“Yeah?”
“Carry the dagger.” She untied said dagger from her waist, then tossed it.
Rowan snatched it out of the air, eyed it scornfully. Its detail box popped up unhelpfully; he slapped it away. “Why?” Anyone could slash and stab with a dagger; unarmed combat was a different story.
“I have a feeling ya might need it. Also want the axe?”
“Nah, and what does that mean?”
“Um, that I have a feeling in my tummy that you might need it?”
A shrug lifted his shoulders, pained his cracked rib. He tied the dagger to a loop of linen at his hip bone. “Why didn’t you train with your bow?”
Gabrielle’s reflection frowned. “I’ve been busy laying out and building the settlement? And I need a shower. That’ll have to be the next room we build.”
Maybe she wasn’t in the mood for violence. That encounter with Orcs might have put her off from the game’s violence, still to this hour, scared her more than she wanted to say. So, Rowan did not argue over this; she was welcome to take as much time as she wanted to adjust, but she was going to adjust one way or another.
He strode to her, placed a hand on her warm shoulder, and checked himself out in the water. The caked-on blood was mostly gone, but splotches of mud were smeared across his forehead and cheeks. Good camouflage—unlike the pearly white demon skin and glowing red eyes from his hallucinatory trip.
His Human dark-brown eyes bulged. He said in a rush, “Gab, the first day when you were sleeping I licked a drop of my blood while looking at myself in the river by our camp. It triggered my sealed demon powers for a bit. I could see my true self in the reflection, but I don’t think I actually transformed.”
The axe and iron bars strapped to her back loudly clunked as she jumped straight. “Mmmmmmmmm! Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! Ya forgot, didn’t ya!”
He smirked, mumbling, “My bad. The boar and Tasha interrupted. I was hungry too.”
“Dummy! Dummy! Dummy!” Her fist balled.
“It’s not that big of a deal.”
She glanced away for a very long moment, sighing twice. She gave him a tentative smile. “What did ya look like?”
That was the first question? Interesting. “Like myself but grayish really pale skin like it was painted. My eyes were red. Pupils like a cat’s. Graying hair too.”
Surprise swept her face. “Huh. Not too bad, then. Thought it’d be something really yuck.”
“It might not even be my final form. Prepare for the tentacles.”
“Don’t say that. You’ll curse us.” Her tongue clicked. “So do ya think ya should drink more?”
“Of my blood?”
“Like try a cup. Want me to make a bowl or would ya like to suck from your wrist?”
Of all things, she was serious. He coughed onto the back of his hand. “Infections are a thing.”
She smiled darkly, stepped closer. “We can cauterize the wound.”
His brain was spinning up counter arguments: “It doesn’t work like that, and what if we need more than a cup? What if we need more than just our blood? What if we mess up and I bleed out? What if I’m under a mind-altering curse and was just making all that up? What if you’re left out here all by yourself with seventeen points in Luck?” All good reasons.
Her fiery craze was actually doused. Her shoulders sank an inch. “For a guy ya sometimes overthink and worry so much.”
“We’re alive, and your sister has died how many times now?”
Her eyes rolled. “Heh. Fair point.”
“Right. Then let’s go. Is your stamina bar filled?”
“Yup!”
And off they went through the narrow pass, fifty yards wide. This, Rowan observed, was a good choke point—a prime defensive position. The two vertical mountain faces loomed high overhead like twin gatekeepers to this fjord, to this pocket paradise in the north rich with fertile land and easy game. A perfect location if it weren’t for those goddamn Woodland Trolls.
Why did native tribes have to get in the way? They were in the path of progress, and they dared to charge tribute of a whole boar. A hefty tribute for two lone individuals… yet the Trolls wanted even more for Autumn.
Perhaps this was a call for rebellion, a violent slaughter.
All in due time, a dark part of Rowan’s mind suggested. Sinister plots were already being woven. He could think of at least two ways to wreck a village of thirty at the moment.
“What are ya thinking?” Gabrielle poked his elbow. “Ya have that brooding look again.”
“Troll genocide.”
“Oh my.” She snickered cutely. “Any ideas?”
He sniffed pollen, nearly sneezing. “Let’s check out their village first.”
“Hmmm. Kay.”
The pass lasted for less than half a thousand yards. Immediately they were trudging downward into hills and valleys, the forest thicker here. A lake in the far distance sparkled under the midday sun, and Rowan could just barely see wooden huts and a fence.
There they were: Trolls and their slaves out in the open. They had built at the bottom of the valley, vulnerable to all kinds of sieges and assaults. They were weak to floods as well. How powerful were Mages? A single Blizzard-type attack, casted from the cover of those rock formations, was potential for utter devastation. These Woodland Trolls weren’t very intelligent… unless they had special tricks at the ready.
With little chatter, Rowan and Gabrielle made a brisk pace through the trees, his eyes in a constant state of alert for danger. None so far. This was now the Troll’s domain. They must’ve wiped out all danger long ago, but Rowan wasn’t going to relax. Never relax around a troll of any kind, Gabrielle included. He grinned at the thought and waved off her curious glance.
Miles passed beneath their makeshift sandals without a spot of trouble had. The sun was now several degrees higher, clouds gathering. Oaks, the occasional yew, and other deciduous trees were more abundant the further they trekked. Fungi unique to this world were common: blue manadust and green glittershroom, highly poisonous if eaten. And there, to the right, a larger tree stood out atop a small hill over the canopy, its branches wild and threatening, its bark tinged with a dark blueish-green shade. Was something in its leaves glowing?
Rowan strained his eyes to secure a focus on it.
Manawood Tree (Ancient)
Health: 100%
“Can ya see what it is?” Gabrielle asked, following his gaze. The boar’s legs bounced in her springy gait.
“Barely. Manawood.”
“Wanna go check it out? We should take some seeds.”
An easy decision to make: “Yeah, why not?”
“Yay.”
They turned a sharp right, uphill, coaxing footing from thick mossy roots and half-buried boulders. But not a hundred yards went in that direction before they came to a sudden halt, for extensive tangles and nets of spider silk webbing fluttered in the breeze. Spiders the size of horses were surely dwelling within. And under an old oak, hanging from a branch, a web cocoon held the decaying body of a humanoid creature. Half-melted tusks jutted from sides of its mouth. A Woodland Troll.
Rowan’s legs stepped backward out of instinct, the hairs on his arms standing straight. His skin itched as images of man-eating giant spiders crawled into his mind.
“Row,” Gabrielle said from behind. Her voice was quiet, calculated.
“Time to leave?”
“Yup.”
“Good choice.”
No argument there. They didn’t speak another word for the rest of the trek. Before they knew it, the Troll’s settlement filtered into view through thinning branches. Something in the canopy croaked as though in greeting.
Fearsome, angular barricades lined their fences, a mystery dark-green goop coating wooden spikes. A lone guard tower, unoccupied, watched over the front gate. Two Trolls wielding spears noticed their approach. They certainly wore the smiles of trolls.
Rowan was already annoyed.
10
/> “Why are you here, Human?” the closest guard Troll said with a rumbling, viscous accent that came from the back of its throat. His stance was not threatening. The monthly tribute seemed to be holding.
But Rowan was hesitant to breathe. their feathered tribal-wear looked not so clean. He sniffed, and, thank the gods, the Troll wasn’t fuming with foul odors. They were cleaner than the Orcs, a tad more stylish too. Admittedly, the weave of its cloak was rather nice, patterned with splotchy fern camouflage that was remarkably intricate on second glance.
Smiling, Rowan gestured openly at Gabrielle’s boar. “We have some items to trade, and we’d like to negotiate our next month’s tribute. May we speak with your leader?”
? : Woodland Troll (Level 27)
Health: 100%
Guards were always an accurate indicator of a settlement’s average power-level. Their leader should be around thirty to sixty percent stronger, but anything was possible.
The second guard nodded, turned with a half-spin and dashed through their gate with windy speed. Tufts of sandy dirt kicked into the air with each unrefined step. Their legs connected at odd angles with their waists, and their knees bent harshly as though their skeletal structures had been designed so they were to crouch at rest. All in all, these Trolls were much less Human-esque than the Orcs, physically at least.
The first guard said, “Shaman Jin’tal is not to be underestimated, Human. Do not do anything… regretful.” A very Human-like warning.
Rowan nodded. “We understand, right, Gabrielle?”
“Yup. No trouble from us. Just here to trade this delicious, delicious boar.” She presented a mouthful of innocent white teeth. Nothing demonic there.
“Is it poisoned?”
“It is not,” an older female said from the gate. Her skin was not too wrinkled. She held a branch-staff tipped with an emerald the size of a tomato and sort of in the shape of one, glowing bright green. Magic was in the air, all around her.
Jin’tal : Woodland Troll (Level 45)
Class: Shaman
Health: 100%
Rowan’s estimate was only off by one or two levels. No tricks by the gods here… so far. No dirty shenanigans that trolls were famous for, player and NPC alike. “Greetings,” he began, “I’m Rowan. This is Gabrielle. We’d like to—”
“I know… young Human.” Jin’tal’s silver eyes skipped from Rowan to Gabrielle, then back to him. “Come.” She turned.
The chatbox vibrated.
Gabby LeMort (Party Chat): Should we?
Rowan LeMort: Where else do we find eight kilograms of pure gold? We still have to make a forge too.
Gabby LeMort: kay… I’ll follow your lead!
He slowly scratched an itch on his cheek, then stepped into their base of crudely fashioned lumber. But neat enough for shacks. The roads were compacted dirt, trod-on grass, and chunky gravel near the gate. In the overlay grid, building labels were unhidden: over a dozen closely bundled bedrooms laid next to a mess hall that was connected to a kitchen and storeroom, opposite a barracks, a communal lavatory, and an extensive mushroom shack. A fishing dock stretched eight yards onto the lake surface behind a workshop and slave pen. Outside the perimeter wall, fifty yards into the forest, a lumber mill rested all alone, ostracized from the settlement.
Everything was aligned around a central town square (also a building), which was in front of an in-construction rectangular zone, twenty by twelve yards. Rowan’s posture hardened—the zone was to be a town hall. But it was in construction, meaning they were going to craft an idol, meaning the Trolls were in reach of gold ore… or already in possession of refined gold. Either could be swiped.
Excellent. Less than perfect, but excellent.
Their meander brought on looks of disgust and contempt to wildly varying degrees. Only three faces were neutral, one friendly. No slaves were visible, and slaves were distinguished by binding marks, usually on the forehead, that tied the slave’s free will to a master, assuming the forums were correct, as usual. In Rowan’s experience, forums in general were wrong more often than not.
A group of Troll children and teenagers were kicking a straw ball around. It didn’t look like a game of soccer or a game of anything, but they were having fun with rowdy laughter. But when one of the teenagers pointed at Rowan, their innocent smiles became sneers. A taller male pulled out a rusty dagger, though he didn’t try anything stupid.
They came to the paved town square. The sight was far from innocent.
Barbed ropes pinned a woman to a thick wooden post. And not any normal woman. A young Elf woman, judging from those elongated tapered ears and sharp eyes set deep in an angular skull. She was physically attractive, Rowan couldn’t deny. Straight black hair flowed to her waist as though brushed this morning. Her eyes were green as the surrounding forest. Her lips were full, her slightly glowing skin unblemished and free of sag or wrinkles. She would’ve rivaled his wife in beauty if malnutrition hadn’t ravaged her body, he dared to consider, exchanging stoic eye contact.
Standing out above all, a triangular runic symbol was her forehead. Branded. She was a slave.
? : Sun Elf Slave (Level 13)
Health: 62%
As they resumed this lovely walk through Troll-town, Jin’tal made a croaky noise—a laugh. She said, “You are right on time for the sacrifice. Tomorrow night, Zar’took shall answer our plea.”
“Then we are a day early,” Rowan said with easy composure.
“Whatcha sacrificing her for?” Gabrielle asked.
“The usual.” Jin’tal made a gesture distantly similar to a shrug.
Rowan guessed: “Gold?”
“You are a smart one.”
Excellent. He smiled. “And how much will you be granted? We’re not so familiar with Zar’took.”
“For a Sun Elf female? He will be most pleased. Two hundred and fifty.”
Over forty pounds of pure gold. Most fascinating. “Your god hates them. Why?”
They arrived at a larger two-bedroom house as her bony fingers waved. “Ah, a long, sorrowful story for another time.” She opened the door; it opened with a squeak at the hinge. “Now, we have… small trades to discuss.”
Her dwelling was livable at best, grimy at worst. Four chairs waited for guests around a circular table. Two drawers and a stained shelf stood next to a closed door leading to the actual bedroom. Oh, and a potted tree sapling in the corner under the window added much to the decor. Not bad, really.
Rowan sat after Jin’tal, Gabrielle pulling a chair next to him. She said, “How about two hundred of that gold for this boar?”
Jin’tal looked at them darkly. “Do you… insult me?”
Was he trying to insult her? He couldn’t quite decide.
Footsteps then scuffed from behind. A Sun Elf slave entered, male, also showing signs of malnutrition but to a lesser severity. Shoulder-length silver-white hair framed his face, and he was as young as the woman at the square. He was carrying a wooden tray, supporting a polished clay pot, steaming, and three not as polished cups. His service was without complaint or emotion. He was a fine waiter.
These slaves were indeed useful, yet Rowan couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness knowing such pretty things were at the mercy of these uglier savages. But, at the end of every day, they were all NPCs, lifeless. Soulless. This slave was nothing more than quantum bits running on electricity. Synaptic Entertainment, not to forget, would delete every last one of them with the press of a key if this game were to go belly-up.
“Thank you,” Gabrielle chirped as her cup was filled.
The slave didn’t even look at her.
Rowan glanced at the chatbox.
Rowan LeMort: Only pretend to drink. It might be poisoned.
Gabby LeMort: I’m not the dummy here, hehe.
Good. He refocused attention on the ugly troll woman. He said with fake cheeriness, “One hundred and fifty.”
Jin’tal wasn’t pleased, her eyes dead. “One.” She drank fr
om her cup. “One gold for the boar, the axe… and both iron rods.”
Not Moonfyre! Rowan tried a different avenue: “Is there any way we could be of service to you or your people?”
“You can pledge yourselves as slaves… but that would…”
“Defeat the purpose of the trade?”
“Yes, yes… You know well, Human.”
Gabrielle pretended to drink. “Do ya need any temporary help around here? We’re really good at cutting wood.”
“No… that is not needed.”
Rowan sniffed the tea and found it bland. He let the hot liquid touch his lip and no more. “How about a hunt? Is there something you need killed?”
“Yes… but you are level ten. She is… seven. Unimpressive.”
She wanted the spiders dead, obviously.
Gabrielle asked, “Do you need something found? Something gathered? A message delivered, maybe?”
“No… No, and… No. I believe we do not need those services. But do you have… allies near?”
Rowan was tempted to lie, but the risks outweighed any possible gain. “We are alone.”
Jin’tal appeared to sigh, refilling her cup. She took her sweet time enjoying that tea. “So… what shall our trade be? One gold for your boar, axe, and iron rods. Two for… each longbow. That is three in total.”
Gabrielle asked, “What if we bring ya a hundred more boars?”
“One gold,” Jin’tal said slowly, “for every boar… or similar… up to… fifteen gold… for the rest of the season. After? We shall see.”
“But what if we show up with a hundred? How much will ya buy that for?”
“Twenty… five. Yes, twenty-five.”
Well, this was clearly an impossible negotiation. Rowan kept pushing before resorting to drastic measures: “And this? The Mithril Bone Dagger?” He laid it on the table.
“Ah, yes… yes, I remember this dagger. It served me well… long ago. Until the blade betrayed me. It is of no value.”
Well, that was that, but this place was too prime of a location to give up. He was no push over. He asked, “Do you have any masters that can teach us a class or profession?”
Jin’tals eyes narrowed by less than an inch. “No.”
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