket protector, crammed with pens and markers, but he’d been wearing it long before they were “ironically” hip. No, he wore his pocket protector out of sheer practicality.
“What’s up, Randy?” one of the concept artists grunted as he passed, not even bothering to look away from the first-person shooter buzzing with life on the vidwall.
“Not much,” Randy mumbled in reply, offering the man a thin smile. Then he quickly took a sip of his too-hot coffee, hoping to stave off any other verbal communication. Thankfully, the artist on the sofa had already forgotten about Randy—clearly, his greeting was perfunctory at best—which was fine. A lot of the other techs and devs were social types, but not Randy. He was quiet, introspective, polite. Not antisocial exactly, just not good at being with people. Some days he wished things were different. That he could be like Brad over in Customer Service or maybe Danny, the vice president of marketing. Cool. Suave. Casual. Their words seemed to come as easy as the wide smiles they always wore.
But that wasn’t him. Which was also perfectly fine. This wasn’t a popularity contest. He was here to work. Not to socialize or gallivant around or play games on company time or any of the other nonsense Frontflip allowed its employees to get away with. Randy arrived fifteen minutes early, ate his muffin while he made his coffee, then settled in to his work. Every day.
He pushed open the door with the toe of his loafer and shuffled over to his desk chair. Carefully, slowly—anxious that he might spill even a drop of his coffee—he set his mug down on a coaster, then settled into an ergonomic, high-backed chair with plenty of lumbar support. He tapped his mouse. Blue light flickered as his computer whirred to life with a gentle, reassuring hum. While his machine booted up, he meticulously organized the papers on his desk. His best designs always started on paper.
That done, he moved on to straightening the already straight books lining the shelf above his desk. Rational Database Theory and Applications. Advance Digital and Systems Analysis. Fundamentals of Radiant AIs. Refactoring. Design Patterns: Elements of Reusable Object-Oriented Software. Book after book. He knew most of those manuals by heart, but there was a comfort in having them near at hand, even though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually reached for one.
His monitor flashed, and with a few keystrokes, he was logged in.
Another sip of coffee—still just a tad too hot—then he opened his email.
A tight knot formed in the pit of his stomach. 113 unread messages, most of them forwarded over from customer service reps. Generally, he didn’t work with Customer Service. They had exactly his opposite skill set. They were talkers. Chatters. People persons. But these were exceptional days. Something was happening in Hearthworld, something no one understood. Not even Randy, unfortunately, which was extraordinary in itself.
He opened up the first email, wondering which dungeon this newest complaint would be about: Cruel Citadel or the Vault of the Radiant Shield. And the winner was … Cruel Citadel. He wasn’t entirely surprised. The Cruel Citadel was a low- to mid-level starter dungeon of Infernal alignment. A lot of new players, lowbies, worked through the top levels of the citadel, grinding out easy experience and earning trash-tier loot. By contrast, the Vault of the Radiant Shield, a Divine-oriented dungeon, was a relatively high-level zone, so the anomalous discrepancies weren’t quite so noticeable there.
Randy pushed his boxy black glasses up on the bridge of his nose, then craned forward to read the complaint. This one was from a player with the handle of PwnrBwner, real account holder name Scott Bayani.
This is like the millionth time that asswipe Roark the Griefer has killed me. He’s some kind of douchebag modder, and you guys aren’t doing anything! Seriously, why in the hell are you guys not doing anything about this?! This modding dickhole has ruined the whole dungeon. Like none of the Trolls are acting normal. They gang up on you. Form teams. That brohole Roark even coated my gear with contact poison! WTF! I was talking with one of my buddies who swears up and down they have an NPC trainer down there—and I saw screenshots, so I know he’s on the level. Cruel Citadel is listed at Tier 2, but it’s gotta be hitting Tier 4 difficulty, which is bullshit! I’ve lost soooooo much gear so much money. I’m serious, you guys better unfuck this!
Randy frowned and closed out of the very strongly worded email. The contact poison was new, and Scott wasn’t wrong about the NPC skill trainer. Griff the Arena vet from the Averi Marketplace had, in fact, relocated to the first level of the dungeon. And he was indeed training the Trolls, which defied all explanation. Mobs weren’t designed to operate that way. The best Randy could guess, this was some new form of game modding, except that couldn’t be. Hearthworld was a bastion of gaming purity.
And yet … This Roark, who was obviously a player, had somehow hacked the system. He was at the heart of the Cruel Citadel’s problems, the prime anomaly. He also happened to be invisible. Sure, Randy had seen screenshots, even video footage, but the player didn’t exist. He had no account. The character class was impossible. Everything about him was wrong. Even the spells he cast defied logic. There was simply nothing like them in the game. In short, Roark was a glitch. A bug. One that Randy had no idea how to fix.
Worse, this Roark seemed to also carry some sort of virus which was altering the other creatures in the Cruel Citadel. Infecting them. Changing their script. Giving them skill classes. Those secondary anomalies Randy could identify, but that was all he could do. All anyone could do. They seemed immune from tampering on his end; just another impossibility on top of all the rest. He puffed out his checks, rubbed at the bridge of his nose—already a tension headache was forming, dull horns of pain curling around his skull—then took another sip of coffee.
Now it was too cold. Lukewarm at best. He sighed, deflating a little.
It was going to be a terribly long day …
EIGHT:
Hellbender
A broad-shouldered rog clad in obsidian plate armor and a slender olm in flowing jade robes stood in the doorway to the antechamber. Apparently in all the excitement, the pair had managed to infiltrate without setting off a call to arms. An oversight to be fixed in the future.
“This is insane,” the rog, [Han_Pwno], said, his voice cracking. He pointed the blade of his naginata at Griff. “Do you think they kidnapped that NPC?”
“Isn’t that …” The olm, [SquirrelGirl80], paused and squinted. “Isn’t that the retired arena vet from the tavern in Averi City?” she asked, tilting her slime-coated head slightly to one side. “Holy crap. Yep. Definitely is. Dude … I think they might be training.”
“No way!” Han_Pwno shouted, delight etched into the lines of his green face. “That’s even weirder than Kamal said! I’m so screenshotting this. Seriously, no one is gonna believe this!”
Though Roark was mildly annoyed about the interruption, he realized that with just a little effort he could manipulate this situation to his favor. True, he could’ve rallied the small army of Trolls milling around in the great hall, bringing down a tidal wave of blue flesh and slashing weapons upon the interlopers. But that simply wouldn’t serve his purpose.
“Allow us to demonstrate the benefit of martial training,” Roark said to the assembled Trolls, his voice reverberating off the stone walls. “Kaz, Zyra, to arms. The rest of you, watch and learn.”
Roark slipped his Slender Rapier free of his sheath, then nodded toward Kaz. The Thursr nodded in reply, ready, a hooked sword in each meaty fist. But Zyra was the closest. Before the heroes could take even a single step, she hurled three flechettes as one, using the motion Griff had just taught her. The olm flinched, squawking in shock, then threw herself out of the way of an incoming flechette.
The rog whirled his oversized naginata, knocking one of tiny black blades aside, but the third flew true, lodging in his shoulder. The red bar over his head flashed green. Poisoned.
Zyra disappeared in a puff of shadow and smoke. Gone like a specter banished to the dark waters of Tuonilla.
Kaz ran at the poisoned rog, bellowing his new war cry, “FOR SAAAAALT!”
Han_Pwno ducked, narrowly catching one hooked sword on the edge of his naginata. But Kaz’s other sword swooped in low, the flat edge denting in the side of the rog’s left greave while the hook tore into the meat of his calf. He yelped and stumbled backward, wildly swinging his naginata. The blade landed with a wet thud, scoring a deep gash across Kaz’s broad shoulder. An eyeblink later, the butt of the staff whistled toward Kaz’s head. Ignoring the brutal wound, Kaz threw his hooked swords up in an X, trapping the naginata in place before the strike could land.
While Han_Pwno wrestled with Kaz for control of his weapon, Roark bolted into the action, circling right then lunging in from the flank, stocatta di quarta—an upward thrust that slid between the plates of the rog’s armor. Han_Pwno cried out in a combination of shock and pain as his Health bar dropped to three-quarters, then to half as Roark spun away and repeated the thrust from the opposite side.
Off to the side, the olm came out of a roll and bounced to her feet. She began weaving her hands in an intricate pattern, a chant building on her lips. A black rift, shimmering with streaks of angry crimson light, appeared in the air before her. A massive chitinous claw like that of an enormous crustacean shot out, grabbing Kaz by the leg. The limb was massive, the chitin a blue-black shot through with streaks of brilliant pink. Roark couldn’t even begin to envision what sort of monstrosity such a claw could possibly belong to. He hoped he would never find out.
The Thursr shouted in surprise as he was lifted off his feet and pulled toward the rift.
Civil War Page 5