Civil War
Page 12
This satisfied the hooded Reaver. She whisked past him and led the way back upstairs; Roark and Kaz followed behind her.
The three of them fell broodingly silent as they passed through the second-floor throne room. Wurgfozz was just getting warmed up, it seemed, but one of the heroes—The_Mustard_Knight—was blubbering something frantic about logging out.
“No, stay and play awhile,” the spike-studded Thursr Behemoth purred in his high-pitched voice.
Roark didn’t turn his head away as they passed. This bloody tableau was of his making, and so whatever disturbing bits of savagery it channeled into the nightmare vault were his burden to bear. He only hoped it wouldn’t plague Kaz overmuch. He glanced at Zyra, trying to gauge her reaction. The hooded Reaver watched the Overseer move in on the heroes as if she wanted to grab a snack and pull up an aquatic torture seat. She wouldn’t have any problems sleeping … if, that was, Trolls ever slept.
Mac met them at the bottom of the staircase to the first floor. Or rather, the arched ceiling at the bottom of the stairs. The Elite Salamander dropped down next to Roark with a heavy, wet smack, and accompanied them up.
When their little quartet finally made it back to the throne room, Roark broke the silence.
“I know this is hard, and that the choices we have to make are no easy thing. Still, I’m proud of you both and of the work we’re doing here.” Zyra sort of stooped in on herself as he spoke, looking extremely uncomfortable with the praise. “We may make a few mistakes along the way, but we will learn from them. We’ll do better. And ultimately, we will take down Azibek. But to do that we need to put the time in now. Put in the effort. We all level up, we all evolve, and then we prepare to hit like a battering ram at anything standing in our way.”
“But what if Roark challenges the third-floor Overseer and loses?” Kaz shot back, his wide eyes brimming with concern. “Then, even if you are Evolved, it won’t matter. Roark will die forever-death.”
Roark forced a confident smile. He’d been hoping Kaz wouldn’t think of that.
“With my Elite evolution and bag of dirty, underhanded tricks, I don’t intend to die,” he replied. “Besides, I don’t plan to challenge her—not if I can help it. Always diplomacy first. Now, for the time being,” he said smoothly, deflecting Kaz away from any uncomfortable follow-up questions, “I want you two with the griefing patrols.” Roark eyed the slick-bellied Salamander waddling along next to him.
Briefly, he considered sending the creature out into the rotation as well, then decided against it. Having one loyal companion near at hand was the smart choice, especially considering the heavy bounty Roark had hanging over his head.
“I’ll join you in a bit,” he continued. “I want to look into enchanting first. See if I can’t come up with a cheap shot the Overseer down there won’t see coming.”
Kaz’s troubled frown didn’t dissipate, but he followed Zyra out through the portcullis all the same.
SIXTEEN:
Blessings and Curses
Roark turned to Macaroni. “Accompany me to the forge?”
The Elite Salamander chirruped what Roark took to be an affirmative, then blinked his strange, out-of-sync eyes and waddled after Roark through the secret passage. At the opposite end, Roark felt around beside the door until he found a slender length of chain and pulled it. The niche and suit of armor slid aside, allowing them to pass.
They rounded the corner and entered the smithy, the air there hellish and dry. Roark immediately stripped off his leathers as sweat soaked his skin. Mac—cold-blooded little beast that he was—curled up beside the glowing forge and immediately fell asleep, fat black tongue lolling from his mouth.
In the far corner by the tanning rack stood a spindly-legged Enchanting table inlaid with glowing blue and green sigils, which hummed with arcane energy. The spidery thing looked as if it belonged in an academy or laboratory, not a smithy, but Roark was glad to have it here. He wanted to level up his Enchanting a few times before he tried out enchanting his own weapons and armor, and walking the corridors from smithy to laboratory would’ve only slowed the process to an unbearable crawl. Not to mention, he couldn’t really afford the points to add the extra room.
Roark pulled out PwnrBwner_OG’s rose mace and held it up, turning it this way and that, examining the weapon from every angle. A beautiful thing really, even if it was a glorified club. He smiled despite the heartache he felt, excited to lose himself in the world of Enchantment. Anything to take his mind away from the doubts he had about his morally ambiguous alliance with Wurgfozz.
Gently, he laid the rose mace on the Enchanting table, just as the Trade Skill book had instructed, then pressed his palms flat against the blue sigil that looked like a curl of smoke and the green sigil that looked like an eye. Immediately, a notice appeared.
[Would you like to
- add an Enchantment to this item?
- destroy this item to learn its Enchantment?
- destroy this item to obtain its gemstones?]
Roark selected the second option, eagerness squirming in his chest.
[You cannot destroy Unique Rose Mace of Thorns to learn its Enchantment at this time! To destroy Unique items, your Enchanting must be level 6 or above!]
Very well. He tried the first option instead.
[You cannot add an Enchantment to Unique Rose Mace of Thorns at this time! To add Enchantments to an already Enchanted item, your Enchanting must be level 4 or above!]
Well, he’d expected some sort of resistance, Roark told himself. Hearthworld never seemed eager to let him do things the easy way.
He returned the rose mace to his Inventory, then went to the storage chest by the quenching trough and pulled out the small stash of magical items they’d been saving from the looted heroes. Among them were a Stiletto, a Kukri, an Oak Staff, a Gnarled Birch Staff, and one set of Iron Gauntlets of Minor Endurance. There was also a Divine Tower Shield that Roark had saved out of curiosity—it carried a heavy penalty to any Infernal creature who might try to use it.
Roark ran these through the table one at a time. Thankfully these were all of lower quality than the Unique Mace. Magick, though of an inferior nature. He destroyed each one for its Enchantment with the sound of breaking glass and a flash of golden light. One by one, their magical properties appeared in his mystical grimoire under his Enchanting skills—Increase Movement Speed, Increase Backstab Multiplier, Increase Magick, Increase Intelligence, and Increase Constitution.
The process was all simple and routine until he reached the Divine Tower Shield. He selected the option to destroy the shield as he’d done with the other items, but this time the sound of breaking glass wasn’t accompanied by a new Enchantment in his mystic grimoire. Instead there was a flash of violet light quickly followed by a new magical message:
[You have unlocked the Enchanting Specialty Cursed!
Cursed items bring doom and gloom onto their wielder and are often detrimental to the health. To Curse an item, use an Enchanting table and quill to inscribe an item with a malicious enchantment. Only one curse may be inscribed per item.
Note: Enchanting Specialty Cursed! can only be accessed by an Enchanter with the simultaneous Trade Skill Calligraphy.
Warning: Players can only have (1) Enchanting Specialty, are you sure you would like to add Cursed!? Yes/No?]
A thrill of excitement hummed through Roark’s veins. This seemed tremendously promising. He briefly wondered why he hadn’t run across more cursed items, but then it dawned on him: Chimeras weren’t allowed to have Trade Skills, and what hero would want to curse an item? Cursing the item would no doubt decrease the gold value, plus it would wreak devastation and ruin on the wielder. Perhaps the skill could be used to thwart a rival, but even that was a stretch—especially since it was a Specialty Skill, which would prevent a hero from unlocking another Enchanting-based Specialty and require that the hero already know the Calligraphy Trade Skill.
As a Dungeon Overseer, however, this abi
lity seemed almost custom-tailored for his use. He accepted at once.
Next, he grabbed a Quality Iron Dagger from the storage chest and placed it on the Enchanting table. After searching out the quill and inkpot in his Inventory, Roark rested his hands on the glowing blue sigil depicting a pen and the glowing green one depicting a skull.
[Would you like to Curse this item? Yes/No?
Note: For every item you inscribe with a Curse, Cursed! will extract a share of your Health equal to your Enchanting level x your character level.]
Not so different from a blood cantrip, then. Life energy in exchange for raw power. “Lucky I’m only a level 1 Enchanter,” Roark mumbled to himself and selected Yes.
A bit of parchment appeared beneath a slowly rotating depiction of the dagger, waiting for him to write the inscription. He racked his brains for something truly nasty.
[The larvae pox infests anyone who wields this Quality Iron Dagger.]
Interestingly, the letters didn’t appear on the weapon as he’d originally anticipated.
Instead, as he wrote, the letters blurred and morphed, transforming into a strange set of runic sigils, which appeared etched into the blade of the dagger. As the curse took, those runes flared with unnatural life, glowing blue-green against the gleaming metal. As he finished the inscription, they flared brighter, then disappeared—unlike normal enchanted weapons, which kept their runic markers plain and visible to the naked eye. He shuddered and shivered as though someone had just dumped ice water down his tunic; a moment later, 8 points of his Health vial drained away in service to the Curse.
An unpleasant sensation, even if the damage was minimal.
Roark shook it off and beelined back to the storage chest. This time, he grabbed an armload of unenchanted weaponry and armor before sprinting back to the Enchanting table. Hundreds of possible Curses whirled through his head like debris in a tornado. Should he try the one where a looted corpse in possession of the item would explode and kill the looter or the one where someone equipping it after the previous owner’s death would immediately be swarmed by flesh-eating beetles first?
He chortled to himself in absolute glee, no different from a young child on Saint Oromo’s Morn. So many choices, but where to start? Hells, he didn’t really have to choose—there were more than enough items to go around. He set to work, churning through item after item. Another dagger. A dented buckler. A signet ring with a ruby the size of his knuckle … Each one imbued with a different spell, a different curse.
Twenty minutes later, Roark lay across the tabletop, face pressed to the humming arcane inlay as he tried to hold back the vomit threatening to erupt from his throat. He’d overdone it a bit in his excitement. Now his filigreed Health vial was flashing out a panicked warning. His skull felt as if its inside was lined with broken glass, and his stomach felt as rancid as the midden heap outside of Korvo. Someone far away was groaning in pain. With a start that only made him feel worse, Roark realized that someone was him.
Enchanter’s Sickness, this was called.
He’d read about it in the Enchanting Trade Skill tome. With shaking hands, Roark fumbled in his Inventory for a Modest Health Potion before remembering he’d used them all. It’d been an eventful day. He needed to stock up again. No, scratch that—he needed to find an Alchemy Trade Skill book so Zyra could start brewing potions for the Dungeon. That would set things to rights. For now, the only thing he could do was lie in pain until his Health regenerated naturally.
It was a bloody awful way to learn this lesson, but several eternities later, the red in his Health vial crept up past the quarter mark and Roark was able to stand without emptying his stomach or passing out from the stabbing pain in his head.
The good news was he’d raised his Enchanting to level 3, and so far, each one of his Curses had taken with only minor alterations. He returned to the storage chest—much slower this time—and retrieved the small collection of gemstones they’d collected from griefed heroes. These gems were far rarer even than the magically enchanted items, and far more valuable. Using these, he applied the regular Enchantments he’d learned earlier to several of the remaining weapons and armor he hadn’t gotten around to cursing.
[Congratulations, you have leveled up your Enchanting Trade Skill to Level 4! You may now Enchant previously Enchanted weapons with a secondary Enchantment or increase an existing Enchantment!]
Finally, the breakthrough he’d been waiting for.
Roark managed a weak smile, then pulled his Slender Rapier of the Falcon free from the sheath at his belt and carefully, almost reverently, laid it on the Enchanting table. The weapon was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship—the blade slender and tapered, perfectly balanced and gleaming. The weapon had a wide crosspiece and a sweeping hilt with a strong, but intricately wrought basket guard, all the better to protect the hand. An intricate, leather-wrapped handle ended at a fat pommel, which was engraved with a single, pale-gold rune.
The rapier was a gentleman’s weapon, through and through. One that had served him admirably so far.
The other, basic enchantments had been easy things. But altering a previously enchanted weapon was a different matter entirely. No simple inscription and binding could be made here, since the weapon was already magically imbued and scripted. First, he needed to find the perfect gemstone—one that would complement the current magical binding when combined with the right rune. The stones came in different grades—so far, he’d found Blemished (Tier 1), Scuffed (Tier 2), Chipped (Tier 3), and Flawed (Tier 4), though he knew from his Enchanting tome that there were more refined stones out there.
He’d used the lesser quality gemstones on the practice gear, and now all that remained were the finer quality stones, all Flawed. But even that wasn’t the end of the story. There were also a variety of different stone types, eight total—lapis lazuli, ruby, jade, amethyst, diamond, opal, topaz, and pearl—which could be used to enhance different elements, skills, and abilities depending on what sort of item they were set into. Roark selected a Flawed Lapis, then held it up, examining the stone in the flickering light of the forge.
The lapis was a beautiful blue, shot through with gold flecks, and easily the size of his thumbnail. Though Roark knew it was an “imperfect” stone, he couldn’t help but feel a subtle flash of greed.
Once upon a time he’d been a noble—one from a wealthy family no less—but that had all changed on the Bloederige Noct, the Night of Blood. The night his family had perished at the hands of Marek and his men. Roark had lived rough more often than not during the years that followed, and a single stone such as this could’ve kept him neck deep in fine wine for a month. More than once he’d dreamed about laying hand on a treasure like this—especially on the long nights before he met Danella. Nights spent curled up in an alley beneath a too-thin blanket, his stomach howling with hunger.
He set the lapis onto the enchanter’s table, then hunched forward and set about the task at hand. First, he picked up a small engraver’s awl with a wooden bulb-shaped handle attached to a needle of deadly steel, the tip filed to a wickedly sharp point. Carefully, he worked a ring of intricate lettering around the edge of the stone—the containment script—before ever so carefully etching the rune Rorne into the very center, big and bold. Rorne was nothing more than a line bisected by a triangle, but the sigil—when combined with lapis, then inset into a weapon—could drastically increase Offensive Movement Rate.
But even that was only the beginning of the process.
With the rune crafted, it was time to prepare the weapon for outfitting and gem-binding. Currently, the rapier was powered by a single, pale-gold rune, Sikea, which was painstakingly worked into the pommel—though only on one side. The simple inscription, which had been cast during the weapon’s forging, offered a +10% Attack Speed Bonus. Roark flipped over the blade and pulled out a large-grade chisel and a small double-sided hammer, one face metal, the other made from a hard rubber. Roark carefully pounded out a circular divot, directly in th
e center of the steel pommel, which would shortly house the stone.
The work was tedious and exacting, yet Roark enjoyed every minute of it. It was straightforward, honest work. Just him, the metal, and the gem—no morals to consider, no feelings to hurt, no hard choices to make.
Once the divot was perfectly carved, he switched back to the needle-fine etching awl and carved a rune into the bottom of the hole: Yasuc, a symbol shaped a bit like a lightning bolt, which was, perhaps, the most important rune he’d learned from the Enchanting tome. Yasuc alchemically forged the gemstones to the item at hand, forging the two into one—a single inseparable whole, bound until destruction. With the Yasuc symbol done, Roark plucked up the worked lapis and carefully set it into place, pressing down firmly until there was a flare of amber light.
Perfect.
The gem fit seamlessly into the pommel, and now glowed with a soft blue light. Satisfied, Roark picked up the weapon, giving it a few playful swipes, before pulling up the description:
╠═╦╬╧╪
Slender Rapier of the Diving 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
+15% Increase Movement Speed (Enchanted)
╠═╦╬╧╪
He grinned and closed out of the screen.