Demonborn's Fjord

by Dante Sakurai

  Head shaking, he waved her off into sleepy-land, then got to work on the fire pit. When he crouched down to clear a circle in the grass, his broken rib cut deeper into his body. An aching jolt lashed up his nerves all the way to his head. He dropped to a knee, gingerly touched the wound with dirty fingers. The skin was mostly intact, thankfully.

  Does this need medicine? It’s not healing.

  A slowly-blinking medical icon atop his health bar answered the question.

  Debuff: Moderate Internal injuries (rib and left lung)

  Slow regeneration

  Bleeding ceased

  10% reduced maximum stat points

  Damn it.

  His eyes zipped to Gabrielle’s party entry, and to his relief, no long-lasting debuffs had inflicted her character. She was only drained.

  Rowan shook his head and got on with the job. He picked up Moonfyre—and noticed the Orc’s axe had also tagged along with the involuntary ride.

  Rusted Orcish Iron Axe

  Item Type: Melee weapon (one or two handed)

  Damage: 14

  Finally some luck.

  Rowan whistled a victorious tune, and with a mental command, he activated his game interface’s grid overlay. A 3D lattice of transparent white lines drew outward from his position, outlining yard-high cubes. To an extent, this broke immersion, but he wasn’t one to complain; settlement-building was now ten times easier. And funner.

  Too handy.

  Four cubes worth of grass were gathered into a pile. In the soil, Rowan traced out a circle a yard in diameter with Moonfyre, then strode toward the nearest pine trees to collect stone and dry flammables. He roughly knew how to start a fire without matches, those childhood camping trips proving their worth.

  Ninety minutes later, his efforts rewarded him a messy stone firepit, a pile of sticks ready for kindling, and seven beefy steaks of chopped firewood. He wiped his brow of sweat under the rising sun. No details missed, this certainly was as tiring as laboring in the real world—ultra-realism to a tee.

  Now for the fun part.

  He grabbed the driest stick of the lot and split it in two. He carved a shallow groove straight down the first half, then firmly gripped the other, rubbing up and down the groove as rapidly as his limited Agility allowed. A fire plow, this was one of the simpler methods, no flint required.

  Beige wood darkened to shades of charcoal. Soon enough, first whiffs of smoke swirled into the air. The groove was burning hot. Rowan ripped tinder from his linen garb, held five strands to smoking back dust, rubbed gently. One, two, three, the tinder caught fire. Easy. Who needed magic anyway?

  The fire pit was hungry for more wood before he knew it. Was this a world first achievement in wilderness survival? Probably not. That Orcish escapade had taken hours, and neither he nor Gabrielle had gained anything truly valuable out of it. No experience. No valuable loot.

  Oh, the experience bar at the bottom was partially filled at two point one percent. That fatty Orc must’ve bled out—instant karma for hurting Gabrielle. A gleeful smile squeezed Rowan’s cheeks. Day one was taking a turn for the best.

  Though the fire was roaring and the midday sun was cloudless, the breeze coming from the fjord only grew colder. Swaths of dew declined to thaw. The mountain peaks glowed white. How far north (or south) had Nargol thrown them?

  By the angle of the sun… this place was verging dangerously close to one of the poles. Rowan wasn’t sure what to make of that; too many variables to consider. He simply stood and scouted for those strawberries, Gabrielle still asleep.

  The meadow was devoid of berries or wild vegetables. No bees were in sight, and Rowan counted less than three dozen flowers. Over there, by that elderly tree, bright blue mushrooms grew on its roots. On a long-hanging branch, a squirrel-like creature noticed Rowan, became very still for a heartbeat, then dashed away in a steak of dim particle effects—magic. Much of the vegetation and fauna in this world were unique, magical.

  There, maybe that plant tinged with a blueish hue carried some healing properties, but he wasn’t going to take such a dumb risk. That was the job for everyone else. Plenty of kind souls out there loved to post valuable information on the forums. Naturally, Rowan wasn’t one. The intricacies of Demonborn was top-secret by his accord.

  And there, by three boulders, an apple tree was ripe for picking. Lucky again! But apples weren’t strawberries, and Rowan wasn’t going to disappoint his precious f—

  Wife.

  Gabrielle was his precious wife.

  His forage landed him near a shallow stream—a few hundred yards from the campsite—running down from the mountains. Wisps of cleansing magic drifted downstream, erasing specks of drifting debris. More magic. Beautiful.

  Lily-like plants floated on a pond. The water was still like glass, and clearer than he had ever seen, perfectly reflective. Upside-down mountains hung over his own eyes. The fatty Orc’s blood was caked onto the left side of his face, his linen garb in a horrid state. He certainly looked demonic.

  An idea sprang and demanded Rowan’s hand. His finger pricked on the axe, a drop of blood falling onto the grass. He licked. Blood mixed with saliva. Salty iron swished back and forth for a dozen rolls of his tongue, but he did not feel anything awry.

  Just what did Nargol sense? He must have a passive skill.

  From nowhere, a feeling of euphoria and exhilaration blossomed and took over his body. Breaths quickened. Heat swept his skin, but in a bizarre way, as though his whole body had been dipped in oil and fire yet not at the same time. He couldn’t describe the feeling to a full extent, not in any Human way.

  The reflection on the pond was unreal. A man was staring back at him, a different man; he had pearly, cloudy skin, chalky in texture, covered in a layer of dusty paint or thin clay. His hair was graying, and his eyes… Gods, his irises were a shade red not far off from blood, and the pupils were those of a cat’s. Was he turning into a feline?

  No, that was ridiculous. He was no cat. He was not playing as a kitty. Never a kitty. Never a pussy cat.

  A rush of something foreign swept his innards from head to toe, and around those eyes the skin cracked. A dark horned visage encroached from behind, classically demonic.

  A transformation? His inner Demon unleashed?

  His heart skipped three beats as he reluctantly looked at his hand. But the skin was normal. And as quickly as the rush of euphoria had came, the demonic magic left his body. His reflection faded back to normal, rippling. A strange red-spotted black fish was swimming away.

  “Holy Hell. What was that?” he breathed and turned back toward Gabrielle, his heart still racing. Those strawberries could wait.

  6

  Already kicking himself for letting her out of sight, Rowan broke into an easy run through trees and bushes. He skirted around a bulbous rock formation back into the meadow.

  The uneasy feeling in his chest turned out to be correct, for a knee-high boar-like creature was closing in on the campsite, its stench not too offending. Long, pointed tusks bobbed up and down as it sniffed left and right. Its hooves were picking up pace—straight toward a napping Gabrielle.

  Arctic Boar (level 1)

  Health: 100%

  Oh, not too bad.

  Rowan blew a high-pitch whistle with his fingers, catching the boar’s attention, and spammed warning pings through the party interface.

  She woke with a startle. Her head jerked left then right. “Bad piggy!” she yelped, jumping to her feet. Moonfyre was in her right grasp, her own bar in her left. Dual-wield metal sticks didn’t appear too effective.

  By some luck, the boar broke into a frenzied charge at Rowan and not her. Its eyes were very-faintly glowing a dark shade of orange-brown, a sign of weak magic. Strong, stocky legs carried it through the tall grass like a snow plow, beefy muscles rippling under thick brown fur.

  Most of all, this one boar alone was enough for over a dozen steaks and many nights of soup. And all that nutritious bone marrow! Rowan’s mo
uth was already watering, his stomach suddenly hungry and rumbling for his next meal.

  With the axe held like a club, Rowan slammed the flat of the blade against its snout and locked the handle against its curved tusks. The boar was squealing, attempting to bite. Its weirdly hooked teeth were inches away from his wrist, and its foul breath triggered a gag reflex. Splashes of stomach acid came up as he levered it toward the ground, Gabrielle tackling from the side.

  Tonight’s dinner went down without any trouble at all.

  “Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!” she chanted.

  He pinned its head down with a knee to the skull, dislodging the axe with a loosening shake. The sharpened edge glinted under the sun. He saw his own manic eye, crazed for blood.

  “Do it! Do it! Do it!” Gabrielle cackled.

  The boar whined as though it knew what was about to happen. Its eyes closed. Its legs stopped kicking.

  “It’s grilling time!” Rowan declared.

  The axe’s sharp tip made quick work of the boar’s exposed neck. Blood sprayed. The sound of slaughter was such beautiful music to delight.

  The experience bar, floating beneath those muddy hooves, progressed five percent, strangely enough. Maybe there was a significant penalty for kills above one’s level. Or Maybe the fatty Orc had died after they had been whipped through the portal; Rowan did recall a distance penalty in the very-limited game guides. Either way, five percent was five percent. And it had been shared between him and Gabrielle.

  “Yippy!” Gabrielle clapped twice, jumped straight. “Now all ya got to do is skin it, gut it, wash it, and chop it up, Row! Cus I’m certainly not doing any of that.”

  His boiling exuberance drained to his feet. “I’ll do it later.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “There’s an apple tree a hundred yards that way. No strawberries though.”

  She blinked. “Are they ripe?”

  “Yeah. They’re like the size of grapefruits too. I dropped a few by that boulder.”

  “Kay.” She skipped off in that general direction.

  Rowan blew a cool lungful, the ache in his side returning. He stepped back from the pooling blood and those fleas jumping on unwashed fur. Ultra-realism to a tee.

  Arctic Boar Corpse (level 1)

  Parts Missing: 0%

  Spoils in 47 hours

  Useful summary. And arctic? No wonder it’s so cold!

  Rowan whistled and scratched his head. Some part of him had assumed the boar would’ve broken down into its useful parts upon death like in other online games. Of course, that was a far too optimistic assumption, and he had zero clue on how to butcher this thing… though someone on the forums, for sure, had knowledge to share.

  He flicked open the web browser, which defaulted to Sortis Online’s website. His account was already logged in.

  The chatbox beeped before he could navigate to the forums. Three messages were waiting for him. He had missed two.

  Tasha NaMuso (To Rowan LeMort): Hey, Gab isn’t responding. What’s happening?

  Tasha NaMuso: Hello??? What is happening???

  Tasha NaMuso: You have ten seconds to respond before I assume you two are having another fight.

  Oh lord. Gabrielle’s rather protective older sister was snappy as ever. He scrambled out a reply before she did something unhelpful like raising the alarm on the forums… or worse. He passed her a party invitation for the heck of it, and she accepted without delay. Her icon was a painting of a straw hat. Her favorite straw hat.

  Rowan LeMort (Party Chat): Nah, we’re fine. Long story short, we got Demonborn, escaped from Orcish jail, and now we’re in the arctic. She took a nap. Oh, we just killed a boar too. Do you know how to butcher one?

  Tasha NaMuso: Gab! Are you okay?

  Gabby LeMort: Whoooooops. Didn’t see ya. I turned off those annoying private message beeps a while back.

  Tasha NaMuso: OMG you had me so worried! This game is so realistic. I can’t tell the difference between here and real life.

  Gabby LeMort: Dun’ worry. The worst that could happen is some hungry Orcs chopping me up into steaks and leather ^_^ Nearly happened too.

  Tasha NaMuso: What?!

  Tasha NaMuso: And no, Rowan, I don’t know how to butcher a boar! Lol… Have you checked the forums? I saw a bunch of guides on there.

  Good suggestion. He ignored their reunion talk and reopened the browser. In the Player Guides sub-forum, the Wilderness Survival section called for his attention. It was far more popular than had had guessed it would be, hundreds of threads already posted. A few five-star guides had floated to the top—relevant guides. He briefly previewed a few on interest. A thread near the bottom of the page was practically beginning for his eyes.

  How to Butcher and Prepare Common Animals Without Magic, posted by DeezeNuts 52 minutes ago. 4 Stars.

  Too lucky! Rowan head-butted the thread link.

  You don’t. Get lvl 5 character first then get the Farming profession. You’ll get the Butcher skill at level 1 husb. It’s like ten times faster than doing it manually. There are masters in most towns and every city. Tomes are common too. You can buy them from scribe shops. Don’t run off too far into the wild before you get it.

  “Oh, screw you!” Rowan bellowed, laughing.

  “Huh?” Gabrielle blurted, a half-eaten apple in hand. “I didn’t do anything. Did ya want an apple?”

  “Not you. Just a troll on the forums.”

  “Takes one to know one.” Her eyes rolled.

  He looked at her square on. “I agree.”

  Her tongue poked out for a second. “Anyway, what’s the plan now? I think we should start building a house.”

  “Here? We still haven’t scouted the area. There could be monsters nearby.”

  “Looks safe enough.” She shrugged.

  Unsure, Rowan hummed a long note and instead looked back at the chatbox.

  Rowan LeMort: Hey Tasha, are you still planning to join up?

  Tasha NaMuso: Why wouldn’t I?

  Rowan LeMort: Our characters are Demons… or are going to be soon. We’re basically the super bad guys. Not even the Orcs like us, afraid.

  Tasha NaMuso: *shrugs* We can build up our own little village and be hermits. There’s plenty of space. Have you seen how massive the world is? Do you have a map?

  Gabby LeMort: Nope. How big?

  Tasha NaMuso: Like the same size as Earth. Maybe bigger. The Great Plains you were in are almost big as the Sahara. It looks like you’re way, way north right now. There are a lot of fjords near Trollheim. Do you see any landmarks?

  “Oh great. More trolls,” Rowan said, looking around. He wasn’t surprised at the size of the world oddly enough. Synaptic had talked-up that facet on multiple occasions.

  Rowan LeMort: Nothing apart from one mountain that’s much taller than the others in the distance. It’s maybe ten miles away.

  Gabby LeMort: There’s a narrow pass in the mountains leading to the meadow we’re in.

  Ten seconds ticked by before another message slid up.

  Tasha NaMuso: That might be Mt. Colline or Mt. Sunderburn. You’re quite close to the north pole. It’s summer in the northern hemisphere right now btw.

  Seasons only lasted for a month on this planet, a year being four months. Days were the usual twenty-four hours, however. All the NPCs grew faster too. Most natural processes were sped-up by varying factors.

  Rowan LeMort: Any danger?

  Tasha Namuso: The maps don’t say, and you’re not close to any notable settlements. Want me to ask around?

  Rowan LeMort: Sure, but be discrete. Anyway, how far off are you from unlocking Mage? We’ll need a Group Portal soon. You are still going Mage, right?

  Tasha Namuso: Yes, I am. I need level ten, which a few guys said should take a day to two of grinding. There’s a scorpion infestation in the mines, so likely earlier.

  Rowan LeMort: Good. We need a set of Profession tomes, maybe two sets. Swordsman and Priest tomes too. Are you by a slave market?

 
What kind of medieval fantasy game would this be without slave markets? Who was going to do all the manual labor?

  Tasha Namuso: No slaves here, thankfully! :) And tomes are expensive. Why can’t you come here? The masters are charging almost nothing.

  Rowan LeMort: The Orc chief could sense our demonic magic. I don’t think we should go to any Human town.

  Five seconds ticked by.

  Tasha Namuso: Alright, but you owe me.

  Rowan LeMort: Keep an account.

  She worked the usual nine-to-five as an accountant for a big architectural firm, older than Rowan and Gabrielle by half a decade. He had thought she was too old to enjoy these violent games, but this virtual reality tech was apparently drawing in people who had never played anything video related… of all ages, of all walks of life. Was this a technological revolution in the making?

  He noticed Gabrielle hadn’t said anything for a dozen messages. Alarm thumped behind his eyes, but she was in no danger—working on something in the grass. He asked, “What are you up to?”

  “Marking out foundations for a cabin? Do ya seriously expect a woman to sleep out in the cold?”

  He grinned, his inner troll waking. “Where else would a woman sleep?”

  Her lips pinched and twisted. She wasn’t pleased. “Shoo. Why dontcha go cut up that pig?”

  “I’m going—” He blinked. “Actually, I will. I need its sinew.”

  “For?”

  “You’ll see.” It was obvious enough. He opened the browser once more, then entered into the most popular thread of the Wilderness Survival section.

  How to Make a Longbow and Arrows Without Professions or Skills in the Wild, posted by Windweaver 2 hours and 32 minutes ago. 5 stars.

  I’ve already made mine (and I’ve made plenty before IRL), so I know this works. You will need a few pieces of wood a yard to two long (a few inches or more thick), some dry sinew (you can get this from basically any farm animal), tree sap, charcoal (look in other guides if you don’t know how to make this), and basic tools. Feathers and iron tips also help for the arrows, but don’t worry if you can’t get these. If you do this right, you’ll get a Crude Longbow of your wood type that should have around a 7 damage rating and Wooden Arrows with 5 damage ratings (My oakwood bow has 10 damage, and my oak arrows have 8), which combined is slightly worse than most Iron Swords.