“Hey, Rowan,” Viola said from behind.
He clamped every muscle to stop from flinching. “You’ve got something to report?”
“Yup.” She smiled brightly. “The Frigid Fibers can be harvested now. We’ll only get a third as much though, but we’ll get full seeds even without Seedify.”
Somewhat good news. His legs moved by themselves, taking him toward the farm plots around the palisade. “Do you know how to make threads without a profession?”
She was following in her favorite springy gait. “Yup.”
“Seriously?”
“I do. My grandmother taught me sewing. I just need Liluth to make me one of those spinner things, and Luthias for some needles.”
“That’s really great. How long will it take to make some coats?”
“Some coats?”
He approached the rectangle of Frigid Fiber plants, excitement bubbling in his stomach. He hadn’t paid any attention to them in the last few days, forgotten. Farming really wasn’t his thing—apart from the bees. They were one of the better subjects in his current kingdom.
The farm, now fenced, was much more lively, dozens more plots occupied.
Fenced Crop Farm, Outdoor Room
Size: 900 plots (87 used)
Crops: Frigid Fiber (31), Primrose (19), Turnip (10), Ginger (3), Cardamon (4), Weeds (19), Crude Pinewood Beehive (1)
Nineteen plots of weeds. How realistic.
He crouched by the nearest one. The plant was now bushy, a tangled clump of spiked tentacles and razor leaves protecting a large fluffy cotton-like growth, except the cotton was far more fibrous and colored a dull indigo bordering on spruce. The half-seed was hiding somewhere in there. He hadn’t ever seen a plant so… unnatural.
Unable to resist, he reached out, through a gap among the tentacles, and played with a few strands between his fingers. The texture was very unlike cotton. Iron wool or a mess of synthetic polymer threads was a better description. He couldn’t break a strand no matter how hard he tried. It was stronger than steel. Astounding.
“Some coats?” Viola repeated. “I was thinking a dress for myself.”
“A dress? Are you trolling?”
“Why not? A girl needs to look sexy and stylish on the battlefield.”
Holy hell. She was trolling her ass off. “Listen here. Until we have an excess of this stuff, we will be sticking to practicality—as much skin covered as possible.”
“But—”
“Not buts. Be a good girl.”
Her face twisted. “Fine, Lord LeMort. We’ll make coats.”
“Long sleeved, and they need to cover the legs.”
Her eyes bulged. “So trench coats?”
“You got it.”
She appeared as though she were on the verge of rebelling and attacking him. Bad girl. Her foot stamped. “We’re going to look ridiculous!”
Well, that was true. He smirked. “What do you suggest?”
“Pants and—” Her words tripped on something. “Pants and jackets. We can have gloves and hats too. And shoes.”
He looked at the crop of six rows of five plus one loner by the turnips. Each fibrous growth was the size of maybe three or four pumpkins bunched together. Eight sets of pants and jackets was pushing it. And shoes? “Can you really make all that?”
“Trust me.” She was confident, not in arrogant way.
“Alright. Do we have enough for eight sets?”
She hesitated, her finger at his lips. She chewed her fourth nail, one of her mannerisms. “Maybe. Maybe we should let them grow to full size.”
Liluth’s voice said from the right: “I agree. Frigid Fibers often produce more during fall. Much more during winter.”
Rowan breathed through a groan. “I forgot you didn’t pay attention in school, Viola.” He shot her a scolding look as her eyes drifted away. “Liluth, is there anything else I need to know?”
Liluth smirked at Viola. “There is a minuscule chance that it produces a Paraiba Tourmaline gemstone. It is a powerful gem in terms of accessory and staff crafting, a high affinity for cold and nature type magics.”
“Staves for Mages and Priests?”
“And Shamans.”
Rowan grunted. “Alright. We will let them grow to maturity, and by that time Tasha will be here with a Clothworker Tome. We’ll have sets of skin-covering clothing.”
Viola’s shoulders wilted for some reason.
Girls and their feelings!
“What is it?” Rowan asked not too harshly. “Come on. Spit it out.”
“I really wanted a dress,” she said meekly.
“Really? It’s that important to you?”
Liluth chuckled. “I would also like to look stylish on the battlefield. Frigid Fiber is rare and expensive. I always wanted a dress made of one.”
God damn. Why couldn’t they just be practical here? “We are in danger of spiders and Trolls, and you want dresses.”
“Something about dresses?” Gabrielle chirped from behind. “I want! Ooooo that’s a really pretty shade of blue.”
Pulling hair, he groaned at the top of his lungs. His eyes jolted toward Skylar, who was approaching from the orchard. “You! Do you also want a dress?”
“Piss off.”
Finally some sense, but the girls laughed.
As a current of chilly wind blew through the farm, Rowan straightened his posture and donned his dictator expression. “No dresses. You can have stylish shirts and skirts at most plus a cloak.”
Viola perked straight. “What about dresses and cloaks? It’ll use the same amount of fabric, actually less.”
“Good idea,” Gabrielle said.
“Agreed.” Liluth.
His eyes rolled. “What? Are you going to button up your cloaks in combat?”
Gabrielle snickered. “Aren’t you? What are the point of cloaks otherwise, silly!”
This is so stupid. Rowan massaged his brow. “You know what. Everyone will have an equal allocation of Frigid Fiber, Gabrielle and I slightly more because we’re Demons. You can all have personalized clothing.” He gave the girls a stark expression. “Go in bikinis for all I care.”
“Hehehehe. Is that an order, master?” Gabrielle quipped slyly.
“No.”
“What is a bikini?” Liluth asked. “It sounds very stylish.”
“It is,” Skylar said gleefully.
Viola whacked his arm. “Don’t be a pervert.”
Rowan had enough. He waved goodbye dismissively and turned on his heel. “Just get on with work. I’m going to help with the mines. And Liluth, you don’t want to be in a bikini, trust me. Get the Town Hall built—two days till the gold’s mined.”
She nodded. “Yes, Lord LeMort.”
Gabrielle mimicked sarcastically, “Yes, Lord LeMort. I’m a good slave, Lord LeMort.”
But he was already out of hearing range, the Autumn breeze biting his Demon skin harshly. Something was telling him letting the Frigid Fiber grow to maturity was a monumental mistake, icy needles in his gut. This reprieve had lasted far too long. Part of him was itching for action.
* * *
A familiar green exclamation mark icon was begging for attention. Rowan allowed it to expand into a medium-sized window.
Smart Patch Notes (tailored for your eyes by the gods):
- Light Flashes generated by elite deaths are now half as luminous.
- The solar system is now passing through a rocky section of the galaxy for the next eight days. Meteor strikes are expected around the globe but will disintegrate over areas of high ambient magic including developed towns and rampant monster infestation nests.
- Gold deposits are now more common in pocket world dungeons of difficulty 475 and higher.
- Skills for the advanced profession Demonology have been revised. The requirements are unchanged.
Too helpful. And by that I mean the exact opposite.
Nothing in that list was especially relevant to Rowan except for the last one.
Very strange. Did it matter that Demonology skills are now different? Probably not, but the note did imply something crucial: either Synaptic had lied on multiple occasions… or no one in the world was a Demonologist. The community managers had assured the game designers and AI controller wouldn’t make significant class changes that could effect NPCs or players. Rowan had some faith in their honesty, slightly more than none.
Anyway, back to fishing. Good ol’ relaxing fishing by hand whilst gazing into the sunset across these rippling waters—his favorite gaming past time.
The fjord at this end was shallow enough to build a pier or harbor. Coral was common at the deeper spots by those submerged boulders, a lively reef. Barnacles and other forms of low marine life were plenty, these salt waters unpolluted and rich in nutrients for whole ecosystems. Magical ecosystems. This apparently counted as barren. If only there were fish.
If only it weren’t so cold. Perhaps that was putting off the fish. They could sense his shivers through the bait. The occasional nibble vibrated the fishing rod handle, but none swallowed. Could they see the line? It was made of opaque green plastic, most surprisingly. Or something that resembled plastic. Perhaps a material exclusive to this world. Plastinium?
His teeth began violently chattering when sea winds picked up and threw foaming waves against the beach. The sun touched the horizon. And he had not caught a single fish yet. Neither had Gabrielle. Did the fish not appreciate deer meat? A shame. He’d gotten his linen pants wet for nothing. The fabric was having trouble staying rolled up his legs, and it was worthless for insulation.
Fortunately, a harvest of Frigid Fibers was coming.
Rowan heaved a sigh, a memory of the day’s earlier encounter replaying. Did they really want dresses? Here at the arctic when they needed trench coats? They had to be shitting him.
“What was that sigh, Mister Grumpy?” Gabrielle asked. She stood a few yards to the left, her feet also wet.
“Tell me you don’t really want dresses.”
Her eyes blinked cutely, thrice. “You’re still going on about that? We were mostly just messin’ with ya.”
A unfounded sense of relief lifted stress off his shoulders. “Then we will have trench coats. Maybe you can have a dress if we have left over fabric, and that’s a literal maybe.”
“Eh…” She looked at him sheepishly. “Please not blue trench coats. I dun wanna look dorky in our videos.”
“We’re in rags right now.”
“Cus we didn’t have a choice, duh.”
A stronger tug pulled at Rowan’s line, but when he whipped the rod it turned out to be nothing. Sad. “And that’s a difference?”
“Yup. I want to say I made a fashionable outfit.”
Girls and their fashion. He would never understand. “Just make sure it keeps you warm and protects most of your skin.”
“Kay.” She giggled for many breaths before a content smile coalesced.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. Ya seem very concerned about the safety of our slaves.”
Another stronger tug to his rod jolted his hands. Nothing again. “Pffft. Of course I’m concerned. They’re valuable, and we put in a lot of effort getting to know them. They have sentimental value… like my bees.”
Her mouth popped. “I’m startin’ to think ya love those bees more than ya love me.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re the most valuable thing I own.”
A venomous yet sweet smile curled her lips, her eyes squinting. “Awww. That’s so nice, Lord LeMort.”
“It’s true, Lady LeMort.” He shrugged.
Her smile evaporated somewhat. “It feels weird when ya call me that.”
“Same for me. Just call me Row.”
“Hehehe.”
A far stronger tug yanked his rod forward. His muscles tensed, and a reflexive action slashed the rod upward. But the fish got away before he could haul it in. Lame. He went for the wooden reel anyway, sensing that the bait was either gone or too chewed, his hand moving in circles at a blurry speed. Lo and behold, the lump of deer meat was now a string of pink beads. Damn.
Then Gabrielle sucked in a sharp lungful and started laughing. High-pitch manic laughing.
He growled, “How many have you caught? None.”
“It’s. Not. That,” she said in between breaths. “Look at the forums! General section!”
He frowned as he flicked open the web browser, the forum page refreshing. In the general section, the top thread was something else. Truly something else. He was hesitant to venture inside.
Tasha killed my NPC girlfriend. Posted by Tom Silverwind, 6 hours and 42 minutes ago.
I logged out last night thinking Danielle would be safe for the night inside a well-defended Human town with like hundreds of Royal Guards. This morning I found her corpse frozen in the snow amidst an Undead invasion coming from the keep of all places. How’s this even possible? What’s the point of town walls and a moat if Undead can just spawn inside a keep…
Then I found out it wasn’t even like a natural random event. A player did this. A single player spawned an entire Undead army and a Lich elite.
WHAT. THE. FRICK? What kind of game is this?
Tasha, you killed my girlfriend. I hope you’re happy.
The game balance needs major work. If you don’t revive Danielle, I quit. I better get a refund for this overpriced VR helmet.
PS: Synaptic, please answer my ticket, 82901491.
Wow. Just wow. That, for sure, wasn’t your everyday opening post on a gaming forum. Nice use of capitals though, Rowan granted. And his eyes dared to check out the first handful of replies.
Grant Bossman: Ye, I’m calling BS. Nice troll, bud.
Tom Silverwind: I am not trolling! She’s dead. Ask anyone in Light’s Justice.
Mister Bean: Relax bro, like fish in the ocean, there’s plenty of NPCs in Sortis Online.
Tom Silverwind: She wasn’t just any NPC! Danielle was the nicest girl I ever met. Yea, she was just an NPC, but I DON’T CARE.
Misty Duck: Sorry for your loss :( But you know Soul Crystals exist, right? You said you found her in the snow. Is she on ice? Is her head intact?
Tom Silverwind: Yeah, her head is fine. But, those crystals might as well not even exist. They’re like what, one in ten billion?
Edgar Ruse: See you in a week.
Rowan was speechless, utterly speechless, paralyzed with astonishment, his mouth agape with salty wind drying his tongue. There was only one thing to do here—poke at a certain sister-in-law. He flipped open his friend list and typed out a message.
Rowan LeMort (To Tasha NaMuso): Have you seen the forum thread about you?
A reply beeped in three seconds.
Tasha NaMuso: Yes… Why do you ask?
Rowan LeMort: You have a killed a man’s true love. How can I ever forgive you for this?
Tasha NaMuso: Ignored.
Rowan’s jaw was cemented in place, the inside of his mouth drying in the salty air. This was too farcical to be true, but somehow he knew this Tom fellow was not trolling. Indeed, a lot of NPCs had died at that town. There had been rivers of frozen blood, hundreds of corpses trampled in the wake of Stitched Maulers. Real people had lost loved ones and—
No, this was too funny!
Rowan’s distorted cackles joined in with Gabrielle’s chiming giggles. “Oh, what a cruel world! Danielle’s dead!”
“Awwww. It’s so sad!” she cooed.
“I wonder if he was planning to marry her!”
“I bet! The nicest girl he ever met!”
Their mirth shook away for minutes while the sun kept falling below the horizon, hiding from their Demonic amusement. The cloudy sky was set aflame. Truly, the world was burning. A man’s NPC girlfriend had been killed!
Eventually, their laughter ran out. Rowan’s side and cheeks ached. But this was big business: players were becoming attached to this world in multiple ways. This was going to be the next big thing—it already was.
&
nbsp; Gabrielle said quite seriously, “I kinda get where he’s coming from. He put so much effort into her like we did for the Elves. I’d be pretty sad if something happened to them. Dontcha think?”
“Yeah,” Rowan actually agreed. “It’s just… this is different.” A stray thought hit his head. “Can adventurers and NPCs reproduce together?”
The smile was wiped off Gabrielle’s cheeks. “Row… Let’s leave that research to other players, kay?”
He huffed. “I was just wondering, not that I’d—”
Lights in the sky snatched his eyes, trails of burning smoke streaking across the heavens. His pulse thumped up his neck, clobbering at his temples with heavy throbs. Several, perhaps dozens, of meteors were raining down on this world. Many fell over the horizons in each direction, but three were nearby.
Extremely near.
The first was already breaking up among the scanty clouds, a bright bluish-white flash, five or six miles in the direction of the mountain pass. Over the ancient manawood. Over the spider nest. The rock disintegrated into falling sparks. No impact.
The other two did not break. They were going to hit.
Rushing over to Gabrielle, he took her arm and—
What was there to do during a meteor impact?
A lump slithered down his throat as Gabrielle stood closer to him. Her fishing rod dropped onto the sand.
“Get ready to run,” he said, his eyes tracking the closer of the two. It was dangerously close.
“The Elves,” she breathed.
A sweep of their binding threads put them on full alert. He was ready to send them in any direction.
The second meteor smoked into the distance somewhere beyond the mountains, perhaps dozen miles into the ocean.
But the third meteor… It was coming at a harsh angle, almost swerving over the mountains. It was coming straight for the settlement. Straight for—
Adrenaline pumped.
Rowan was sprinting, pulling Gabrielle up the beach, their feet kicking up sand and pebbles and loose weeds. A puny crustacean crunched, its shell cutting into his heel. The pain didn’t register, the danger of this situation too stupid. What were those goddamn Luck points doing? Sleeping!
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