Demonborn's Fjord

by Dante Sakurai

  “If ya say so.”

  He wasn’t a prophet or Diviner, so naturally the future was opaque to him, but a feeling in his gut was saying this newcomer was an omen of trouble and drama. He was already attracting vultures. He inwardly shrugged. He could handle a feisty one. She could be the first example of what happens to an upstart.

  34

  The battle was won.

  Under thinning snowfall, Jonathan Bladestrider walked on icy cobblestone. His hood was up. He was dressed in worn, ripped leather, high boots, and a rusty Enchanted Belt of Heat—to keep his identity a secret. But in this moment, he yearned nothing more than to announce his presence to the people of this ravaged town, for he was of the Dragonriders. He was a bringer of light and hope for all.

  Admittedly, he did love role playing in these high fantasy games.

  Rotting flesh and bone lay frozen in the snow along with an occasional Human body. Even in death, their faces were wrought with horror and pain. May they never be forgotten, Jonathan prayed. May their deaths never be written off in vain. Things were going to change for the better, starting with those barbaric execution laws.

  Metallic clicks and clangs approached. “There you are,” Lance Rider said in a suit of mithril.

  “Greeting, my fellow adventurer.” Jonathan’s grin was lively. “I see you have found upgrades.”

  Lance chuckled, head shaking. “Yeah, the Undead Dragon went down with a loot gem explosion.”

  “Anything legendary or unique?”

  “Nah, only the usual, and the Myrm took the dragonsteel ore.”

  “Legit?”

  “All of it—his payment for service.” Lance’s mouth twisted in annoyance. “But it wasn’t much, and speaking of dragons, how’s yours doing? I tried to keep Undead away from…” His eyes shifted right then left. “You know where.”

  Jonathan closed his eyes and concentrated on the thin magical connection that bound him to his charge—a baby Red Dragon. The tether was unbroken. The extra health bar above his own was full. “She is safe.”

  “Big relief. How’s her growth? Have you named her yet?”

  Always with more questions, but Jonathan did not blame the man. He would act similarly if he were standing in those impressive boots. “She’s up to my knee now. I have yet to choose a name. I may let her choose.”

  “She talks to you?”

  Jonathan’s head shook. “I only know her location and health.”

  “Ah, yes, I think you mentioned that, sorry. I’ve been busy with guild business.” Lance stood closer. He expression was grimmer as he checked for bystanders. “The Royal Guard thinks Tasha might’ve been here to kill her.”

  “What?” Jonathan blurted far too loudly. “Isn’t she another adventurer? She knows killing either of us is pointless.”

  “But your dragon’s growth would be slowed.”

  “She doesn’t know that.” Jonathan had told less than a handful of players.

  “It’s pretty obvious, in my opinion.”

  “You think so?”

  “Well, there has to be penalties for death. Otherwise an immortal dragon is…” Lance shrugged. “A bit overpowered, don’t you think?”

  Jonathan came to a slow agreement, nodding. “Is she jealous or what?”

  “It could be that,” Lance said in an impish voice. “Or it could have something to do with Gabby LeMort.” His gauntlet fumbled inside his pouch, and pulled out a rolled parchment. A side-by-side sketch of Gabby and Tasha. “I think they’re related.”

  Their facial structures were not dissimilar. Their eyes and mouths were a clear match. Tasha looked older by a few years, but that might just be her character. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “You can’t see it? Come on, man.”

  “Hmmmm.” Jonathan stroked his beardless chin. “Alright, yeah, they could be cousins. Maybe even sisters.”

  “I say cousins, but that doesn’t matter.” He looked around for bystanders again. “More importantly, a Demonology Tome was taken.”

  This was a time to be shocked. Jonathan inhaled sharply. “By the gods.”

  “Dude,” Lance chuckled. “Cut that out. This isn’t the time to joke around.”

  “Okay, okay. Fine. I don’t have a clue what it does.”

  “It’s an advanced profession tome. Demon race only. You know what this means, right?”

  It took a second for the pieces to fall into place. “That explains the Demonic magic last week.”

  Lance nodded stiffly. “Bad news for Trollheim, but good news for us.” Good news because King Ralston wanted an alliance with the Trolls. Why? Only the gods knew.

  “Is the expedition a go-ahead?”

  “Yeah, we’re going to investigate.” Lance’s chin dipped. “We’re under orders to capture.”

  “What will happen to them after?”

  “Probably thirty seasons in a prison for Tasha. Not sure what’ll happen to the LeMorts.”

  “Yikes. That’ll brick her character,” Jonathan gasped.

  Lance visibly swallowed. “She’ll have to roll a new one.”

  “Seem a bit harsh.”

  “Normally, I’d say yes, but this is how the game was designed. Realism. Don’t forget she can escape again.”

  “How’d she escape the other day?”

  “She pretended to be an NPC, and they executed her. She’s not stupid.”

  Jonathan ate a smirk, then blinked in surprise. “Wait, I’m going in the expedition?”

  “Of course,” Lance stuttered. “Unless you don’t want to? You don’t have to if you’re busy somewhere else.”

  “No, no. I’ll go. I’m just surprised. I haven’t fought another player yet.”

  “Neither have I, but my subs are really excited about you. I’ve never covered a game like this before.”

  Right, Lance was a famous gamer with half a million subscribers. This was his job—putting on a good show above all. He wouldn’t be here otherwise. Jonathan held in a sigh, for he wasn’t as lucky in that regard. He was, sadly, a college undergrad still living at home. Thinking about that snapped his immersion.

  “So,” Lance said, “Will you be ready? Your dragon, that is.”

  “She probably wont be ready to fight for a while—” A few seasons at minimum ”—She’d grow faster if we had high quality food.”

  “You can become a Cook and a Farmer. Why haven’t you taken up professions yet—”

  Frantic steps crunched on snow. “Danielle!” a man’s voice called. “Danielle! Are you there?!” He was a young man close to Jonathan’s age. His cheeks were gaunter than the crater, and his eyes were bloodshot, teary. “Danielle! Have you two seen—” His eyes dropped to a corpse by Lance’s boots. He suddenly collapsed to his knees, his cloak piling around him. “No,” he whimpered. “No. No. No.”

  Another regrettable loss that wouldn’t be forgotten.

  Jonathan felt real sympathy as he could relate; he once had a girlfriend during highschool. She was the girl of his dreams, but it had ended badly, not nearly as badly as this, but he could relate nevertheless. His body chilled, partly because the heat enchantment on his belt was fading.

  “My condolences,” Jonathan said. “Be strong, for your people, for the King.”

  The man was hugging his dead lover, sobbing into her frozen hair. “No. No. No,” he kept repeating.

  Meanwhile, Lance was aghast with amusement. How could he be so heartless? Cruel. “Tom?” he said as though he knew the man personally. “Dude. What are you doing? She’s an NPC.”

  “I know!” Tom shouted, his voice broken. “Stop laughing!”

  Lance held up icy gauntlets. “I’m not laughing.”

  A window expanded in front of Tom’s frozen tears.

  Tom Silverwind (Level 22 Archer)

  Health: 92%

  It had escaped Jonathan that adventurers were not labeled as such. “You’re a player?”

  Tom lambasted him with a face of hate. “I’m in your guild! I’m an
officer. We met on the first day.”

  Embarrassment seared Jonathan’s cheeks. “Ah, my bad. I’ve met a lot of people since. Ah… Sorry for your loss. But you know she’s just an—”

  “I said I fucking know.” He sniffed, wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “I don’t care. Call me a loser. I don’t care.”

  “Hey,” Lance said, “at least she’s frozen. Her head’s fine. Do you know Soul Crystals can—”

  Tom scoffed. “As if I’d ever find one, and if I do, the whole whole would be after my ass. She’s dead. Period.” His sobbing reemerged.

  “Um…” Lance whistled. “Want me to talk to Synaptic? I’m at their HQ.”

  “Go ahead, but those greedy execs wouldn’t do anything. I bet they’re laughing at me right now.” He was suddenly angry. “I bet Tasha is enjoying this.”

  “Bro,” Jonathan tried. “I doubt she even knows. She probably thinks she’s just playing a PvP game. It is a game.” A hyper-realistic game.

  Tom wasn’t listening. “Tasha did this. This is her fault. All of this is her fault.” More frozen tears fell from his cheek. “I can’t believe this is balanced.”

  Lance said, “I agree it is quite over the top. I will be having some words with the community managers, but you need to take a deep breath—”

  “Piss off.” Tom stood, cradling his dead love bridal-style, then ran off to the storehouses. His cloak disappeared into the falling snow.

  Did that really just happen? Jonathan thought, staring down the corpse-littered street, at Tom’s footprints, at the bloody spot where Danielle had fallen. Strands of chestnut chair were left behind. No blood, however. She must’ve eaten a Death Bolt.

  Lance broke the silence: “Wow. That is…”

  “Insanity?”

  “I was thinking along the lines of a very lonely man, but insanity works too.”

  “And he’s your officer.”

  “He is.”

  “Are you going to demote him?”

  “Ah.” Lance squinted in thought. His gauntlet scratched his helmet. “I don’t think that’ll help him right now. Let’s give him some time to himself, then we’ll we see. I think he’ll be fine. I’ve known him for years. He’s a good guy. But keep this to yourself, okay?”

  Jonathan decided to trust his celebrity guild leader. “Hmm. Okay.”

  “Are you recording?”

  “Nah.”

  “You don’t have a channel?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  Jonathan shrugged. “Been busy with college. Maybe I’ll start one.”

  “I can give your channel a shout-out. You’re going to be in my next video anyway.”

  “Real?”

  “Yeah, why wouldn’t I feature you? Everyone wants to know about you.”

  Jonathan smiled warmly. “Then I am definitely starting a channel. Is the pay good?”

  “Ah, it varies. I’ll run you through everything later, but we have to meet King Ralston in an hour. He’s got some information for us. Let’s get your dragon to the portals.”

  “The King himself? It would be an honor.”

  “An honor indeed,” Lance said with hearty laughter.

  And just like that, a real friendship was in the making. The start of an epic adventure which Jonathan dreamed to one day retell as an old man to future generations of NPCs and adventurers alike. The start of a new era both throughout these lands and in his life.

  35

  Day ten was here. A whole day had carried on without anything of note befalling the settlement. No sudden food shortages. No enraged beasts. And where were the shitty Trolls? Hopefully, they had gotten the memo—the dark gods weren’t pleased with their actions.

  For Rowan, another two levels had been gained thanks to surprisingly common mine infestations. Bug corpses made for decent compost if nothing else. He remembered to allocate points, bringing up his character sheet.

  Buffs

  Workshop Fun (203 Quality): +3 Agility when out of combat

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

  Fortified (72 Quality): +1 Constitution and Resistance while inside your town wall

  Well Fed (387 Quality): +7 Flow, Constitution, and Resistance

  - - - - -

  Rowan LeMort

  Race: Demon

  Level: 13 (EXP: 120/28,000)

  Class: None

  Fate: Demonborn

  Constitution: 11 (19)

  Agility: 32 (35)

  Mysticism: 5

  Flow: 5 (16)

  Resistance: 0 (7)

  Luck: 0

  Free points: 3

  Constitution was bumped up to fourteen, following Zaine’s build. Two parts Agil, one part Const. Many on the forums had agreed this distribution was optimal for Swordsmen and Rogues.

  Rogues.

  That redhead, Ayla, was one. The thought of her was irritating. Why had Tasha recruited a stray without mentioning anything? Great communication there.

  Ayla was a twenty-two year old law graduate aspiring to be a full-time gamer or entertainer. Her situation was remarkably similar to Gabrielle’s. Perhaps this wouldn’t end in disaster if that Demonology Tome was peacefully handed over. Rowan reserved judgment and ample suspicion—as always.

  He took out this minor frustration on Zaine, his new sword-fighting tutor now that Luthias had nothing more to teach. Today’s session was all about fencing, an extreme version of fencing lacking any protective gear. Blunted wooden sticks hurt more than they should have.

  “On your toes,” Zaine instructed. “It’s all about the footwork.” He hopped forward, lunged a stab, then hopped back, all in the fraction of a second. His movements were fluid, graceful, far more practiced than a teenager should’ve been capable of. He was a prodigy through and through.

  Rowan had barely dodged the stab with a twist of his upper body. The difference between level thirteen and twenty-four was leagues apart—and Zaine was holding back. “I heard you before,” he said between heavy breaths of freezing air.

  Bouncing back and forth, Zaine’s eyes gave away danger. He shifted left—a feint—and jumped right, delivering an uppercut slash.

  Rowan hissed as a splinter in that stick scratched a tender spot on his finger. No blood.

  Without pause, Zaine’s wrist flicked sideways.

  Pain wracked the back of Rowan’s hand, his own stick knocked out of his grip. A spot of blood appeared where the skin broke. He coughed. “Shit. This is harder than I thought. Learning archery was much easier.” He went for the honey.

  Zaine let his stick fall onto the ground. The tall grass ate it whole. “That is because you had a relevant weapon equipped. Your magic reacts with it and feeds back into your mind, enhancing the rate which you learn.”

  Sitting on a pine log, Gabrielle said, “Huh, I read on the forums it was a global learning boost.”

  Zaine’s forehead wrinkled. “What are these forums I keep hearing—”

  “Divine communication.”

  “Oh. You must have read incorrect information. Although your kind are divine, you are not omniscient like the actual gods… or creators as you say.”

  Rowan finished dabbing his minor wound, the red smothered with gold. He lidded the jar and placed it back on the tree stump. “I thought as much. These makeshift training swords don’t count as weapons?”

  “It needs a sharpened metal blade at minimum. Focus on it.”

  Rowan squinted at the wood.

  Carved Pinewood Stick

  Item type: raw resource

  Quality: 482 (Good)

  He swore he had focused on it before and it had been a training sword. Strange. “That sucks. Do you think we should forge some swords? What if we protect the edges with wood or tar or something?”

  Zaine’s head sadly shook. “Warriors have tried everything you can and cannot imagine. Sword-fighting is not like Archery where you can practice on a dummy. You need a target that can fight back or evade your hits.
”

  Gabrielle said, “It’s harder to shoot things that move though.”

  “That is true, and you will learn twice as fast while hunting deer, but when it comes to swords…” Zaine’s mouth was a grim line.

  “Ah, gotcha.” Rowan allowed himself a calming breath. “Alright. Let’s get Moonfyre and…” He realized Gabrielle hadn’t named her iron rod. “Name your rod.”

  Her lips slightly parted. “Mister Stabby.”

  “Come on. A serious name.”

  “Hmph. That was serious, but…” Her eyes wandered. “How about Joybringer?”

  He let the name resonate in his skull, his inner voice repeating thrice. Joybringer. Joybringer. Joybringer did have a nice ring, he had to admit. He met her playful eyes and nodded. “Alright. Let’s get Moonfyre and Joybringer forged into iron bastard swords for now. After that we will fight every insect infestation with them.”

  She gave a thumbs-up. “Kay! I’ll put Luthias to work ASAP!” She sprang to her feet and skipped toward the palisade’s secret backdoor.

  But he wasn’t done giving out orders. Oh well. “Zaine. Do we have enough gold for a town hall?”

  “Almost. The roaches last night had chitins rich with gold. They’ve already been crushed and smelted.”

  Lucky—thanks to Gabrielle. “How long till a hundred units?”

  Zaine’s head tilted, his eyes calculating. “Tomorrow afternoon if I get to work now.”

  “Then off you go.”

  He left without a word of goodbye, sprinting at top-speed toward the mine. A gust laced with tufts of Zaine’s Elven mana buffeted Rowan. Like silk evoking feelings of peace, yet headstrong and fiery—Zaine’s personal touch.

  Rowan tossed the useless training sword onto a pile of firewood. He’d wasted thirty damned minutes carving it. He smirked, mumbling, “Good tutoring on both counts.” Even though cuts and bruises littered Rowan and Gabrielle’s arms, their swordplay skills had improved noticeably. He could probably kill a level ten wolf by blade alone without taking injury—in his imagination.

  His imagination was noticeably more vivid in this world, more detailed and powerful. He held the entire settlement, which wasn’t vast, in his head with ease. He could see in his mind’s eye minor imperfections in his Bedroom, the spot of rust on the door hinge, the muddy smudges that had gathered on the floor. The buildings needed Sanitation enchantments.