Step 1. Carve your piece of wood so it looks like this. Try to get it exactly as shown to the dimensions labeled. Use the grid overlay. The symmetry is important.
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The diagram was loading at a slug’s pace, understandably. Synaptic’s servers, apparently state-of-the-art, were under extreme load. Complaint threads regarding login queues were flooding the support section regarding error 37. Some poor lad had his queue reset after waiting three hours.
Rowan chuckled and manhandled the boar corpse, carrying it to that flat-top boulder. No problem here. The greater Internet had plenty of guides even if this species of boar was unique to this world.
7
Here in the arctic summer, mornings were long, and afternoons were longer, but inevitably night fell. Rowan was exhausted from the day’s work.
Crouching by the stone fire pit, he readjusted a dozen pieces of half-dried sinew, slimy to the touch. A yawn swayed his balance. He nearly knocked it all over, and that would’ve been highly unfortunate. Braided grass and weeds held this flimsy rack of sticks together. Decent enough, could be better.
Nevertheless, Rowan was proud of his handiwork.
He flipped the last piece of sinew, then picked picked up the boar’s corpse, tried to not breathe its scent or touch its coagulated stumps for legs. He placed it back on its bed—the flat boulder. Soon, it was going to spoil. He scheduled it for butchering and smoking, which was, to say the least, messy work without magic.
Where was Tasha and those tomes? She had logged out for a real world lunch hours ago. Hopefully, she hadn’t forgotten about her poor, hungry sister lost in the wild.
And that sister?
The put-put-put of metal on wood gave away her location. Rowan gazed into the darkness, squinting as though it helped. Somehow it did.
At the forest’s edge, her petite arms were swinging the Rusted Orcish Axe at a dizzying rate. She was fast, but not fast enough. Only two dozen young pines laid on the ground, de-barked and split, ready for construction. Good work, so far.
Rowan swallowed a yawn, and picked up Moonfyre.
This metal bar with a sharp end had proved to be an effective chiseling tool; pine shavings and snapped bows now littered the campsite, shamefully. Plenty of firewood. This latest attempt, however, with birch was turning out flawlessly. Why hadn’t anyone in the thread mentioned pine wasn’t a suitable candidate?
After a dozen final wood shavings, Rowan flexed the bow to an estimated hundred pound limit. No creak. No splinters. And when he released the pressure, the wood sprang back into shape. A second test passed. Then a third and a fourth.
“Finally,” he breathed, eying his handiwork up and down. The finish was smooth as hardened butter, the limbs perfectly symmetrical, curved exquisitely. Elegant. Beautiful like Gabrielle. Much, much better than the ugly thing Windweaver had shown in his thread. He coaxed a description pop up along with its quality rating.
Unstrung Crude Birchwood Longbow
Type: Crafting Material
Quality: 742 (Masterwork)
A crude item was hardly worth the title of masterwork, but it was a masterwork nevertheless. Now to make one for Gabrielle.
As he fought off another yawn and picked up a suitable stick of birch, something moved in the grass at the corner of his eye. His limbs tensed for a fight.
It was just Gabrielle. She dropped down onto her hay-grass bed, hitting him with a pout. “Are ya gonna come? I’m cold… Be my hugging pillow.”
“You’re not going to log out?”
“Nope. Something exciting could happen during night. Gotta get all the footage I can.”
He briefly mulled over her decision: this meadow and forest didn’t appear, on the surface, to harbor any bandits, giant spiders, or mean ogres. Still, the idea of her sleeping exposed out in the cold deeply went against the grain. Another boar could show its snout, though they weren’t nocturnal.
“Row… I know that look.”
“You know how dumb this is, right?”
“Yup, but we could get a fun random event.” Which was true.
Rowan exhaled his worries. Oh well. She could log out if she wanted—either plan worked. Her choice, really. “Alright. I’ll try to keep the fire going if I wake.”
“Maybe we should let it go out. Things out there might see us.”
“They’ll smell us before they see us in our current state.”
“Hehehe.”
Rowan snuggled up to her, his arms around her slimmer belly. The intimacy here under the night sky was nice, but the strong scent of hay and smoke was relaxing enough that he was already drifting off to distant lands. His eyelids suddenly weighed a million pounds.
Gabrielle said something lost to his unconscious ears, and her bottom pressed up very comfortably against his waist.
When he woke, the sun was already above the trees. He stretched his arms, cranked open his crusty eyelids, and smelled something peculiar… and musky.
“Omanomomamo,” Gabrielle said in her sleep, her soft snores momentarily breaking rhythm. A rat was sleeping on her neck.
Bloody shit.
He seized the damned thing in a killer’s grip. His arm whipped around, and the rat went flying as fast as five Agility points allowed. It bounced off a tree trunk, then twitched. Dead? Apparently not; it rolled onto its paws and ran off, limping and squeaking.
Rowan mumbled, “I hope it didn’t chew up my sinew.” He stood, careful to not disturb her, and surveyed the campsite.
By some fortune granted by the gods, his items had been left untouched. Everything, including Moonfyre, including the axe, was in place. Everything from Gabrielle’s logs to the growing piles of grass to the smoldering fire pit.
Everything apart from the boar corpse. It was gone.
Did it despawn?
He wasn’t sure when everything was so ultra-realistic. Nothing else had despawned: apple cores were laying by those tree roots, rotting; so too lingered the boar’s dried blood atop the flat boulder; and a few crushed beetles were pressed into the soil.
One conclusion remained: something or someone had taken the corpse during the night. Something had went through the camp. He had been vulnerable.
Gabrielle had been vulnerable.
A cold lump gathered in Rowan’s throat, but he forced himself to breathe, because it could’ve been much, much worse. He brushed away the darker scenarios his imagination dared to conjure, shivering. This wasn’t a call for alarm. He was alright; so was she, and that was all that mattered. Tonight, they were going log out instead. Lesson learned. No more mistakes from here on out.
He stared at the bloody spot where the boar corpse had been till he was able to fully accept this failure, till he forgave himself for endangering her.
“Mornin’ Row,” Gabrielle yawned. “Hmm? What’s wrong?”
“The boar we killed is gone.” He couldn’t quite meet her eyes.
“Oh, yeah! A group of Woodland Trolls came and took it. Told ya something fun could happen.”
Muscles lashed up his neck. “What?! Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Cus ya get grouchy when ya don’t get enough sleep, duh.” She giggled.
“What happened?” His head was ballooning with hot air.
She picked up an apple, took a bite. After two slow-rolling chews, she said, “We’re apparently in the Troll King’s domain, and we have to pay tribute every month if we don’t want to be enslaved or eaten or anything. That boar and two small logs covered us for the rest of the month, which… isn’t long. Like a week and a bit. Ten days I think. They’re expecting a bigger tribute next time.”
Steam blew through his nostrils. “And you just gave it to them? What level were they?”
She took another bite, looking at her fingers. She picked dirt from under her nails. “They’re selling slaves too. They’ve got a camp going that way.” She pointed at the pass through the mountains. “Like three leagues they said, which is… like what? Five miles?�
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“What. Level—” He stepped closer to her, pausing. Why was he being so dramatic? He sucked in a large breath, cooling off. He calmly asked, “What level were they?”
“Well… the lead Troll was fourteen. He was dressed in some tribal wear and had a staff.” Another bite. “The other two had daggers. Level sevens. They looked like adults, so I asked why they weren’t max level yet. They said they spend most of their time crafting and gathering and mining. The two with daggers seemed quite cowardy.”
He made a mental note of her rambles. Good information. “Was the lead Troll their camp’s leader?”
“Didn’t ask.”
“How big’s their camp?”
“Like thirty of them and a handful of slaves doing woodwork.”
That handful could be useful to have. “What did they look like?”
“The Trolls?”
“Yeah.”
“Pretty skinny. About our height with blueish black skin and small tusks by their mouths. Hmm… narrow, slanted eyes. And greasy hair. Hunchbacked too.”
“Got their names?”
“Nope.”
He sighed. “Anything else of note?”
Her feet shifted. She looked away. “I know ya spent all day working on it, but I traded your unstrung bow for a dagger. Wanna see?” She flashed a cheeky grin.
Oh no. This better be good. This better be the best dagger in the world.
He was reluctant to say, “You know that was a crude masterwork, right?”
“Yup. Good work, by the way. They were impressed. They said they’re gonna make it into a real masterwork!”
Trolls with a masterwork bow? Not good news. He massaged pressure points above his eyes. “Let’s see the dagger.” His demanding hand was out, and, after five seconds on the interface clock, a light weight appeared on his palm. He dared to look.
Cloth wrapped around a bone handle, strung and glued to a sharpened piece of… A piece of silvery steel tinted with a blueish-purple finish. The edges had been sharpened to an acceptable degree, straight and tapered to a point. It was remarkably light for its size, a foot long. He commanded the game to cough up a description window as well as its quality and beauty ratings.
Mithril Bone Dagger
Item Type: Melee Weapon (one handed)
Damage: 48
Quality: 271 (Normal)
Beauty: 292 (Normal)
Normal quality?
This trade wasn’t possibly worthwhile; however, he was more than capable of carving another unstrung bow, then another and twenty more. Wood was virtually unlimited here.
Rowan nodded to himself, then patted her head. “Good decision. You’re a smart girl,” he teased.
She smiled dangerously, then reached up and patted his head. “Awww, why thank you, mister grouchy.”
“You’re welcome. Now, let’s get back to work. We’ll decide what to do about the Trolls later. You sure you want to stay here?”
“Yup! I always wanted to own a hovel in a pine meadow by a fjord in the north near a big mountain!”
How oddly specific. “Fine. Anything for you.”
“Anything?” Her eyes widened.
“You know what I mean.”
“So the opposite of anything?”
He smirked. “Pretty much.”
“Lame.” Her wrist flicked, and she walked off toward her logs.
He slipped the dagger into his pocket and followed. “I’ll help with the cabin, and we’re logging out for the night from now on, by the way. At least until we have some security.”
“But what if we get raided?”
“That’s why we should log out at night. We can make an underground cellar for items that don’t stick to our characters.”
“Hmmmm… Kay.”
They worked tirelessly, cutting down pine trees and splitting logs through the morning into the afternoon. They munched on apples when their stomachs growled, chattering about this and that, including Tasha, who was oddly quiet. The topic of Trolls came up more than once, but their combined brainstorming yielded no feasible solutions for their slave camp.
Ten days of Autumn were counting down, after all, and ten days, in gaming terms, held the potential for entire legends to write themselves into the history books. This game was no different.
The walls of their cabin quickly grew upward around two-yard-deep foundation posts. The room was three yards wide, two long, and two high; twelve cubes of space in total. They arranged makeshift lumber in horizontal stacks, held together with charcoal-sap glue and clever joints that Gabrielle’s uncle had taught her many years ago.
When time came to hoist the roof beams, the sun dipped below the mountain peaks and painted strokes of golden-orange fluff against a mauve canvas, perfect for a screenshot.
“Say cheese!” Gabrielle sang, looping her arm through his.
“Tofu.”
“Close enough. Hehehe.” Her party icon flashed white. “Hmm. Looks great! Wanna see?”
“Maybe later.” He patted her back. “Back to work.”
“Pssh. Fine, Great Dictator Row.”
“That’s more like it.”
And they were back at it, working into the late evening under dying light. When the final roof panel was hammered into place, a green tint filled the twelve enclosed cubes in the grid overlay. A silver-lined window expanded.
Congratulations, you have constructed your first building.
As you place furniture and work stations inside, the building itself will magically adapt to its intended use, unlocking specialized magic. You may also be granted various buffs to your character while you are inside and for a duration after you leave.
Would you like to name this building?
Tip: Each building may only grant one buff type, but buffs may stack and produce unique synergies when combined.
Tip: If you intend to make this a settlement, you will need to construct a town hall, which will also unlock town management.
“Row and Gabby’s Happy Hovel!” Gabrielle chirped. “No Orcs allowed. Not even one. Or two. Or three. No Orcs, final!”
A happy little hovel here on the outskirts of Trollheim, Rowan agreed. “Good choice.”
8
It was the next morning, and Gabrielle was busy working on the channel.
“Here, in the wild,” she began in her best nature expert voice, “a feral kitten stalk its prey—a brown rat. This gorgeous feline is not only hungry, but it is magical. Light pierces its ghostly striped body, indicating it possesses a low-level Stealth skill. With each step, its paws leaves behind a smudge of gray, only to be smothered by green magics of the grass.
“The rat, unsuspecting of imminent danger, nibbles on roots and dandelions. It lives a mundane life like those on Earth. But for whether it shall demonstrate any of its own magic in its upcoming escape, we shall see. I, for one, doubt it will. Its family and friends are nowhere to be found. Will anyone miss Mister Rat? Certainly not Gabby LeMort.”
In such a brutish way, Rowan stomped onto the scene wearing his funny flip-flops made of bark. He noticed the rat, scowling. “Hmm? You again?” He picked up a stone and threw with horrid aim.
The rat ran off in a jiffy, yelling bloody murder. Squeak squeak squeak squeak.
Rowan muttered, “Goddamn. I hate rats.”
Sucking in a big breath, Gabrielle continued: “This Human male is of the grouchier variety. Though he is my husband, I cannot compliment his throwing accuracy. It is a shame that a mere forest rat has outclassed him in such an embarrassing moment of—”
“Gab?” he chuckled.
She hopped to her feet, stood straight with hands adorably behind her back. “Oh, hi Row! I didn’t see ya!”
“Right. What are you doing?”
“Just shooting a funny magical nature documentary. Thought our subs might like it.”
“Cool,” he said in a way lacking proper enthusiasm. “But of a rat?”
A giggle escaped her lips. “No, silly. Of that ki
tten on the hunt. It has a Stealth skill.” She pointed.
His eyes followed her finger toward an empty patch of grass. “Where?” he blurted dumbly.
“Obviously it’s gone now. Ya scared it!”
“Okay.” He scratched his head. “Are you going to upload soon? You might give away our location and—”
“I can’t. Servers are still under load, apparently.”
“Really?” He blinked boyishly. “I just watched videos on Mytube.”
“I think they’re uploading from other parts of the world. We’re at Synaptic HQ, so…” She shrugged. “You know.” She wasn’t the best with technical mumbo jumbo.
“Ah, that sucks. Let me know when you put up the first video.”
“Kay!” She gave him a thumbs-up. “So what were you doing?”
“Making another bow.” He waved the piece of wood he was holding as if it were a fly swatter. “Want one?”
“Hmmm.” She tapped her chin thrice, her eyes wandering. “Sure. It could come in handy.” She wasn’t the biggest fan of Archery, but she was not afraid to partake if necessary. No sir, she was not afraid.
“Alright, remember to get some practice in.”
“Kay.”
He turned clumsily on his flip flops, and that was the end of that conversation.
Now, where was that kitten? Gabrielle dropped back to a crouch and went on a sneaky, sneaky journey through the trees. Surely, it hadn’t ran off too far, but after dozens of minutes of searching, it was not meant to be, the kitten and her. It had moved on, sadly. All Rowan’s fault.
I hope it has somewhere warm to stay for Autumn.
Out of nowhere, a bushy plant growing out of a spongy boulder snagged around her ankle. Leafy vines tightened.
It was alive!
She jumped back. “Bad plant!” Her nails dug into the vine, pulling, drawing sticky green plant juice that smelled awfully a lot like mint… except this mint juice was burning her hand. “Ow! Ow! Ow! Get off!”
Demonborn's Fjord Page 6