CHAPTER 5
“I am so confused right now.”
“Yeah, you and me both. Has he cracked already?”
“Well, he wouldn’t be the first one.”
“I’ve heard that first death *is* usually the one that breaks them.”
“But after his little temper tantrum, he seemed to make up his mind and get back out there pretty quickly. And the name choice? I mean, Bob? This is the guy that named his first incarnation ‘Bonefist’ for God’s sake.”
“What’s wrong with that one?I thought that was kinda kickass.”
“You would. But if you look back at his gaming profile and history, he always chooses a name that matches his character’s abilities or skillset.”
“Truth, but I do the same thing.”
“Maybe we should have plugged you in, then.”
“Har-de-har, douchenozzle.”
“So what does ‘Bob’ have to do with psionics, much less ‘Bob 2’?”
“I’m telling you, I think he’s cracked.”
“No, it’s too deliberate. After he saw the settlement, his vitals spiked, then he ran off. It’s like he’s...I don’t know. Scared? Angry? He’s doing something."
“Pshh, yeah, he’s dying is what he’s doing.”
“No, I mean look, he’s-”
“Look, look-look-look! He just jumped! Holy nutsack!”
“...dying.”
“Yeee…eeah, I know. We just watched him do it three times. That second time he was even singing out loud as he ran through the forest. It’s like he *wanted* to get...oh. Oh, shizznit.”
“Oh shizznit, indeed.”
“He’s even more fucked up than I thought.”
“Either that or he’s very, very smart.”
“I’m going to double down on ‘I think he’s cracked already.”
***AWAITING INTEGRATION***
My eyes snap open in panic, my breath catches in my throat, and the sounds of nature reverberate all around me.
For about one one-hundredth of a second.
My whole body convulses as I react to the remembered impact, and I sit up with an involuntary yell. It feels like one of those times when, right on the edge of sleep, you enter a half-dream of stepping through a too-small doorway, and as you duck your head to walk through, you instead crack your noggin on the imaginary door jamb, causing you to jump yourself awake.
After the initial reaction, I cock one leg up to rest my elbow on and rub my other hand across my ribs, to either quell the imagined phantom pain or just to make sure I am indeed whole again. Instead of just waking up from that nightmare, however, I’m waking up after leaping to my death off a 60-foot cliff onto a dry riverbed of ragged boulders. I remember making it about a third of the way down before involuntarily throwing my arms over my head in a vain attempt at stopping the rough, jagged rocks from pulping my head like a melon. Both elbows splintered on impact, my body wedging in between three of the larger boulders at the bottom. Once again I’m shockingly, and disturbingly, amazed at how long it took me to die.
Funny thing is, I can still sense the impact. It doesn’t hurt per se, though I can still feel it like an old ache from gym class a week after working out, a dimly remembered phantom pain, both mentally and physically.
In what now is an all-too-familiar motion, I gesture away the death notification, followed by the option to recreate my avatar, with a weary hand and work my way back to my feet. I already know what it says, and once again, I can tell the difference in my slightly stronger body as I stand, so I don’t even bother to read it.
So. Three deaths, I think, and three stat points. Well technically 18 stat points, but either way this is bullshit. My second death hammered home to me that dying sucks, and now after the third, I realize that I can’t go through with this any more. I thought it would be easy to sacrifice a death or ten to gain some stat points as a leg up on the world, but this is nothing like an in-game death. In games, your little avatar gets painlessly de-pixlated, your screen goes black, and you pop back up at your last save point. Sometimes, as you wait to respawn, you might even take a sip of Mountain Dew or down a pixie stick. Or two.
But here, in Pentamria, I feel it. I felt my life bleeding away from me as the rats devoured me, bite by bite. I felt my chest cavity pop when a friggin’ bear landed on me. I even felt the crushing rocks as I smashed into the ground, legs twitching as my mindspark slowly dimmed and I faded to black.
Suddenly I laugh out loud, remembering a line from an old role playing game manual. I shake my head and quote out loud, “It’s not the fall that kills you; it’s the abrupt stop at the end that does it.”
Not for the first time, and probably not for the last, I realize that I am still viewing this as a game. Despite the fact that I have summoned a dead rat back to life, carried a small leather pouch at my hip that can carry eight slots of inventory, and oh yeah, that I’ve DIED three times, this is not a game. I knew when I signed on the dotted line, so to speak, that I was in this for the long haul. In fact, part of the selling point for me was that I would never have to leave this world in my head. There was no logging off for the night, no “brb, bio break”, and certainly no, “wife aggro, I gotta go, guys.”
Not that I ever had to type that last one in chat, certainly, but I can’t count the number of great teams ruined by someone having a life outside of the digital one we were playing in.
With another shock, I realize that I haven’t slept this entire time. Or eaten, for that matter. How long have I been in this place? If I’m not feeling hunger pangs by now….
Was this a game, or wasn’t it?
I rub my face with both hands and let out a short, wordless bark of frustration, then I nod. “Ok, I can’t do this anymore,” I blurt out loud. I’ve died three times now, twice by suicide, and I have nothing to show for it but some stat points and one measly friggin’ level of Unarmed Combat. It’s almost like I’m trying to convince myself of this new reality of which I am already painfully aware. “It’s not going to help me, really, to continue dying, and I’m sick of being torn apart.”
I begin to pace around the campsite, the warm sunshine peeking over the edge of the trees. It’s almost like the sun is eavesdropping on me, unable to wait to see what bizarre shit I do next. Ok, I think, there are people here. Nothing I can do about that, and besides the point, they aren’t even real people. If I want my new life to be any better than the last 35 shitty years, I have to be strong enough to defend myself. My pacing has gotten frantic by this point, old anxieties pounding at the walls of the self-imposed ramparts I have erected around myself over the decades. “I can’t get stronger without doing quests, and as I am most likely not going to get any quests from rats or bears, I am going to have to talk to them eventually.” I stop pacing for a moment and add, “Plus, who is going to fuck with the Statham Rock?”
My mind made up, I turn and examine all the weapons in the campsite once more. My eyes float over the staff and spell book. Those aren’t even an option right now, not after the disastrous previous attempts. The shield is an option, but fighting for a deity just ain’t my style. Plus, how do I know the village isn’t hostile to any god I might choose? And if not, I am no priest to sit around taking confessions or whatever shit they might expect of me. The sword is possible, and the bow is an even more tempting choice for recon, but if I really want to find out what the hell is going on in my head, literally and figuratively, I need to get in closer. And for that, there’s really only one reasonable choice.
“Ha!” I bark out to myself, “As if reason has anything to do with what’s going on right now.” I take one more look around the clearing, and then I make up my mind. “If they’re gonna be in my world, in my head, I want to see what they’re up to.” I stride with purpose over to the dagger laying on the small table by the spellbook and pick it up.
YOU HAVE CHOSEN THE DAGGER!
Since the dawn of man, the darkness has hidden what men fear. You, however, hold no such concern, for *you* are what hides in the dark! With the DAGGER as your weapon of choice, you may choose one of the following classes:
ASSASSIN ROGUE
CANCEL
Just as I thought. As either class, I know I will receive the standard agility bonus, sneak abilities, maybe even a set of leather armor, if the robes from my previous two incarnations attest to anything. That is usually where the two classes’ similarities end, however. As versatile as the two classes are, there is definitely a vast difference in how they operate.
Rogues usually have a larger selection of skills to fit various roles; you could be what’s gamers call a trapper, for instance, and focus most of your skill points in detecting and removing deadly devices or tripwires. You could be a cutpurse, slipping through a crowd penniless, but leaving with a purse heavy from coins. There are about a half-dozen more roles they can fill, even some creative players have turned their high agility into a damage dealing tank, but that takes planning and knowledge of the game. Neither of which I have, unfortunately, I think to myself ruefully. Fuggin’ manual.
Then there’s the assassin. As the sinister name suggests, most assassins forego the jack-of-all-skills route for the “stab you in the neck while you sleep” route, or even the “shoot you in the ass with a poison dart” route. It’s a much more focused skill set, and one that allows for very dangerous specializations.
In the end, I decide that even though I don’t know much about the system this world is based off, the rogue offers the skillset I need for what I’m looking to do. I don’t know what I’ll be facing, after all, and the broader set of skills will suit me better than the assassin. Plus, I admit, if I’m being honest with myself, I don’t know if I can kill another human being.
YOU HAVE CHOSEN TO BE A ROGUE!
No lock is safe, no trap is dangerous with you on the prowl! As a ROGUE, you are the most versatile character in Pentamria! You have received the following bonuses:
+5 to Agility
+5 to Perception
New Skills: Stealth, Stealth Attack, Lock Picking, Pickpocket, Persuasion, Small Blades
Are you sure you want to be a ROGUE?
CONFIRM CANCEL
Jeez, look at that skills list, I think to myself. I only got two skills as a mage, the rogue class gets six! If I’m going to really try this time, I consider wryly, I might as well be “the most versatile character in Pentamria!” I confirm, and once again my world gets...altered.
It’s not as drastic as learning arcane spells of death from an alternate dimension, but there’s still a definite change. The sunlight, for one, seems to be staring down at me accusingly, as if it’s annoyed by my presence. I involuntarily step from the bright sun into the dappled shade and immediately feel better. As I do, I can feel the soft yet slightly insistent pull of leather across my entire body. I glance down and see I’m basically covered head to toe in the stuff. The straps are all significantly scuffed, and each piece seems...weathered. As I move my arms and flex my fingers, there is the soft sound of creaking leather, much like the sound my dad’s old recliner used to make when I dared to sit in it after I put his drunk ass to bed. I have no idea how much protection it would offer against, say, a forest rat chewing away at my limbs, but you can bet your ass it’s more than a black sack cloth robe. There are also several small leather pouches at my waist, which upon investigation show four inventory slots each, bringing my total to twelve. I do, however, notice I have a set of lockpicks taking up one of those inventory slots. I nod appreciatively, because even though I have no idea what to do with them in reality, just the sight of them in my pouch invokes memories of shadowy nights, the soft sounds of metal ticking gently against tumblers, and the quickening of my pulse at the almost imperceptible “click” of an opening lock. So weird how the game can give me those memories of a life I’ve never led, I think to myself, and training I’ve never received.
A sudden birdcall grabs my attention, and my eyes dart out into the forest surrounding me, looking into the shadows. Not for fear of what’s hiding there, I realize with a small shock, but evaluating them as a place to conceal myself. My hand involuntarily drops down to my waistband, and I’m pleasantly surprised to find a dagger strapped in a worn scabbard. I draw the blade and look at it, a mixed set of emotions flooding through me as I turn the blade over and back in my hands.
This thing ain’t no butterknife. This isn’t even a steak knife. This is a weapon. An honest-to-God weapon. This blade is nearly a foot long, over an inch wide at its base, and tapers to a decently-sharp point. I shiver as I feel the blade in my hand, it’s familiar weight comforting me, despite the fact that I’ve never actually held a weapon larger than a letter opener. And yet…
I feel like I could actually defend myself using this weapon. Or rather, I could harm another with it.
“The best offense is a good offense, I always say,” I snicker to myself quietly.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
For the first time since my rash of bad decisions leading to death three times over, I close my eyes and concentrate for a second to open my character screen.
NAME:
POINTS TO DISTRIBUTE
X
TITLE: MASTER
RACE: HUMAN
CLASS: ROGUE
CHARACTER STATS:
Might 8
Agility 13
Constitution 8
Perception 13
Intelligence 8
Charisma 8
Luck 8
Stamina (M+A+C+50) 79/79
Mana (P+I+C+50) 79/79
Hitpoints (M+A+C+L+P+50) 92/92
STATS (4 PER LEVEL):
ABILITY (1 PER LEVEL):
EXPERIENCE:
PROG. TO NEXT LEVEL
0
0
0
0
SKILLS:
STEALTH
STEALTH ATTACK
LOCKPICK
PICKPOCKET
SMALL BLADES
PERSUASION
UNARMED COMBAT
1 (0%)
1 (0%)
1 (0%)
1 (0%)
1 (0%)
1 (0%)
1 (0%)
SPELLS
NONE
ABILITIES
NONE
PERKS
Master N/A
N/A
I study it for a moment, and something catches my eye. Despite the information on the death pop-up screen claiming I get to keep any skills I have learned, there is no Spellcraft from when I was a necromancer, nor are there any skills from when I was a psionicist. I know that particular class had a few, but I was rushing through the character creation screens so I missed them. Mainly because I knew none of it would matter. And how morbid is THAT? I ask myself.
On a whim, I close that screen out and look back along the right edge of my field of vision. Sure enough, there’s still a column of three small red boxes with a gold exclamation points inside. They are no longer flashing, indicating that I’ve already read and confirmed, but they haven’t vanished yet, either. Maybe they stay accessible for a minute or so after confirmation, just in case?
I click on the bottom notification, and the window of class selection appears, while the next icon up reveals the dagger weapon selection. It appears that the icons are minimized in order in which they are received, the latest being on bottom, and the oldest remain on the top as they all slide up. Sure enough, on the top icon I get the confirmation I need, both in terms of notifications and skill retention.
YOU HAVE DIED!
Pentamria is an unforgiving land, dangerous and hostile! You have fallen to your death! However, for reasons unknown to you, you have been reborn! Consider carefully your mistakes and learn from them, or you will be doomed to repeat them!
Due to your MASTER perk, you retain all skills earned in your previous life, but none of the spells, abilities, or experience points gained! This includes any spell points, ability points, perks or experience points not yet spent during your previous life! Also due to your MASTER perk, your death has increased your toughness in almost every way!
+1 to all STATS
CONFIRM
All skills EARNED in your previous life, I think as I close the window again. Well, I sure as hell earned that Unarmed Combat skill. The Spellcraft and whatever other skills I would have from Psionicist, however, weren’t earned. They were given. And, just like I suspected, they could be taken away like the spells and such. Maybe if I had advanced them while I was alive, I ponder, I would get to keep the skills?
I mentally dismiss the prompt once more and wait. Roughly a minute or so later, the boxes in my peripheral vision wink out. I nod to myself and open my eyes. I am a bit surprised to find I am still holding the dagger in my hand, subconsciously twisting and twirling the blade through various grips and grasps, each meant to enter a body from different angles. After one more look at the blade, I slam it back into the sheath with a surprisingly practiced motion, and walk towards the edge of the clearing for what I hope is the last time.
As I get to the edge of the clearing, I am once more asked for the name I wish to be known as in the land. I reflexively begin to say, “Bob 3,” but stop. If I am serious about this character, and if I’m going to be headed into town, I’ll need to be taken seriously. I doubt the concept of sequels has reached Pentamria yet, so I consider what I want to be called. I reach back to my childhood, to one of my favorite series of books, and name myself after one of the great anti-heroes in young adult literature. I look up and loudly declare, “I am Padfoot!”
As before, there is no reaction from this uncaring world, so I shrug and move on.
I clear the edge of the campsite and, predictably, I have no clue where I am. I set off to the south, moving calmly and deliberately, a direction change from my previous three lives. If I’m going to change things up, I tell myself, then I’m going to change things up.
As I move through the trees, I notice a couple of things right off the bat. First of all, I am not making nearly the racket I did with my previous lives. I seem to feel more comfortable moving quietly, though it does feel a bit awkward to be doing so out in the open of the forest, and the hard, boiled leathers do a much better job than the robes of not getting snagged on brambles and branches as I move. The shadows don’t conceal me as well as what I feel an alley or a dark stairwell would, but I do what I can.
Second of all, I’m very aware of the little things, things I missed in my headlong rushes before this life. For example, I jog through a small clearing and immediately notice tracks in the mud. I have no idea what kind of animal made the marks, nor do I know what kind of animal laid that gigantic shit by the base of that tree, but I know for a fact that those things would have gone unnoticed previously. There are a hundred other different things I notice, but I do so without really knowing I notice them. I’m just more...aware. Perception increase for the win, baby!
Which is why I slow to a stop and begin hold my breath when I hear a very familiar grunt/squeal. It’s hard to tell in this open area, though, which direction the faint sound came from.
In front of me is a vaguely visible path winding through the trees, but I can tell nothing more than that. The prints in the earth are indistinguishable, being nothing more than a hard-packed depression in the grass, so I can’t tell which direction they are headed. I could also be approaching the path, if it is in fact the game trail from my first life, from either direction, depending on where I emerged from the campsite. I listened carefully, tilting my head this way and that, trying to hear either the sound of water or a repeat of the grunt.
I hear nothing, so in the end I just decide to pick a direction. I pick west, since that’s the opposite direction that I first headed in the past. And I’m changing things up, I remind myself.
The path branches in multiple places, both joining and splitting at various points, but the trails that veer off in different directions are smaller and have much less foot traffic. I chuckle as I think, Hoof traffic? The more I consider, it becomes quite obvious to me that this is the main path to a place of importance. The central path is also mostly going in a relatively straight direction, which can mean only one thing; it’s a path to or from water.
Thinking back to my current dilemma, I still have no idea if the rat is in front of me or behind me. And I am also increasingly aware that I don’t know which one I want it to be.
At the thought of the ugly little bastard, my right hand squeezes the hilt of my dagger on its own accord. A faint smile curls my lip, and I realize that yes... yes I do know which one I want it to be. Instead of drawing attention to myself as I run, I just keep my eyes to the path and my ears open. I slip the knife back into its scabbard and pick up the pace.
Sure enough, within a minute or so of following the trail I hear snuffling just a few yards ahead of me. I close my eyes and allow my sense of hearing to take over, immersing myself in a world of sound. Very slowly I turn my head right then left. I even tilt my head to both sides, as well. Somehow, and I have no idea how or why, but this allows me to get a better bead on the location of the sound. My ears zero in on the sound in moments, and I open my eyes to see the faint shudder of some low ground cover ahead, slightly off to the left. Slowly, my hand reaches down for my weapon, and in a motion I’ve never done, yet feels like the hundredth time, I silently draw my dagger with the intent to kill.
I wait for the motion of the shrubs once more before I slide behind a nearby tree, reasoning if the rat is moving, it’ll be much less likely to hear me move, too. As soon as I do so, something odd happens. An “eye” icon appears in the center of my field of vision. Thankfully, it’s nothing like the obstructive blue notification screens I have come to loathe with every fiber of my digital being. It’s a small image of a closed eye, an up-turned curve with eyelashes pointing down. My gaming experience lets me assume it indicates no one can currently see me, which also informs me that somehow I have activated my Stealth skill. It seems merely my intention to be stealthy enables it rather than a conscious “activation”. There are no hotkeys to hit, I think to myself, I just will it and it happens. My penchant for dumbass puns immediately dubs it the “eye-con”, which makes me chuckle to myself.
As soon as I do, however, the eye opens slightly and the area around it gains a slight yellow tinge.
I freeze. I even stop breathing. In the bottom of my vision, I can see my stamina bar begin to drop. It’s not fast, but I can tell that the effort of remaining still while something is actively searching for me is taxing. There is no way I could maintain this level of tension for longer than a minute or so.
Shit.
My own silence allows me to hear that all motion from the forest rat has ceased, as well. After three, maybe four seconds, I hear snuffling sounds again, and they seem to be getting closer. The nasty little thing is coming to investigate, I realize. With my back against the tree, I look down to my left as the hairy rodent comes into my peripheral vision. As I watch the rat take one tentative step after another, snuffling and snorting, I begin to wonder what kind of stats this little bastard has. The small, unobtrusive window appears in my vision. I don’t mind this one, but I wish it was up out of the way in the corner, I lament to myself. To my pleasant surprise, it does just that.
JUVENILE FOREST RAT
LEVEL 1
Might 2
Agility 5
Constitution 2
Perception 3
Intelligence 3
Charisma 3
Luck 2
Stamina (M+A+C) 9/9
Mana (P+I+Ch) 7/7
Hitpoints (M+A+C+P+L) 14/14
Attacks:
Bite 3-4 (Critical damage x2)
Claw 3-4 (Critical damage x2)
The creature obviously isn’t an alpha, as it is no larger than a corgi, but it’ll be a start to avenging my death at the hands of the hateful little fuggers.
As soon as its entire body comes around the tree, I react. My feet shift slightly and like a coiled whip, all the built-up tension in my lower back explodes. I rotate my hips and my shoulders follow immediately. The dagger in my right hand, shoddy and worn as it is, pierces the tough hide right behind the skull of the forest rat with ease.
It collapses, dead.
I stand there in shock at the immediacy and finality of my thrust. I listen for a moment, waiting to hear another snort or squeal, waiting to see if this rat was alone or if it was with another. The shock wears off, and even though I have now killed three forest rats in this world, the way in which I dispatched this last one has me shaking. Of course I beat the first one to death with my bare hands, and the second I bludgeoned on a stone, but this? This was...easy.
“Holy shit,” I whisper to myself. I stare down at the dagger still imbedded in the lifeless form. There is almost no blood at all, and I bend over to get a better look. The knife is angled slightly back, and I realize that the blade, dead center in the animal’s neck, has not only severed the rats spine at the base, but the length of the dagger has entered the rat’s skull and pierced whatever brain it has lurking within.
Well hell, I think, I should just do that every time!
I reach down and pull the dagger from the corpse, considering the average-at-best weapon. I try the same technique I used to get the forest rat’s information, and hold my gaze for a second or two.
WORN IRON DAGGER
Generally the smallest of the Light Blades class, the dagger is one of the oldest weapons in history second only to a rock.
Quality: Worn
Material: Iron
Damage: 1-4 (Critical x2)
Yet again I’m surprised at the lack of blood. In the back of my mind, my foray into anatomy reminds me that severing the spinal cord instantly paralyses and ends all body functions, potentially including the heartbeat. Once the heart stops beating, there is little to no pressure within the veins, and thus, no spray of blood. Not to mention that massive brain trauma (like a foot of steel penetrating the brain) is usually instantly fatal, and obviously would have the same results.
Why the hell am I thinking about this now? As I consider the events of the last few hours of my life, I’m sure there’s some kind of fucked-up psychology I could use to describe what my brain is doing. I suppose you could call it self defense, justification, or coping with the fact that I’m slaughtering make-believe giant rats in a videogame that only I (and whatever weirdos they have watching my every move) am witnessing, but instead I just dismiss it and admire my handiwork.
So did I stab the rat there on purpose, through sheer dumb luck, or was it the Small Blades skill combined with my one point in Stealth Attack that allowed me to dispatch it so easily?
In the words of the Oracle to Neo, “What’s really going to bake your noodle later on is, would you have broken the vase if I hadn’t said anything?”
Or something like that.
A glimmering causes me to look down at the rat and see the tell-tale signs of potential loot. I reach down to touch the rat and am rewarded with the expected notification screen.
WOULD YOU LIKE TO LOOT JUVENILE FOREST RAT?
Forest Rat Tail
Forest Rat Incisors
Loot all?
CONFIRM CANCEL
I mentally compare the size of the rat to the last one I looted, and decide that yes, it is slightly smaller than that one, and therefore must not have enough meat to register with the system to loot. I’m fine with that, as I don’t really want to be carrying around a bunch of raw meat. I touch my pouches and find one of them is now nearly full with the two looted items and the starting set of lockpicks.
I’m struck with a strange sense of deja vu. Was it really another life where I stood over a corpse with no jutting front incisors and no tail? Am I even still that same person anymore? I did die, after all. Out of sheer curiosity, I decide to try something.
Reaching “down” into myself, I try to connect with that...other place from which I conjured the summoning necromantic energies in my previous life, but there is only emptiness.
Well, emptiness and of course a notification prompt.
However, with this one I am pleasantly surprised as it only appears as a small, flashing icon in the lower right corner of my screen. It appears not as a box with an exclamation point, but as a small spellbook icon. I mentally access it and am rewarded with the bad news.
SPELL FAILURE!
As a rogue, you have no initial knowledge of any spells at this time.
CONFIRM?
No knowledge of spells *at this time*, I ask myself? Interesting. Either that’s a typo in the system, or that’s a very intriguing bit of information.
I absently dismiss the window, reaching down and using the wiry fur of my slain opponent to clean the small bloodstain off the dagger, then snap the blade back into its sheath. I nudge the body once more with my boot, just for good measure, and smile slightly. Life is so much easier with a weapon, I conclude.
I move around the tree and pick up the trail once more.