“And there’s food,” yelled one of the Reavers behind Roark. “It’s delicious the way it tastes in your mouth … And it goes great with ale!”
“How do we know you won’t kill us as soon as we step into the open?” a shrill voice shouted down the hall.
“I’ll kill you myself if you take one damned step!” the skeptical loyalist threatened.
Roark ignored the skeptic’s threat and spoke instead to the shrill voice. “How do I know I can trust any of you? Most of you have probably accepted Azibek’s quest to kill me.”
The sound of a quick, fervent discussion drifted down the hall.
Steel rang as a sword was drawn from its scabbard, and the skeptic’s voice swore, “I’m warning you …”
Then the crash and clang of a fight. Angry shouting. Chaos and flashes of spell light. Someone screamed, then gurgled into silence.
Roark tipped his ear that direction, straining to hear any hint of what had happened.
Something bounced down the corridor and rolled to a stop—several things of various size and texture. Roark counted five in all before he realized the stringy material hanging off one was hair. Then he saw the eyes, noses, mouths, and ragged, bleeding stumps where the neck had been severed.
“These were the Trolls on our side loyal to Azibek,” the shrill voice shouted. “Is that proof enough that we wish to join you?”
Roark faltered for a moment, staring at the heads. That was certainly a forceful show of good faith. “All right, I’m convinced,” he said, sidestepping a rivulet of blood trickling toward his boots. “If you don’t try to kill us, we won’t kill you.”
Slowly, cautiously, a cagey band of Trolls crept down the corridor. They couldn’t all fit through the bottleneck at once, but leading their approach was a rangy level 24 Reaver Shaman.
Roark stepped forward, palms raised to show he wasn’t a threat, then extended his ghostly pale hand to her. She checked it for wands, writs, and poisoned needles, then grasped it.
[Congratulations! You have forged an alliance with the Mugwump Trolls of the Lower Floors.
To Maintain the Alliance: Allow Mugwump Trolls access to first-floor kitchens, trainers, and griefing strategies.
To Break the Alliance: Do not allow Mugwump Trolls access to first-floor kitchens, trainers, and griefing strategies.]
As soon as Roark dismissed this, a second line of text appeared.
[Congratulations! You have leveled up your Troll Leadership Skill to Level 3! Trolls who were On the Fence about your Leadership will become Receptive to your Leadership when spoken to face-to-face!]
“Are there any lower-floor Trolls holding out back there?” Roark asked the Shaman.
She shook her head, the bones beads in her white hair clicking against each other. “We killed all who would oppose our decision before they could kill us.”
Roark nodded. “In that case, brothers and sisters, welcome to the uprising.”
TWENTY-EIGHT:
Glorious Insight
After Roark returned to the first floor and assigned Druz to show their new allies around and organize them into the griefing, training, and fighting rotation, he slipped off to the throne room with Mac.
Not an altogether pleasant experience, as the Mugwump Trolls from the battle had each brought up the head of the loyalist they’d slain and left it beside the twisted obsidian throne as some sort of tangible tribute to prove that they had earned their place on the first floor. Unfortunately, these heads—like the ones Ugoraz the Vile had piked around as decoration when the throne room belonged to him—didn’t disappear. They just sat there, rotting.
But the success of that shift mid-battle had gotten the cogs in Roark’s mind turning furiously. Gaining the allegiance of Trolls who were tired of Azibek’s oppression and getting them to take out loyalists for them was unquestionably efficient. Divide and conquer, right within the Dungeon Lord’s forces.
He opened his mystic grimoire and scanned the ribbons running along the top of the tome, each one labeled in elegantly flowing script: Inventory, Maps, Quests, Skills, Spells, Character, Party, Followers, WikiLore, Chat. He tried the Quests page first.
╠═╦╬╧╪
Active Quests:
Memento Mori
Completed:
Getting a Head in Life
Might Makes Right
A Troll of His Word (Failed!)
╠═╦╬╧╪
There was nothing detailing how to create a quest, and focusing on each existing quest only brought up the details of his success or failure.
Not deterred, Roark turned to the Skills page.
Roark focused on the Troll Leadership Skill and a second page opened.
╠═╦╬╧╪
As a Jotnar and the leader of an uprising, you have unlocked the Troll Leadership Skill. Gain Abilities and Experience in Leadership through character-to-character or alliance-to-alliance interaction.
Leaders Level Three and above can create open quests.
Leaders Level Six and above can create individual quests.
Leaders Level Nine and above can create life-or-death quests.
See Blank Quest Form for sample quest.
╠═╦╬╧╪
With a thought, Roark brought up a Blank Quest Form.
╠═╦╬╧╪
Quest Title
Summary of quest goes here.
Objective: Detail what is required to complete the quest and obtain the reward
Reward: To be paid upon completion of quest; cannot be more than 2% of the required Experience for your last character level, an equal amount of gold, and an optional boon that is within your power to grant
Failure: Detail circumstances required to fail the quest, lose reward, and obtain penalty
Penalty: Losses upon failure, including any permanently locked skills, items, or abilities
Restrictions: Up to three allowed
Note: Any additional information or extenuating circumstances not provided for on the lines above
Flavor text: A quote or idea that captures the spirit of your quest.
Any item not filled out by you will be randomly generated by Hearthworld’s patented Synergengine.
Create quest? Yes/No?
╠═╦╬╧╪
Roark rubbed his hands together and selected Yes. Time and the world disappeared into the background as he wrote out his quest.
When he finished thirty minutes later, Roark was grinning and on the edge of his seat—both because this was exactly what his war on Azibek had needed, and also because Mac’s fat-padded body had slowly pushed him nearly out of the throne in the beast’s effort to get comfortable.
Roark inspected his quest one final time.
╠═╦╬╧╪
Feet of Clay
Roark the Griefer has issued an open quest to all Infernal chimeras who are tired of living under the oppression of Dungeon Lord Azibek the Cruel.
Objective: Bring Roark the Griefer the head of a Dungeon Lord loyalist.
Reward: 200 Experience, 200 gold, and the freedom to choose a place with Roark the Griefer’s forces with access to first-floor training, kitchens, and expedited leveling strategies OR live in peace on an allied floor away from the fighting.
Note: Place in Roark the Griefer’s forces and all boons—including promise of safety—will be immediately revoked upon killing another allied Infernal chimera or skill trainer.
“Trolls with clay feet shouldn’t run races.”
╠═╦╬╧╪
Roark had tried to add a Blessing, as Azibek had with his Memento Mori quest, but had promptly received a notice that only Dungeon Lords could bestow blessings. Unfortunate. Hopefully the promise of faster leveling would make up for that. It was the best he could do for the time being.
He selected the option to send the quest out, then stood and stretched sore muscles, stiff from sitting for so long. On the throne’s wide seat, Mac rolled over onto his side, extended his fat
legs out straight, and arched his back, letting out a chirping yawn.
“Now, time to try out something new,” Roark said. He opened his character page, staring for a moment at the slowly rotating Soul-Cursed Jotnar simulacrum that was supposed to represent him.
With a moment’s concentration, he triggered his newest World Stone ability, Glamour Cloak, focusing intently on himself as he’d once been. The nine-foot-tall ghostly pale, purple-tattooed Troll shimmered and faded, replaced by the olive-skinned, leanly muscled man Roark had seen in looking glasses for most of his adult life. The Enchanted leathers were the same, and his rapier still hung at his hip, but those only served to advance the illusion of being a hero.
In the corner of his vision, a countdown began.
2:59:59
Roark shut the grimoire and raised his arms to Mac. “What do you think?”
The Elite Salamander rolled back onto his belly and cocked his head at this strange new creature. A sticky black tongue shot out and slammed into Roark’s chest, right through the glamour’s face, which Roark could see as sort of a faint glow. Apparently, this illusion didn’t alter his size, just his outward appearance.
Mac chirped out a questioning sound, then shifted to darker and darker gray, until he disappeared against the twisted obsidian throne.
“I’ll take that as a sign that it’s convincing,” Roark said, digging out a Book of Town Portals with six uses left. “Be right back, mate. Hold down the citadel for me.”
Mac didn’t give away his position by answering.
With a shrug, Roark cast the portal, watching as the glamour performed everything his real hands were doing, but on a smaller scale. If he watched it too closely, the effect was dizzying. He blinked away the dual images, braced himself, and stepped into the portal.
As before, goosebumps prickled across Roark’s skin and an icy breeze fluttered through his shaggy hair, and then he was walking out into the Averi fountain court, lit for the night by enormous flickering braziers.
Bloody hells, the portals in Hearthworld were so consistent that it was unsettling.
Red-orange firelight danced and glinted off the splashing water, mingling with the shimmering blue-violet of the portals scattered around the cobblestone plaza. It was a breathtaking sight, but Roark didn’t stop to admire it. The clock was running down, after all. He had less than three hours before the glamour wore off and a long list of things to accomplish while disguised as a hero. He turned down the street that led to the bazaar.
In spite of the late hour, heroes of every level and class crowded the avenues as if it were still midday. Better yet, all of the businesses were open. He wouldn’t have to break into any stores to get the items he needed.
As Roark wove his way through the marketplace toward Mogrifa & Mogrifa, he heard his name.
“…the Griefer,” a female voice was saying. Roark caught sight of a pale elf in shining plate mail by a shield merchant’s stall. “I don’t know what Pwnr’s thinking, but I’m not reporting it. This is the first time I’ve played through and gone back to the Cruel Citadel after like, level three. And it was freaking fun! The citadel! Who’d have thunk it?”
“Well, I think it’s bullshit,” her companion, a purple-robed olm growled. “I’ve died there three times this week. I lost my Boots of Waterbreathing! They were the last piece I needed for the full set!”
“So come with me and we’ll get them back.”
“No, we won’t. You can’t beat him because he’s a cheater. A bona fide pumpkin-eating dickbag of a cheater.”
Roark sidled past the pale elf and olm, pretending to examine the merchant’s selection of low- to mid-level shields.
“We can beat him if we just work out the right strategy,” she said. “They’re not like crazy-OP, they just play smart. We can beat ’em if we play smarter.” She tapped a finger on her temple.
“Do you know how many idiots like you are saying the same thing right now?” The olm threw an arm out to indicate the throng of heroes milling through the bazaar. “You’re making this dude rich out the ass with all the gold and weapons you’re giving him.”
With a clinking of ringmail, a musclebound rog joined them. “Are you guys talking about the Griefer? You know him and his buddies are in this together, right? Him and that”—the rog snapped his fingers—“what’s-his-nuts—Lowen.”
“Excuse me,” Roark said, sliding in between the elf and the rog, careful not to jostle either with his invisible shoulders. “You said this Lowen bloke is a friend of the Griefer’s?”
“Yeah, you didn’t hear about this?” The rog shook his head, tusk-rings jangling. “They’ve got an Infernal dungeon and a Divine one and they’re expanding every day so they can grief a wider area. I heard the whole sitch is out of control. These guys know how to wipe their hacker fingerprints so the devs have no way to track them down.”
“They’re just loading up on crap they can sell.” The elf shrugged. “Give them two weeks and I bet you these guys transfer their gold to some alt completely unconnected to their griefing accounts, then they’ll disappear forever.”
The olm scowled. “They’re going to break Hearthworld’s economy.”
“Don’t be stupid,” the pale elf snapped.
Ignoring all the words that didn’t make sense, Roark tried to formulate the least suspicious way of drawing out information about Lowen’s activities.
“Could you loot the gold from them if you were to kill one?” he asked. “Before they transferred it?”
“I know what you’re thinking, and I wouldn’t try it.” The olm looked Roark’s glamour up and down. “You’re, what, a level 15 or something?” Interesting. It seemed the Glamour Cloak also obscured his level, since he was actually 24 thanks to his copious griefing and the constant influx of Experience from his cursed items. “The Vault of the Radiant Shield is just south of the Firewren Fortress, super high-level zone,” the olm continued. “You can’t even get a quest there until you’re over 36.”
“Yeah, for once in his life, Clayton’s talking sense,” the elf said, nodding vigorously. “If you thought the Cruel Citadel was hard since the Griefer moved in, you won’t stand a chance against the Vault. Heralds are like Trolls on speed and steroids—and they can fly and they’ve got all kinds of Divine creatures that can fly.”
“And that was before this Lowen modder even showed up,” the olm said.
Roark ignored the olm. “What sorts of creatures?”
“Manticores, wyverns, wyrms, phoenixes …” The elf ticked them off her fingers as she named them. “All that fire and light stuff.”
“My bro was in there right after Lowen showed up,” the rog said, shifting from foot to foot in his excitement. “And he told me this guy maxed himself out at Malaika Herald, like, first thing. That’s the highest Heralds can evolve to. That’s how they knew he was a modder right off the bat.”
“Sounds like a real tosser,” Roark said.
“Word,” the rog said in a tone Roark took as agreement.
“Thanks for the enlightenment,” Roark said, clapping the rog on the shoulder and nodding to the elf and olm. “I’ll be sure to steer clear of the Vault of the Radiant Shield.”
Carefully, Roark excused himself from the little circle and slipped through the crowd toward the wooden sign reading Mogrifa & Mogrifa Booksellers. This was certainly unwelcome news. Roark had hoped that Lowen was struggling through the levels like he was, but it seemed that the horse’s ass had found a way to start out at the top tier of evolution. Was it a spell or just a trick of the unreliable portal Lowen had come through? As Roark stepped through the bookshop’s door, he cursed again that the portal hadn’t simply crushed the bastard under billions of tons of water. That would’ve been so much more convenient.
The first time Roark and Kaz had visited the bookseller, Kaz had been in disguise and Roark posed as a mindless familiar. Now, however, with the glamour making him indistinguishable from a hero, Roark went directly to the shopkeep,
a battle-scarred old woman with a length of grubby cloth wrapped around her head, covering her eyes.
He studied the blind old woman for a moment skeptically.
“Well?” she asked, her voice gravelly with age. “I suppose you’re in here for another batch of Trade Skill tomes?”
Roark’s brow furrowed. “How—”
“I never forget a buyer, boy, never.” The old woman felt around under the counter for a moment before pulling out a leather-bound ledger. She opened it to a page near the middle, then ran her gnarled finger down the line until she came to a handwritten order. “Yes, Calligraphy, Smithing, Enchanting, Tailoring, Cartography, and Cooking. Tall order.” Her head snapped up as though she were scrutinizing his face. His Jotnar face, not his illusory human face. “You aren’t scalping my books at hiked prices are you, hmmm?”
“Of course not.” Roark squirmed under her eyeless gaze. “My friend and I needed Trade Skills and this was the most efficient way to learn them.”
The old woman flipped her ledger closed and leaned a bony elbow on the counter.
“And now you need more?”
“I have a lot of friends.”
She frowned up at him a moment longer. Then said, “If I see one of my precious books on the player-to-player market, I’ll have the Averi Guard on you, boy. We’ll see how smart you are while those precious skills are rotting away in the gaol.”
Roark’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re not a very pleasant shopkeep,” he said.
“I don’t have to be,” she returned, lifting her wrinkled chin. “I’m a successful one.”
Roark turned back toward the shelves of books, determined to find the skill tomes himself. But before he’d gone a step, a whipcrack of a shout rang out behind him.
“Mogrifa!” It was the old woman’s gravelly voice. “Trade Skill books!”
“Keep your garters on, Mogrifa,” came the melodic reply. A beautiful young woman with flawless skin and flowing black hair appeared from the stacks with an armload of books, navigating her way around Roark to the counter in spite of the snowy white cloth covering her eyes. “These are all we have in stock. If you don’t find what you’re looking for here, then it likely wasn’t a very good choice to begin with.”
Civil War Page 21