Useless. These Trolls are absolutely useless. Can’t even exterminate a spider nest.
Gabrielle said, tongue clicking, “So when your Town Hall is built, can we use it for a bit? Our friend needs to meet up with us.”
Jin’tal croaked her laugh. “Do you take me for… a fool? Trollheim will not be invaded.”
God damn!
Toes curling, Rowan kept his frustration in check and actually downed a gulp of tea. It was little more than hot water, tasted of earth and pine. He said off-handedly, “How much for this slave here?”
And the standing slave did react for once, his eyes narrowing. He was in there alright.
“Five hundred gold.”
Gabrielle sighed, throwing her hands up in her usual over-the-top manner. “Alright. Two gold for this first boar, and we’ll bring you bunch more for one each, up to fifty. Deal?”
“One for this one… and up to thirty. Final offer.”
“Hmmmmmm.” Gabrielle’s tongue rolled in her mouth. “You’re a real tricky one, I’ll give ya that.”
Rowan nodded thrice, then asked, “Are there any gold deposits nearby? Would you tell us? We’ll trade for the information.”
Jin’tal blinked, taken aback. “You have no crafting professions?”
“Nope,” Gabrielle chirped.
“You should have listened in your schools… young ones.” She coughed and drank. “Without professions… you will not survive through winter. I suggest you venture to Sabertooth Valley… but I warn you… they are not as… kind as Shaman Jin’tal.”
“How far is that?” Rowan asked.
Jin’tal pointed over Gabrielle’s shoulder. “Fifty leagues.”
A hundred and fifty miles—a handful of days to over a week of hiking depending on the geography, and then to be at the absolute mercy of Trolls days from winter? No happening.
Rowan said calmly, “I see, but final offer: eight gold for both longbows, two for the axe, and ninety for a hundred boars or the equivalent before winter. Deal?”
Jin’tal’s head tilled as she looked at Rowan’s bow and then Gabrielle’s. “I have… changed my mind. The longbows are not of gold value. They are only… admirable quality.”
You’re dead, old hag.
Rowan sifted through the remaining options, and there were no remaining options. He was stuck in the arctic as a level ten with a level seven gambling on Luck, and these natives were being most uncooperative. There was nothing sensible left, so he triggered the last resort short of initiating combat. He pricked his finger on the dagger, felt little pain. A thin trail of blood dripped into his cup of tea.
“Hmmm?” Jin’tal grumbled.
He pushed the cup across the table with the bone of the dagger. “I think we’re having a misunderstanding. You seem very thirsty. Take a sip.”
Jin’tal squinted at the rosy tea, her staff raised.
The chatbox beeped.
Gabby LeMort: Huh? Ya sure?
Rowan LeMort: What else do we do? We’re stranded up here.
Gabby LeMort: We can find our own gold…
Rowan LeMort: We’ll freeze to death before that. No choice but to bluff. At worst we’ll end up dead and respawn at the Orc jail, forcing us to use our spare character slots.
Gabby LeMort: Awww… we already spent days on these characters.
Rowan LeMort: But At best, we’ll respawn at a Human city.
Gabby LeMort: They’ll sense us…
Rowan LeMort: What’s done is already done. Say we’re ambassadors from the nether or something. Say the apocalypse is coming soon and we’re granting these tusk-faces a chance to survive.
Gabby LeMort: L O L You’re crazy, Row.
Rowan LeMort: You’re stuck with him as his wife, don’t forget.
Gabby LeMort: And don’t YOU forget it! ^_^
He wasn’t planning to anytime soon.
Jin’tal was still muttering a chorus of spell skills over the cup. Greenish-blue magic was radiating in waves. Her staff, sparkling, cycled through a spectrum of forest hues while she regarded Rowan with rightful suspicious, her grandmotherly features now ten fold grimmer.
Eventually, the chanting came to a rhyming end. “I… have never felt this magic before.” She picked up the cup, swirled the liquid three times clockwise, once anticlockwise, and drank the smallest of sips. Then, at last, the truth was upon her, for her silver irises were dilated to the brim, seeing Rowan and Gabrielle’s true selves.
Gabrielle grinned like a mad girl. “Alrighty, Jin’tal. That’s right, we’re Demons! Hand over the gold tomorrow night or this whole village will be thrown into the pit of fire in the coming times! And they are coming quickly! We’re official ambassadors for the Lords of Hell! We’re serious! Ya can tell by the way we speak that we’re not actually Humans from this world!” She banged the table with a fist for good measure. “This is your only chance. You’re lucky we stopped by.”
Rowan added, “Pit of fire and everything. Also hand over a couple of these slaves.”
Jin’tal drank the rest of the cup, and minutes passed before her irises returned to normal, the tension in the room quivering the air between the two parties. Even the slave was scowling, a drop of sweat running down his neck. Only after the seventh minute of silence she spoke once more, “I… need to speak with the Troll King. Speak again here… soon.” She stood, and footsteps were kicking up dirt outside—guards. “You are welcome to stay… Demons.” She left with her escort, the slave lagging behind as a statue—a nice silver-haired decoration.
Rowan resigned to the chatbox, not wanting anyone to overhear.
Rowan LeMort: Do you think that worked?
Gabby LeMort: Nope! Not a chance in a haystack. Game over! You’re lucky Jin’tal is senile. I dun’ think she understood half of what I said either.
Rowan LeMort: What do you think they’ll do to us?
Gabby LeMort: Hopefully what Nargol did and not execution.
Rowan LeMort: Something tells me Nargol might’ve had ulterior motives.
Gabby LeMort: Why do ya think that?
Rowan LeMort: It all seems kind of too good, you know? We start out in an Orc jail in a massive desert, and just when we’re about to be chopped up into steaks their leader ports us to a location perfect for a settlement, and he knew we were adventurers too, not actually Demons.
Gabby LeMort: Huh! I was thinking similar the other day…
Rowan nodded, grabbed the pot, drank the remaining cup-worth directly from the rim. He mentally prepared for the worst.
The chatbox beeped a different tune.
Tasha NaMuso (To Rowan LeMort): Rowan, have I told you that you’re an idiot?
He growled under his breath.
Rowan LeMort (To Tasha NaMuso): Go die to a scorpion again.
Tasha NaMuso: You’d probably cower behind a rock if you were here. They’re huge and spit acid!!!
He put her beeps on mute.
11
Something was happening to the silver-haired statue.
Thin tendons strained, shaking, and sweat was dripping down the side of that gauntly-carved cheek. Those long, dexterous fingers shook, and the slave brand on that finely-sanded forehead glowed crimson as though it had a pulse.
The slave, with a final heave, broke free of his invisible bonds. Air rippled outward from his body in the magical outpour. He dropped to his knees, gasping.
Rowan was ready with the dagger in hand. “Hello. What’s your name?”
“Faenin Elsinaire.” His voice was smooth like a singer’s with a note of accent.
“Nice ta meet ya!” Gabrielle chirped. “You’re a cutie!”
Rowan coughed, shooting her a possessive look.
“Hehehe. Just kidding. Not that cute.”
Much better.
After two dozen recovering breaths, Faenin rose to a single knee. He bowed. “The pleasure is mine, dark ones. Forgive me, but my time of freedom is short. Our people have abandoned us. Ours gods have scorned our pl
eas. I most humbly request of you to aid us, and we shall be in your debt.”
Well, at least he’s polite, Rowan thought, poured a cup of tea, and considered Faenin’s words, but there wasn’t much to consider. “What do you want us to do?”
“Bring wrath upon these savages. Spare us Sun Elves.”
Gabrielle said, “The slaves here are all Sun Elves?”
Faenin nodded rigidly.
“Awww. How sad.”
Rowan said, “All of you here will be in our debt? You’ll be our slaves?”
A pained grimace warped those aesthetic Elven features. “We shall, but spare us, great demon.”
He was oddly desperate to exchange one master for another. Rowan exchanged a pointed look with Gabrielle, who was clearly having similar thought. He cleared his throat and said in a stronger voice, “Why are you really kneeling before us, Faenin Elsinaire?”
“It is as I say.”
“So you’re a coward. You’d sign your soul and your fellow Elves’ souls over to us just to live. You don’t even know what we’d do to you lot. It could be much worse than what these Trolls are doing. I mean, you’re just serving tea. You don’t even have any wounds or scars. You’re not being sacrificed.” Then it clicked—the reason for his desperation. Rowan’s heartstrings almost tugged. He could empathize with Faenin. “ Who’s the girl? Your wife?”
Faenin growled, “Spare us. I’ll give you anything.”
Gabrielle’s hands clapped together. “Can ya give us a hundred units of gold?”
A deep scowl carved into Faenin’s brow ridge. “That’s the price you ask? A measly hundred gold?”
Measly. Now that was a descriptor music to the ears. Rowan grunted, “Yeah.”
Gabrielle quipped, “A measly hundred units of gold indeed.”
“Then I can give you that.”
“How? Where?”
“We are all mid-level Miner. I have surveyed two small but rich gold veins not far from here, not deep below the ground, not guarded by dangerous foe, and plentiful enough for one hundred and twenty to spare.”
“How long would that take to mine and smelt?”
“A week at most with five Elves at my behest.”
Rowan asked, “How many slaves are there?”
“Six including myself.”
Gabrielle pouted. “But a week’s a long time… Maybe we should just let them sacrifice that girl and swipe the gold.”
“No!” Faenin’s fists balled, tendons strained to the limit.
Rowan said, “What’s your wife’s name? Is she even your wife? What kind of tradition do you Sun Elves have?”
“She is my mate. We have been bonded for three moons. Spare us.”
“Awwww… how romantic!” Gabrielle said coyly. “Wouldn’t it suck if they sacrificed her for a pile of lovely lovely gold.”
Faenin’s eye twitched. The slave brand dimmed, pulsing slower. He maintained the kneel. “Please. I beg of you, dark ones. I am nearing my limit.”
Pretending to mull over the decision, Rowan looked him straight in the eye. “Want to know something funny?”
“Something… funny?”
Rowan looked over his shoulder and whispered, making sure no one else could hear, “We’re not actually Demons. We’re adventurers from another world with Demonborn fates, and our situation right now is not much better than yours. We’re stuck up here right now, and we need that gold to build a Town Hall. Do you know what that means?”
Faenin paled, his skin coloring blue. A lump bobbed in his throat, but anger suddenly flared. “I understand. You don’t care what happens to this world or its people. I have read tales of of your kind from a different age. They stepped on this world as though it were their waste heap. Not all, but many.”
“Yup.” Gabrielle gave a thumbs-up. “I think that might’ve been what? Pre-alpha? Ya know what is? Hehehe.”
Faenin tried to spit at her feet but only managed to blow air. “You and your kind are truly demonic. I curse you to the worst of fates.”
“Heeeey. That’s not very nice. Hmph.”
The slave brand pulsed a last time, and the glowing crimson magic dispersed like a flame eating through the last inches of a straw. Faenin stood mechanically, and his face lost all emotion. He was a silver-haired statue once more.
“Nice chat,” Rowan said. “We’ll think about your plea.”
The chatbox beeped.
Gabby LeMort: I like these Sun Elves. Can we keep em? They’re pretty!
Rowan LeMort: I wish we had the gold to buy them. I doubt we could mine and smelt those two veins in a week.
Gabby LeMort: So wadda we do?
Rowan’s eyes tripped on that sentence. A typo again?
Rowan LeMort: We wait, obviously. Let’s hope your seventeen Luck points help us here.
Gabby LeMort: I dun think that’s how Luck works, Row.
Rowan LeMort: There could always be hidden mechanics, especially in a game so deep as this.
Gabby LeMort: Kay! I hope you’re right ^_^
Promptly, frantic steps and bouncing armor clattered outside. The open door creaked wider, the sun glaring. A barbed spear tip said hello—followed by the guard Troll himself. He was a head shorter than the others, younger. A child? Or a teen? Rowan guessed it mattered not.
The guard gestured to no one in particular. His finger was bent at an unsightly angle. “Sun Elf scum. Resist again, and you will be fish bait.”
Faenin did not respond.
Gabrielle said, “It’s kay. He was about to break free, but we put him in his place. You’re welcome.”
The guard looked at her with slightly less distrust, then left without a word of appreciation. Faenin followed with measured steps and a pompously straight posture. He a statue on strings, an invisible hand pulling on his spine.
Rowan shuffled his chair closer toward Gabrielle, then mumbled at a loud whisper, “I don’t think we can negotiate cooperation between them, and I don’t see why we would anyway. Are you adamant on the Elves over the Trolls?”
“Yup. I want. I want. I want.”
“Just because he’s cute and well-spoken? What if the others Elf men are ugly?”
She cut him a quizzical look. “You’re still going on about that? It’s cus they’re slaves, silly. Who else will do all the menial labor in our settlement?”
“The Trolls might help if we gain enough favor. There’s a lot of them here; it’s Trollheim. They’re good with animals too. Maybe not spiders though.”
“But none of them are slaves, and Elves are good with plants.”
“You want slaves that bad?”
“I’ll treat them well. I treat you well, don’t I?”
A facial tick pulled at his eye. “I’m your husband, you little troll.”
“Ah… Yes you are, master.” She grinned sweetly.
“I think someone needs it extra rough tonight. I haven’t heard you beg in a while.”
“Hehehe. We’ll see.” She patted his arm.
“We will.” He gulped a mouthful of the now lukewarm tea. “Final say. Elves or Trolls?”
“Hmmmm. Elves.”
“Hundred percent sure? I don’t want to hear you bemoaning a wrong choice.”
Her face was the picture of decisiveness. “I’m sure. I like plants. Animals are much trickier to take care off and get stinky.”
So that’s how it was. Her mind was long set. Rowan squinted as he flipped through his memorized libraries of forum threads, scrambling for a strategy. And he found something that just may work with a stupid amount of Luck. “Alright, I might have dumb and risky plans, which most probably won’t work—that’s assuming if we don’t get executed in the next hour. We can claim the Elves if their master dies, right? Their brands stay with them.”
“Yup. Hopefully it’s just Jin’tal.”
He scowled. “That’s what I’m not hoping for. She’s over level forty. She has a class too.”
Gabrielle shrugged. “Just a support.”
“Just a support, she says.”
“Ya can do it. Use those Agility points in that super dumb plan of yours.”
“I will. And use your Luck points. Hope for a lucky hit.”
“I will.”
And that was the end of that conversation, respective sides withdrawing to their own tea cups.
Rowan’s untrimmed nails, unusually long, scraped harshly against the fired clay. His hair had grown an inch and a half, strands brushing down his neck. But less than a week had passed. The world’s accelerated rate of… many things was a difficult adjustment. Hopefully, this character wasn’t going to develop senile maladies. Did adventurers even age like NPCs? Perhaps that didn’t matter. He was a Demon under this Human skin.
Unhelpful thoughts taunted, We’re way in over our heads here. Ambition level: unmatched. We really should just reroll to our backup character slots. We’re falling behind by the hour, and—
Rowan shoved his worries into a far corner, and asked, “How’s Tasha doing?”
Gabrielle stared at the wall blank-faced for ten seconds. “She’s workin’ on it. Maybe another in-game day or two. Maybe three or four for her.”
“Wonderful. And she has real work on Monday.”
“She called in all her vacation days.”
“Oh, that’s actually wonderful.”
“Yup. Something about not wanting her little sister tortured at the hands of—”
Sluggish footsteps scuffed near.
Rowan donned a bored, displeased face.
Promptly, from the left, Jin’tal strode through the doorway, leaned heavily on her staff with each step, while three guards, Faenin, and a younger Sun Elf slave stayed outside. Jin’tal’s expression was solemn, a tad frightful, as though the Troll King had given her a good, long scolding. She bowed low for two of Rowan’s shuddering heartbeats.
Could it be for real? This was too good to be true. Rowan forced air through his nose in order to sit composed.
She croaked, “Oh, deepest apologies… Demon and Demoness. We Trolls have grown… arrogant… in our old age through the millennia. We are at… your service.”
Gabrielle perked to her feet. “Well since ya bowed and served nice tea, we’ll let this one slide.”
Standing, with measured grace and dominance, Rowan said in his best kingly voice, “You kept us waiting for over an hour, but I suppose an hour is immaterial to immortals.”
Demonborn's Fjord Page 9