Demonborn's Fjord

by Dante Sakurai

  Impressive—much, much faster than manual labor. “That was about seven seconds, but Zaine said he can only do like two units of logs per—”

  “Forage has a long cooldown. You shouldn’t waste it on stuff that you can easily pick by hand.”

  A fair skill design. “Is the hive empty?”

  “Nah. It’s still lit up.”

  “Leave it for the bees, then.” Rowan squinted slightly at the golden-brown liquid free of waxy particles. The pot was four-fifths full.

  Unidentified Honey

  Item Type: Raw Food | Raw Medicine

  Quality: 569 (Admirable)

  The golden-yellow color didn’t look like an amber-brown Manuka, a likely mix of various. Rowan thumbed some off the rim and licked. Sweetness laced with typical honey flavor swished around on his tongue. Unhelpful. “Do you have a skill that can identify it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Damn.” He sighed. “Hope this works well with garlic and ginger. Let’s go.” He gave her slave thread a small tug, remembering to be gentle.

  “Yes, master.” She giggled in such an over the top way.

  His eyes rolled as he strode forth, leading the way downhill. Finding this hive within a few hundred yards of camp had been yet another lucky break. Gabrielle’s points could’ve had something to do with it, but the tooltip had stated the stat effect was non-retroactive. Rowan was already disagreeing with such an opaque game mechanic making the game less skill-based. Why not just simple magic-find for loot? Global Luck was a headache waiting to take vice on his skull.

  Rowan asked along the way, “So where’s that gold deposit? Is it close?”

  “I’m not a Miner.”

  A frown pushed Rowan’s brows together. “Faenin said everyone was apart from Luthias.”

  “Oh, did he? Only him and Zaine are. Skylar and I are both Farmer-Foresters. We’re saving our third basic profession slot for either Enchanter or Builder.”

  “Why would he lie?”

  “Hmmmm. Maybe he misspoke?”

  It had to be that. Misspeaking was common in his experience. No one was perfect, including these life-like NPCs… But Faenin had said he could employ everyone to mine the gold at his behest. That had been desperation talking—to save his mate. A forgivable lie, Rowan judged. “Maybe I misheard. It’s been a hectic handful of days.”

  “Is that why Gab calls you a dummy?”

  Facial ticks squeezed his eye. “Quiet, slave.”

  She didn’t dare say another taunt. Good Elf.

  Rowan put his legs on auto-pilot for the rest of this short walk while his eyes skimmed through the forums, mostly through the General section. That’s where all the big news usually would pop up in most communities. Nothing big so far, but someone by the name Tiger Rider had already hit level forty—a Swordsman. Sour envy crawled up Rowan’s stomach.

  Inside the hovel, Liluth was kneeling at Faenin’s side, her palm on his forehead. Two bowls of cooling boiled water and bandages sat on the opposite side. His wounds were cleaned with ginger paste applied, but still swollen. She sighed, “Why did you not tell me? We could’ve treated it early.”

  “I’m sorry. I did not wish to worry you. I did not know how Rowan would react.”

  “Very unwise of you.” Her tongue clicked. “You are fortunate he is caring and knowledgeable with medicines.”

  Rowan’s throat cleared. “I had help via divine communication. And don’t you have bedrooms to build? I see barely a foundation.”

  “Apologies.” She jolted to her feet and hurried past, jogging. Her face was brought down with worry.

  Viola slipped in and placed the honey jar by the rags.

  Rowan nodded at her. “I can take care of it from here.”

  She said, “Good luck, Fae. I hope you don’t kick the bucket.” She left with a gait too upbeat for the mood.

  Kneeling, Rowan plucked a piece of clean wood and scraped honey from the outside rim. He held it to Faenin’s dry lips. “Do you know what kind of honey this is? Have a taste.”

  A slender tongue licked. “A combination of many flowers.”

  Unhelpful. “Better than nothing, I guess.” Rowan washed his hands in one of the bowls. The water was hot, close to boiling temperature, but combined with his Demon skin and the game’s pain reduction, no discomfort seared his nerves. His Health bar didn’t waver at all.

  Faenin said, “We need a Priest… or a Shaman. I fear for Liluth. What if she—”

  “Gab’s going to be a Priest. We have everything planned out.” Planned out as in Tasha buying tomes.

  “What class will you—”

  “Swordsman.”

  “Zaine is very skilled with a blade. He can teach you where your class does not.”

  “Yeah. He’s bit of a teen prodigy. Have you known him for long?” Arguably the most valuable of the six—the one with the most potential.

  “Not long. He was assigned to our expedition.”

  “What were you looking for?”

  “Rare ores for the production of adamantite, blacksteel… dragonsteel.”

  “How’s blacksteel and dragonsteel different from regular steel?” Rowan asked even though he already knew the answer. This was a poor test of honesty.

  “Steel is a universal but weak metal. Blacksteel is quite common and argues well with dark magics. Dragonsteel is very seldom found near dragon roosts when their magics seep into the surrounding lands. The latter is valuable and makes the most powerful armor and weaponry.” Not even a half-lie. Excellent detail.

  “Pretty simple, then, and did you misspeak when you said everyone was a Miner in Jin’tal’s house?”

  Those weak eyes widened, pupils shrinking. “I did.”

  Rowan breathed through a snarl, smelling a myriad of scents, the simmering stew from the workshop above all. “You were desperate to save Liluth. It’s reasonable. I forgive you. I’m a fair ruler. How many times do I have to say it?”

  “Apologies. You can be…”

  “I know. There’s a reason I got Demonborn Fate”

  “I read as such.”

  Rowan scrubbed under a last nail and removed his steaming hands from the now murky bowl. He shook them dry into the corner, then dipped a scrunched bandage into the honey pot. With quick but gentle strokes, he applied generous slathers onto those gag-inducing wounds, ignoring Faenin’s occasional sharp intake of breath. A violent jolt shook his body when the honey touched the deepest gouge. “Try to relax,” Rowan said.

  “Yes, Lord LeMort.”

  “Want something to bite on?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Rowan shrugged and continued. Every little detail, every fibrous gleaming inch of flesh, was photo-realistic to perfection. This could be mistaken as real world flesh and bone if it weren’t for eddies of magic rushing to these wounds, pumping in the bloodstream. The heart was a magical apex, a similar amount in the brain as well.

  In less than five minutes the treatment was done. When time came for bandaging, however, a tad more difficulty was had. Liluth would be better here, but Rowan wanted—needed—to practice sooner rather than later. Five strips were enough to cover all three gouges by the armpit, and when wrapped and tied, they held well enough, tightly enough. That cut under Faenin’s collarbone was trickier, but Rowan nevertheless managed with a bundle of extra bandaging.

  Job done.

  Thank the gods for Priests and Shamans. Doing this for every last wound and illness was unimaginable. Rowan stood, stretched his arms and back. “How’s your debuff?”

  “Treated, quality rating four-fifty-two. Thank you.”

  “And that means?”

  “The chance of it developing to Major or Lethal has decreased by slightly less than fifty percent.”

  A goddamn coin flip. Rowan massaged pressure points on his face. “Do you have a will prepared?”

  “A will?”

  “Last words for your loved ones.”

  “I do. We wrote them before we left Elvenhom
e.”

  “That’s good.” Rowan pretended to exhale in relief. “No lies. How long will it take to mine and smelt enough gold for a town hall idol?”

  A tense moment passed. “With everyone helping by hand… maybe ten or eleven days.”

  “When did you survey it?”

  “Last week with the Trolls.”

  “How many units are there? Do you remember?”

  “It is as I said. Over five thousand gold ore, but the the skills are unreliable when we are without Miners’ equipment.”

  “Survey and Smelt?”

  Faenin nodded.

  “How much pure gold will that make?”

  “Depending on the ore’s purity, anywhere from less than fifty to five hundred.”

  Now wasn’t the time to let stress win. Rowan steeled himself. “Then let’s hope it turns out to be very high purity. We’ll get digging soon. That will be the next priority after the bedrooms.”

  “What of the lavatories?”

  I forgot they need to take shits. “We’ll just have to dig long-drops for now. Do you know what they are?”

  “I do, though I don’t like it.”

  Rowan’s face deadpanned. “Didn’t think you would. How are lavatories different?”

  “An Enchanter can make it so it’s clean and that waste is composted. Basins are optional, but I recommend you do not leave them out.”

  “Then lavatories will be priority one when we have an Enchanter. Does that sound good?”

  A slow nod.

  “Good,” Rowan exhaled. “You stay here. No buts. I’ll go help Liluth.”

  “What if we come under attack? Surely you will need another fighter—”

  “I have a feeling this next week will be boring as hell.”

  “A feeling?” Faenin said glumly.

  Rowan was already out the door.

  23

  The finishing touches to Rowan’s and Gabrielle’s Bedroom were almost done. He carved his and her initials onto both the door and the bed frame, then centered potted yellow-white flowers on top of bed-side drawers. This wasn’t much, granted, but it carried a strangely modernized medieval look and feel, colonial in many ways.

  The warm pine wood, sanded and sawed and carved by Liluth’s magic, was smooth to the touch, smoother than what Rowan could accomplish with modern tools in the real world. Edges were clean without splinters, angles perpendicular to within fractions of a degree. All which was missing was a coat or two of paint on the ceiling and walls—and floor polish.

  Beautiful. Simply Beautiful.

  And the glass window, which Luthias had forged and shaped with Metalworker skills, was decent at best. Little warps and frosty streaks marred the panels. Charcoal-sap glue held the half-yard rectangle to its frame, like putty.

  Home sweet home indeed.

  And on the buff bar, a bed icon was back-lit with brighter tones of green and blue.

  Bedroom Peace (253 Quality): +4 Flow when out of combat (24 hours remaining)

  Nice. These room buffs aren’t awful.

  “Like the flowers?” Gabrielle said from behind, nearly startling him. She was walking again, her Health bar at eighty-nine percent. Those four extra Flow points were helping.

  “I do. Sure they’re not poisonous?”

  “Hehehe. They’re primrose, silly. Edible.”

  “Where’d you find them?”

  “There’s a whole field by the bee hive.”

  “Then that has to be primrose honey.”

  “Mostly. Bees can go for like two miles from the hive.”

  Interesting—actually interesting and useful information for settlement planning. “How’s Faenin doing?” The Health bar under his icon in the party list was gradually rising but divulged nothing regarding the infection.

  “Fever’s down. Internal injuries healed, I think. He’s helping with the stew.”

  “Good. Very good.” On cue, his stomach rumbled for the umpteenth time. “I think it’s time for dinner.” The ghostly twin moons certainly agreed, the sky darkening by the minute, now shades of azure. Dark gray clouds hid the sun.

  “Kay,” she chirped.

  Outside, Liluth was on a ladder securing a final piece of guttering. Stat points making up for a lack of muscle, her slender Elven arm was swift and accurate with every blow of that hammer. The building’s design (also done by her) was minimalistic: an oblong under a triangular roof with no Elven touches or personalized stylization, which was fair given the time constraints.

  With a last iron nail in, Liluth hopped down and smiled timidly. “I hope this building is to your liking.”

  Rowan said, “It is. You have done extremely well, especially with the roof. I’m impressed.”

  She smiled less timidly. “Thank you. My grandfather taught me how to build without the Builder profession.”

  The implication was more than obvious. “You miss him. Is he still alive?”

  “Yes. We Sun Elves are few but live for many seasons.”

  “How few?” Gabrielle asked.

  “Less than a quarter million Sun Elves.”

  As though a quarter million were few… but this world, this planet, was vaster than Earth, and this was a medieval setting. A quarter million was relatively few. Rowan swallowed an incredulous smile. “And we’ve taken six for ourselves.”

  Those silver eyes wandered. “I have been wondering, Lord LeMort, about when the day we earn freedom comes... Will such a day ever come?”

  And there it was—already. It hadn’t even been a single day yet. He sighed softly. “Can we have a ship charted up here?”

  “We can!” she said with bubbly enthusiasm. “We just need to send a message to Illanor. They can be here in a week at most. We are in the arctic, yes?”

  Gabrielle’s head tilted. “We are, but the Trolls don’t have ships patrolling?”

  “They do, but the oceans are vast, and my family is not poor.”

  Rowan frowned, a memory pricking his skull. “Faenin said they abandoned you. What did he mean by that?”

  “We have come under hard times. The ancient alliance with the Lunar Elves have strained, and we have relied on them for supplies and aid against the Trolls. I am not sure if our fleets are still…” Liluth’s enthusiasm evaporated.

  “I see. And how do you think they’d react to us?” Rowan’s arched left eyebrow asked most of that question.

  “Well… I’m sure once you explain you are adventurers, they won’t…”

  “Kill us on the spot?”

  “Turn us into steaks and leather?” Gabrielle quipped.

  “No! We would never. I can vouch for you. So can Faenin and the others. You have treated us well.”

  Rowan shook his head, his mouth stern. “I know only outlaws and bandits partake in dark magic. Let’s not attract more attention. The Humans already know about us and have bounties—”

  “How do you know?”

  “Divine communication. They Humans have good Diviners, and we were felt world-wide. That was a lot of dark magic and flaming brimstone. That’s why I’m pushing you so hard. We do need that Town Hall.”

  Liluth wilted somewhat. “Then I shall hope you reconsider when it is built.”

  Rowan donned a colder face. “Once we have strong defenses, I will reconsider. Yeah? High-walls, a castle, magic towers, the works.”

  That did not help. Liluth frowned deeply. “Your vision may take a hundred seasons to make a reality.”

  A reflex shrug lifted Rowan’s shoulders as wind blew through the settlement, carrying savory scents. His stomach rumbled audibly. “You said Elves can live for many centuries.” And years were only four months.

  A pitiful look emerged through those Elven features.

  Gabrielle pouted. “Awwww. Cheer up. At least you’re alive. Want some stew? It’s ready! Can ya smell the hot beary goodness? Zaine even found some pink mountain salt. It’s delicious…”

  After many heartbeats, Liluth mumbled, “I would like some bear meat stew.
”

  “Hehehe. See. Stew makes everything better.”

  Chuckling, Rowan tossed Liluth a final gentler look. “Viola suggested we make this an Elven settlement. Maybe we can work something out eventually. This could be a good point of a flank attack.”

  That helped by a smidgen, her face rising. “I shall remember what you have said.”

  “Good. Let’s eat.”

  And they were off for dinner, Rowan leading the way through the tall grass. He cast his eyes across the meadow, evaluating the day’s progress.

  The bedroom block was thirty yards from the workshop, closer to the forest’s edge; perhaps not too safe, but that was a marginal difference when those trees were all going to be cut. Skylar’s orchard was already fenced off, cleared of grass. Three rows of widely spaced stakes marked where he’d sown apple seeds. Good lad. And outside the workshop, Luthias’ makeshift clay kiln was smoking bear meat full-blast. Excellent work there.

  Excellent progress all around. These Elves hadn’t been a mistake.

  With eight bodies, the workshop was crowded, especially with two stoves running on embers. The mood was quite suffocating for Rowan, but the others clearly found it energizing—a party in the making. He just wanted his damn dinner.

  Gabrielle lifted the pot’s lid. Delectable flavors saturated the room. Bear meat gave off a characteristic smell and taste, not too foreign. Along with foraged greens, herbs, and mountain salt, the aroma was enough for Rowan’s mouth to leak drool. He sucked the trail back in before it could embarrass him. Naturally, as the leader, he was first in line to be served. There was no need for table manners when everyone was bloody starving.

  “Careful,” Gabirielle said, passing a bowl, “it’s still a bit hot. I dun wanna hear complaints that my cooking burned your tongue.”

  “Of course, it’ll be your fault.” A smile pulled pinched his cheeks as he sipped orgasmic delight, swished the flavors under and over his forged tongue, and swallowed. Warmth spread outward from his stomach. “Delicious.” He sipped another.