CHAPTER 7
“Well that was close.”
“Would have been interesting to watch. Anyways, mark down first human contact, please.”
“Since you asked so nicely. I gotta say, when he drew his dagger I thought he was going to go all stabby-stabby. Not sure how he would have done against them, but it would have been entertaining to watch.”
“The fact that he didn’t is a bit concerning, I think. Either way, he’s headed into town, so let’s see how he handles this next step. He’s already handled himself well, considering his obvious disdain for people, kids in particular.”
“Yeah, if you consider climbing a tree and hiding from a little girl singing nursery rhymes ‘handling himself well.’”
“At least he didn’t go all ‘stabby-stabby’ on her, as you so eloquently put it.”
“Truth. Well, here we go, he’s almost in town. Hopefully he doesn’t walk around poking everyone in the forehead.”
With every step, I get closer to the collection of barely more than a dozen buildings, none of them over two stories. The well-worn path leads to the little stone bridge spanning the stream, and once I arrive I am forced to reconsider my opinion of the “little stone bridge”. It is at least thirty yards long, supported by three separate arched stone buttresses underneath. The structure is easily wide enough for two carts to pass going opposite directions, and from the looks of the smooth, worn cobblestones, it is a necessary design. The raised, crenellated sides of the bridge protect passers-by from both the ten-foot fall into the churning waters on the north side, and the chest-thumping drop of forty or more feet to the base of the crushing waterfall to the south. The waters rush below me, and I pause to peek over both sides.
The sound of the river is different here than in the forest. While it’s still a pleasing sound, allowing me to appreciate the wonder of nature, there is a more serious note to the music now, so to speak. There’s a bass-like power to it, as it has multiplied in both breadth and depth. The subtle vibrations of the bridge are nothing compared to the chest-thumping power the waterfall has once I lean over for a better look.
On the northern side of the bridge, while perhaps not a roar, the river is at the very least an aggressive hiss. The flow passes a scant ten feet beneath the bridge on that side, but due to a sharp drop in the landscape, the southern side of the bridge is a nearly 40-foot plummet to the frothing waters below. A fine mist rises up from that side, making the smooth stones of the parapet slick and dark. After the waterfall, the current smooths out quickly on a meandering course leading to the lake to the southeast, roughly a mile away. It flows around to the east in front of the town and forms what appears to be a sandy bank on the small lake right on the edge of the farm. Not exactly what I’d call a beach, but it would pass for one in a pinch on a hot, sunny day. In either case, I doubt I’ll be seeing any hot bikini babes playing volleyball, I lament.
The waters of the lake ripple softly, if continuously, in the ever-present breeze. I glance around at the mountains surrounding me and realize the entire valley is probably a wind tunnel for any northerly winds that come over the ridge. The way the boats skitter around on the water is testament to that. I bet it gets colder than a witch’s titty in a cast iron bra in the winter, though.
From this spot on the bridge, I am treated to a much better view of the town. From where I stand, it appears that the three terraces are all interconnected by several narrow staircases made of stone. Waist-high rock walls, crude but effective, section off each layer. I can see at least a dozen smaller buildings that might be houses or even merchants. Hell, they might be both. If my time in hundreds of games has served me correctly, many of the shops in town will probably have a door in the back leading to living quarters or even a staircase to an attic . There is also a large two-story building, probably the local inn. There is another larger structure on the top level, gray stone and garishly decorated with multi-colored stain glass windows and bright paint. It’s not particularly ugly, it’s just so...extra compared to the rest of the simple but functional houses in the village that it stands out. And not in a good way. Every other structure is simple log construction, beautiful in its simplicity, and functional in its efficiency. The surrounding trees, the same aspen and birch, sprinkled in with a few fir trees at the upper elevations
At the very bottom of the hill, butting up to the river, is a farm of sorts surrounded by another low stone wall. Two small fields are fully plowed, with a third one in the process. It appears to be the same people from my first view of the town, along with the automobile-sized ox-thing. There are a few connected pens for animals, several small outbuildings, and a modest farmhouse. The pens are boarded up, but the lapping waters of the lake come right up to the edge of the southernmost side. Grass, thick and lush, grows just outside the fenceline, providing an unlimited source of fresh water and an abundance of green grass for the large animals inside. From the tips of grass poking through the surface of the water, it’s more than likely this is high tide, or at least what passes for high tide in a lake. Either way, it appears that some of the grass has been eaten by whatever animals reside in the pen on a regular basis. Probably not the most sanitary of situations, I think to myself, considering the proximity of the pen to the lake, and that any excretions from animals that large run directly into the water. Remind me not to bathe in there any time soon.
Tall reeds grow in abundance along the edge of the water past the fence, and there is a drying rack up near the house with hundreds of strands in various shades of curing. A woman sits on a stool, creating the wooden loops of a basket frame with long, whip-like strands that look like branches of a willow or some other long, flexible tree. “Waste not, want not,” I say to myself quietly.
Past the farm, there is more untended grassland that flows along the northern edge of the lake as far as the eye can see. The mountains pace that area to the north, as well, and once the lake ends, another forest darkens the horizon.
Despite the rugged, natural beauty of the surroundings, my mood darkens momentarily at the seemingly happy muck-rakers. Get outta my head, bastards, I think to myself. When they don’t vanish at my request, I turn my attention back to the “road” ahead of me.
The bridge empties out onto a rough cobblestone road that cuts through the middle terrace. The upper level, which contains the probable inn and a few more buildings, looks pleasant enough, but it looks like I’m going to have to cross the bridge to get there.
I sigh one final time as I look around the natural beauty around me. The forest and mountain range wraps around behind the town to the east. Trees, both broadleaf and evergreen, cover the steep terrain, with rocky crags capping the landscape in the higher elevations. Back in the direction I came from, the stream disappears into the green forest to the north, with the twin peaks of the bisected mountain standing like silent sentinels over the rolling hills and farms below. I don’t know if it’s the pull of the landscape around me or the magnetic polar opposite push of the intruding village people in my mind, but I am forced once more to push the desire to turn and run from my mind.
The largest of the buildings, or at least what I can see of it, is most likely an inn of some sort, as no person in this shithole could possibly own a single house that large. I can see people walking around, simple rough-spun cotton clothes making up the majority of their attire. A few people appear to be carrying weapons, including two apparent guards armed with polearms of some sort on the far end of the bridge.
My palms are sweating profusely, but I chalk it up to the hike in above average temperature and an entire suit of leather armor. Nevermind the fact that my palms are the ONLY part of me sweating, but that’s neither here nor there. At least that’s what I tell myself.
The road leading into town, or cart track I should say, passes in front of two buildings, and from the sounds of it, the first one is the town smithy. From the smell of it the other has something to do with animals of some sort. Probably horses, but all I know is it smells like shit. Literally.
The townies at the end of the bridge, large men wearing leather and carrying larger spears, are standing leaning on the endcap of the rampart.
Just before I get within hailing range of them, my entire body nearly seizes up. I have to force myself onward, telling myself, They aren’t people, they’re just NPC’s, they are programs, they are nothing but data in a meatbag costume. I even try to force myself to see them as glowing green numbers floating around, a la “The Matrix”, but there’s still that desire to duck my head and avoid eye contact as I walk past.
“Ho there, stranger,” one says in a friendly voice as I approach.
As any gamer would, any real gamer, I ignore him and continue walking past.
I hear a rustle of leather as the two men push themselves away from the bridge and approach me from behind.
“Greetings, sir, are you here to trade?” the same voice says again, still friendly. It’s in English, or at least it sounds like it, but the words “common tongue” stick in my head for some reason. Gaming is hard to get out of the blood, I suppose. Their words have an accent to them, almost but not quite British. I can’t place it, but that just might be because there is no “England” here in this world, but what do I know? This is all only in my head, after all, right?
“Oi, we’re talking to you, lunkhead!” another voice says, anger becoming evident in his tone.
“Easy, Kyle, he’s new. Can’t go scaring everyone off by being an ass, can we?”
“Well he if wasn’t being an ass, I wouldn’t have to treat him like one, now would I, Bryant?” The name was spoken with obvious derision, as if they’ve had similar arguments before.
My heart begins to beat faster, and I stop walking, more out of fear than compliance.
“There now, see?” the second voice, Kyle, says mockingly. “Maybe he just needed a little reminder about who’s in char-yeeow!”
There is a sudden dull thud, the sound of leather on leather, and Carl’s last word dissolves into a yelp. I glance over towards the two men, and I see Bryant, I would assume, glaring at the other guard who is rubbing the back of his shoulder. “What’d you hit me for?” Kyle asks, rotating his shoulder in minor discomfort.
The one called Bryant shifts his gaze to me, approaching with a big smile on his face. Oddly enough, try as I might I actually don’t see any aggression in his eyes. He gently plants the butt of his spear in the ground and holds it with a relaxed stance, looking up at me.
And that’s when I realize just how much bigger I am than these two guys. I couldn’t tell from a distance, but I’m at least half a foot taller than both of them, and half again as wide. Bryant holds the polearm with an easy grace, however, and I can definitely see that he knows how to handle the weapon in his hand. His dark hair, damp with sweat, is plastered against his forehead. His brown eyes dance with good humor, and he has an easy, confident smile. The fact that he’s approached this close shows me one of several possibilities: either he’s not afraid of me, he’s sure of his ability to handle me, or he’s just not very smart.
My gaze shifts to Kyle, the asshole, and I glare at him.
Bryant follows my gaze and he chuckles dismissively. “Sorry about my friend there, we don’t get a lot of visitors to our little town. Mostly merchants, to be honest, maybe a travelling bard or two, but I don’t see a wagon or an instrument, so….” He pauses before he says amiably, “Now, what can I do for you?”
I open my mouth to speak, but it closes with a snap. The truth is, I really have no idea what he can do for me. I can’t exactly say, “Well, this is all taking place in my mind, so I was coming to town to spy on you all and see what you’re doing here in my head.”
I have no idea what to say to this man. In nearly every game I’ve ever played, there are dialogue options to choose from, everything from “What can you tell me about this town?” to “Do you know anyone that can give me work?” In 30 or so years of playing computer games, I’ve probably interacted with over a million NPC’s just like this tool, and I can’t think of a single fucking thing to say. Standing in front of what appears to be a real person is so much more daunting than clicking on a dialogue option. I have no idea if what I say to this robot even matters, or if he’s just a generic NPC that says the same thing to me every time I enter the village. The conversation with the girl was easier, because that was more...real. This one is like every other freakin’ guard in every other freakin’ game I’ve played.
Except this game didn’t have dialogue options.
The longer I hesitate and think of what to say, the farther Bryant’s smile falters to a confused look. It’s a slow transformation, but he goes from openly friendly to confused, and begins to cross over into what appears to be concern for my intelligence before I open my mouth again to speak. For some reason, the first words out of my mouth are, “I’m Padfoot.”
A smile washes over Bryant’s face, relieved that he’s not dealing with a complete idiot, and he nods with a smile. “Well, I’m Bryant, and that charming gent over there is Kyle. Welcome to Bladewater.”
I stand there, unsure of what to say next.
I may be in a new action-hero body, but I’m still the same socially stunted introvert, living in a one-bedroom apartment on the third floor of a ramshackle complex. I can’t even look the pizza delivery boy in the eye, much less carry on a conversation with a person of authority. I was the kid in school that sat in the middle of the class, didn’t speak, turned in my work, some of it even on time, and floated through my education. Tried my hand at college, unsuccessfully I might add, but mainly didn’t like the interaction needed for group work because everyone in my groups were always morons. They babbled on about what was popular, what party they were going to that weekend, what their parents did for a living; things I could never relate to. At all.
After a few false starts in school, I got a job from home building video gaming rigs to-order for other people. They would put the specs up on a website I designed, send me the money, and I would build the machine. All so I wouldn’t have to deal face-to-face with people.
And now, here I am, in a video game. Dealing with face-to-face with people. With my own fucking head as the computer. Irony, thy name is Pentamria, I think wryly.
I flail around in my mind for some of the options I’ve seen, and amazingly, a coherent thought enters my head. “Bladewater? What can you tell me about this town?”
Bryant smiles even wider, and he launches into the tail of how the town was founded. “Almost a hundred years ago, settlers from the city of Wrannath came north to found a new place to live. They traveled along the Pebble Creek River to the edge of Darkenwood. With the ease of fresh water, lumber, and an iron mine that was discovered not too long after, the settlement caught hold and grew into a hamlet.”
I can’t help but smile at the tale, which sounds like something directly out of 4X strategy game. Wonder if they had a little icon wearing a backpack and carrying a flag until he found a colonizable spot. Might as well be Civilization: Pentamria.
“We’ve got two decent farms,” Bryant continues, “a blacksmith, an inn, stables, general store, and a few of the other basic necessities for our people.”
Kyle chimes in, “We’re more of a waystation for travellers from Erchester to the eastern realms, to be honest.”
Bryant nods in agreement, but says, “However, since you came out of the forest, you must be an adventurer, yes?”
My eyes snap back to him, wondering what he knows, or at least what he can guess from my arrival and attire.
“Rest easy, friend. I know the type. In fact, I used to be an adventurer like you ‘til I took an arrow to the knee.”
An explosive laugh erupts from me before I can stop it, but his face stays serious.
“No, seriously, I can show you the scar,” he begins, and starts unbuckling the belt holding his leather greaves up.
“Dude, no, what the hell? Don’t do that,” I tell him quickly, putting my hand out to arrest his movement. “I’m just passing through. I just need directions to the inn.”
Kyle speaks up, “That’s easy. Head this way,” he gestures further down the road, “until you see the first staircase up to the next level. Go up, take a left, then you’ll see it. Can’t miss it, biggest building in town.”
I glance over at Bryant, then I look back at Kyle, unsure why the asshole is being so helpful. His smile seems genuine enough, but after how he treated me at first, I don’t trust him any further than I could kick his corpse up a hill.
Bryant figures it out first. He chuckles easily and says, “Look, if this is about the greeting, never you mind us. It’s just a bit of fun. Next time a stranger comes into town, I’ll be the asshole and Kyle here will be the nice one.”
“Yeah, sorry friend. It was my turn to say it, that’s all,” Kyle admits sheepishly.
I nod offhandedly at them, trying to force a smile on my face, probably failing miserably. I can’t even avoid getting made fun of in my own fucking head. “Whatever, dude. Water under the bridge.”
Their confused looks almost make up for the stupid shit they pulled on me, so I just walk away. As I move on, I can hear Bryant’s voice carrying softly as he says, “Water under the bridge? Does he mean...this bridge?”
The cobblestone road leads by the forge, and the heat blasts me, even from twenty feet away. There are no proper walls to the place, just a series of wooden posts holding up a slightly angled awning, topped with a conical-shaped roof. The angle of the awning, coupled with the cone-shaped peak, forces the smoke from several forges up and to the back of the shop, where it billows out, drifting away on the slight breeze in puffy grey clouds. The heavy clanking sound of hammers on anvils grabs my attention, and I glance over to my left. Despite the fading sunshine peeking over the mountains, the interior is shrouded in shadows. Several figures can be seen moving around, carrying glowing rods of metal and pumping bellows. One figure in particular stands out, barking orders and swinging a massive hammer amid a shower of molten sparks. My steps freeze as I see perhaps one of the most cliche tropes ever to come out of fantasy literature and video games. As stereotypical as it is, I know it shouldn’t even give me pause but somehow the sight of an actual dwarf makes me giggle.
If I were to conjure up in my mind every image of a dwarven blacksmith and combine them all into one character, it would be this being. But even then it would fall short of witnessing this with my own eyes.
I’ve seen little people before, even went to school with twins where only one of them had the gene, and I’m familiar with their general bandy-legged stance and shorter, more compact muscles. While the little people of earth are usually the cause of either a hormonal or genetic deficiency of one kind or another, the blacksmith is a completely different animal altogether.
He’s taller than I would have imagined, closer to five feet than four, but it’s his body structure that truly catches my eye. His proportions are just...wider. He almost looks like a photoshopped picture of a powerlifter, but someone reduced the height of the image without narrowing the width. His head and face are nearly square, and his nose is flat and wide. When he moves from the anvil to the hellish red light of the forge to retrieve a glowing rod of iron or some other metal, his steps are solid and straight without the expected waddle of someone his stature. His wiry, black hair has been shaved on both sides of his head leaving a long, slicked-back hybrid of a mohawk and a ponytail. The shaved areas have been tattooed with woad-blue, stylized images of hammers, anvils, and whorled tribal designs.
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At first glance his beard appears to be short, which boggles my mind. A male dwarf’s stature in their culture is determined by their facial hair, almost like a dick-measuring contest out in the open. However, as I begin to walk towards the forge for a closer look, I see it is actually braided close to his cheeks on either side, then joins in with the ponytail from his mohawk, the whole mass finally tucked over his back and into his belt above his ass. The parted beard reveals a perfectly proportioned torso and narrow waist, albeit one rippling with muscles and completely hairless. One massive hand, nearly twice as large as it should be for someone of his stature, grabs a hammer that I might not be able to lift with both hands, and he begins to rhythmically pound the glowing rod into submission with what appears to be nearly absentminded ease.
Entranced by this sight, I continue in a daze to the entrance of the shop, but can get no closer than the support posts. The heat from the forge is like a physical barrier, and I can feel it through my leather chestplate. His bare skin is covered in a dripping sheen of sweat, which highlights the freakish musculature on his forearms, triceps, and biceps. This is no barrel-chested Gimli, son of Gloin, this is a miniature Mr. Olympia. How in the holy hells does he stand that close to the forge, much less with no protection on?
The hammering has stopped for well over 15 seconds before I realize that my stare has gone long past creepy, and I see a pair of brilliant blue eyes staring back at me through a thick shrubbery of eyebrows. Up close, it’s become obvious just how ugly this fugger is. His face is pocked with small scars, mostly from the hazards of his occupation, I’m assuming, and his nose is squashed off to the side from ten too many tavern brawls.
“Wha’ en da bleedin’ ‘ell err YOO lookin’ a’ yeh daft bastad? Er yeh lookin’ ta catch sum flies en yeh stenken gob?” The pitbull of a dwarf is glaring at me over the top of the anvil from about 15 feet away. As I am shocked into silence trying to decipher the brogue he just stuffed in my ears, his glare turns almost violent. He throws the hammer down onto the dirt floor of the shop, and I can feel the impact on the ground from outside. He actually leaps over the anvil like a parkour master and strides up to the entrance with clenched fists as large as a Christmas ham. “WHA’ DOO YA WAN????” he bellows into my face. Well, it’s more at my belly button, but I feel about six inches shorter than the dwarf in front of me right now, so it has pretty much the same effect.
Yep. He checks about nine-out-of-ten boxes for stereotypes, alright.
I step back and look down at the ground, my instincts taking over again. “I’m sorry, I’ve just never...seen a….” I lock up, unsure of what to call him. I know most dwarves in games are called exactly that, dwarves, but face to face with this ball of virulent rage I’m afraid to say the wrong thing and lose a testicle to his meaty fists.
“Ne’er seen a wha’?” he asks, hands on his hips now. “A blacksmith? A forge? Where in da bleedin’ ‘ells yeh from tha’ ya ne’er seen one ah them?”
As the verbal assault continues, I notice that all sounds have stopped. The assistant smiths are no longer stoking the fires, no one is hammering on the anvils, and even a couple of people in the street have stopped moving, too busy staring at the show.
I lean over towards him and hoarsely whisper, “I’ve never seen a...a,” the last word barely escapes my lips, a mere pantomime of speech rather than actual communication, “dwarf.”
It takes a moment for what I’ve said to sink in, and his glare shifts from one of anger to shock, then finally settles on satisfaction. When he speaks again, his tone is much calmer as he says, “Well then, yeh can thank yeh loocky stars that I’m da first, because I’m the seksiest fookin’ dwarf forged from the flames of the Ironholm Mountains!” Every word he speaks crescendos in volume until he’s damn near screaming the last, pounding his beefcake hands against the support beam and making the roof shudder with each strike. He throws his cinderblock of a head back and a roar of laughter escapes from his wide mouth. I can see even his teeth are square; they look capable of chewing on the iron he was just hammering on the anvil. “Wha’ can I do yeh for, young lad?” he asks, reaching up to smack me on the arm. Even that casual tap sets me rocking off balance.
I notice that he seems to have turned down his brogue a little now that the show is over. The knowing looks I’m getting from the passersby on the street makes me think, What, is everyone in this town a friggin’ comedian?
“Nothing, nothing sir. I just arrived in town and I’m looking for the inn.”
“Did one o’ them cocksure lads send yeh on a wild goose chase?” At my noncommittal head-wag, he grins ruefully and said, “Well,” he waved it off dismissively, “you jus’ pay them about as much attention as you do me, lad. Welcome to Bladewater, and if yeh need anathin’ done, don’t hesitate to come to ol’ Flintlock.” He jabs a stubby finger up at the sign hanging over my head, and I see the word “Flintlocks” branded into the wood, surrounded by the same symbols tattooed on sidewalls of the dwarf’s head.
I decide it would not be worth my life to mention the lack of an apostrophe on the sign, and with a nod and a hesitant smile, I say, “Will do.”
I get another solid pat on the arm as I turn to go, and despite not being one to imbibe, I decide I need a drink something fierce. But to do that, I need money.
The rest of town seems easy enough to navigate, as expected. The homes I can glimpse through the trees between this level and the one above are readily identifiable as such, each with that feel of “generic fantasy setting log house”. Interestingly enough, in most games the doors and windows are non-functioning, merely window dressing on a digital box, with no way in (or no way out, should you accidentally glitch your way through a wall). Once I ascend the weaving, rough-made stone staircase up to the second level, however, I see that these are obviously fully-functioning houses. I see people enter and exit through some of the doors. I even catch a glimpse of life going on within on occasion, a wife sitting by the fire reading, or two siblings arguing over a raggedy doll.
I see one building in particular that catches my eye just past the inn. Similar to the sign over the dwarf’s smithy, this one is painted with a familiar bag icon remarkably similar to the one I have denoting my inventory. I bet that’s not a coincidence, I think as I turn towards it.
Passing the inn, I look up and see the sun has dipped closer towards the west, the puffy clouds beginning to take on a slight pinkish tinge. I step up onto the small porch entrance to the general store and enter quietly.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the slight gloom as I walk in. I’ll take that over a 15-second loading screen any day, I think as I look around the small shop. While there are windows, of course, most of the light is provided by several hooded lanterns on the counter and hung from mounts along the wall. The lack of smoke in the room is a bit of a surprise, but I can smell the odor of paraffin and other pleasant aromas. Several bundles of herbs dangle from the ceiling, adding to the earthy smell, and I notice with a smug grin that there is, in fact, a small, unassuming door in the rear. Ten bucks says that leads back to living quarters. At seeing a lock on the door, my fingers begin to twitch involuntarily. I clench my fist several times to settle my nerves and approach the counter.
A slim, older man sits on a high stool behind the counter with a book in his hands, reading quietly by lamplight. His hands are slim and clever, and when he looks up from his book, his smile is...appraising. It’s not devious or anything, but I can tell he is simply sizing me up to see if I am going to be a hard sell or an easy target.
“Welcome, stranger.” He stands and places his finger in the book, marking his place. “My name is Larian, what can I do for you today?” His voice, smooth and practiced, was not what I expected from a merchant. There’s just a smidge of what sounds like an Irish lilt, faint and ephemeral, hinting at an inside joke that you’re not a part of, but should want to be. I guess I had expected someone hawking his wares, a boisterous salesman at the very least. Instead I get this...librarian.
He sets the book down and runs a hand across his thin, closely cropped hair. At one point in his life it was probably red, but now the fuzz of his receding hairline is more white than anything else. He sets the book down gently and assumes a very generic merchant stance, hands planted palm down on the counter, nearly twice as wide as his shoulders. He quickly scans me with a practiced flick of his pale green eyes, perhaps looking for a coin purse, before he says, “Well, young man, you buying or selling?”
Once more my mind goes back to the video games I have played in the past, where you can pick up everything from the shells on a beach to an entire set of stolen silver flatware to sell at the nearest shop. If that holds true, as most of the other concepts I’ve run across seem to, perhaps these rat tails and teeth can provide me with enough money to buy a drink or seven. I reach down to open my pouch and I involuntarily draw back.
Without warning, an inventory screen appears before me, but nothing like what I’ve seen out in the forest. It is divided into two wide screens and a third, narrower screen in the center. As startling as that is, I get a bigger surprise when I hear the merchant say, “Oh, you’ve been hunting in the forest, I see.”
He can see my inventory!
I dismiss the screen in front of me with a quick thought, and for a second I see the shopkeepers eyes staring off at something I can’t see before he blinks rapidly. “Something wrong, lad?”
I look over my shoulder where the man seemed to be looking. “What are you looking at?”
His head tilts to the side a bit as he answers, “I was just looking at the trade screen for what you had for sale.”
“Wait,” I begin, “you can...you can see in my pouch?”
“Well...not exactly, no,” he says slowly, eyeing me with a confused look on his face. “I can see as much of your inventory as you let me when you open the trade window. This is probably a ridiculous question, but have you never actually sold anything in a shop before? Or even traded with another person?”
I stammer around for an answer, and the man eyes me for a moment before he waves the issue away dismissively. “No worries, son. Some people like their private lives just that, private, and who am I to intervene, yes? Just open your inventory again and I’ll show you.”
A bit bemused at his use of obvious game terminology, I open my inventory again, and the large screen dominates my view once more. The background is an exact top-down copy of the counter Larian stands behind, and it is divided into three sections. “Ok,” the merchant begins, “the wide left section is your inventory, the wide right section is mine, and the narrow middle section is where we drop in what we want to sell or buy from each other.” He pauses, allowing me to take in the window on my own time. Our trade windows are slightly different, in that his is a solid 4x10 column of inventory slots, filled with things from bags of grain to farm implements, from shoddy leather armor to rusty swords and daggers.
Mine, however, is much less populated. My inventory is divided up into three sections of four, each underneath an image of a pouch. Those must represent my belt pouches, I reason to myself. One of the pouches’ inventories is full, containing my set of lockpicks, four sets of forest rat incisors, three rat tails, and the semi-precious quartz. I mentally click on the pouch icon that contains the items, and it closes out like a drop-down menu. Another click opens it back up.
“Just so. If you close one of your pouches, the next time you open a trade window with someone, that pouch will remain closed.” A smile enters the man’s tone as he adds, “That way you can keep some items secret. You know, like those lockpicks I hope you’re not intending to use in town?” After a poignant pause, Larian continues, “If you look to the top outer corner of our two screens, you’ll see your coins and my coins, respectively.”
I ignore his insinuation and look where he has indicated on the left. There is a set of four text boxes, each with a colored coin next to it; bronze, silver, gold, and what looks like a slightly duller silver coin. I can pretty much guess what those boxes are, and more importantly, why they are empty, seeing as I am dead-ass broke. His boxes on the right, however, have numbers in two of them; 39 in the bronze and 19 in the silver.
“Now,” he continues patiently, “I can’t see your coins, because I don’t need to. But you can see mine. If you try to bring something worth more than I can buy, you won’t need to waste your time trying to sell me something worth more than I have.”
I nod in understanding, familiar with the concept from the dozens of video games I’ve played. Now that I realize what is happening, the rest falls into place quickly and I take over the explanation.
“The set of balance scales at the top of the middle column represents the coins involved in the transaction, depending on the worth of the items I place in my side versus your side. And the divided column below it is for the items themselves.”
“Precisely,” the man confirms, pleased at my understanding.
“And,” I conclude, “the large ACCEPT TRADE button on the bottom is when we have balanced the scales at the top with an equal amount of goods or coins.”
“Very good, young man. You’re a quick learner.”
“Meh,” I absentmindedly reply, “I’ve played this game before.”
There’s a moment of confused silence as the man considers my comment before he settles in to barter. “All right, young man, let’s see what you have here. I’ll take those rat tails for 2 cops each, the teeth for 3 cops each, and that stone...well, it’s fairly common around here but this is a good-sized one, so I’ll give you a full shiny for that.”
Cops? I think in confusion, And what the fuck is a “shiny”?
Afraid to reveal even more of my ignorance, I nod non-committedly and swipe the stack of four rat tails over into the middle section of the trade screen. Two things happen immediately. First of all, the tails appear in the upper left box of the four columns. Secondly, the numbers next to the bronze coin box on my side of the scale jump to 6. I nod to myself in understanding of this bizarre method of transaction. I mean, how many games have I played where this is at least similar, if not identical, to the method of selling loot? I chuckle to myself as I concede, Yeah, but to see it work in action, and to know that the merchant sees the same window I do, is a bit ludicrous.
As I slide the three sets of rat teeth and the quartz over into the middle section, the counter jumps to 18 in the bronze coin’s box, and 1 in the silver coin’s box. So a “cop” is most likely a copper coin, while a “shiny” is a silver. Makes sense, I mean after all we call different denominations of dollars by different names. I’m sure one of these simpletons would be just as confused hearing someone say a buck, a fiver, a ten-spot, or a C-note.
I glance over at the store’s inventory, noticing that nearly everything he has is outside my willing price range. I know I'll be getting a silver coin, but I have no idea how far that will get me in this world. The cheapest thing he has is a rusty pickaxe, which I assume I need if I decide to mine ore, and that is going for 20 copper.
Once I see that I can’t really afford to buy anything useful, even if I wanted to, I click on the accept trade icon. As the window closes out, I see a strange look on the merchants face for a fraction of a second. Not being particularly fluent in “other people expressions” other than mockery or derision, I can’t discern what his look means. “Ok, that’s it,” I say uncomfortably, wanting to end the conversation.
“No worries, son,” the man says with a smile, “thank you for the business.”
As I turn to go, I hear him add, “Oh, if you’re looking for a place to stay for the night, you’ll be wanting to go over to The Bladewater Tavern.” I turn back to look at him, and he offers a conspiratorial wink and a smile. “Tell them I sent you over, it’ll be worth your while, I promise.”
Considering the day I’ve been having, my overly suspicious nature distrusts the man immediately. He probably gets a kickback on the overpriced room and board they gouge travellers with if I mention his name. I give a curt nod and turn to walk out the door.
I pull on the handle, and nearly collide head on with an older man pushing on the other side of the door as he tumbles in with much less resistance than he was expecting. “Oh!” he shouts, pulling up short just before his face mashes into my chest. He is short, close to my own stature before my “makeover”, and has to crane his neck up to look me in the eye. “Ha! I don’t remember you putting a wall here, Larian!” he jokes, “My apologies, stranger!” he says with a jaunty smile.
He may be short, but he is dressed in finer clothes than I’ve seen anywhere in town. His bright blue jacket has gold-embroidered designs along the cuffs and shoulders, and his white undershirt, slightly ruffled at the neck, almost glows in the dim light of the shop. His hair is the perfect combo of black flecked with silver, and grey eyes twinkle with amusement as he steps back to create space between us. He smiles and pats me on the chest before stepping around me.
Larian chuckles as the man comes into view and says, “Norman, sir, how are you today?”
They continue to exchange pleasantries as I exit the shop. And now I don’t like his friend, I think as I consider the patronizing pat on the chest. Like I’m some kind of puppy or something. Out of habit, I look both ways before I step off the porch onto the dirt road. I halt and a strange barking laugh leaves my throat as I consider my actions. What, you think a car is gonna come barrelling out of nowhere? Worried about crazed bike messengers on the sidewalk?
I notice an older woman walking along in the shade of the setting sun, and she eyes me with an odd combination of amusement and confusion. And there’s something else, too. Something that, once again, I can’t put my finger on. It’s different from the odd look the shopkeeper gave me, but just as indecipherable. She smiles at me, and after a moment, I nod in response. I’m not sure if I smiled or not, but honestly I just don’t even care. I am so far out of my element at this moment I’m not sure whether to walk, run, or assume the fetal position and gnaw on my thumb.
Now that I got money, it’s time for that drink.
I continue on down the street, listening to the quiet bustle of the little town. Behind me I hear the lowing of a cow, and I turn to see a man walking a cart with quite a few bales of hay up to the stables on the level below. The cow pulling the cart looks relatively normal, in that it’s not the size of a city bus or anything. The cart itself is also normal, a simple wooden frame with wooden wheels and a basic railing made from saplings stripped of branches. It’s the bales, however, that catch my eye for some reason. At first I don’t know why they are standing out to me, until I notice that several are clearly newer than the others. Most of them are pale, almost grey, like they’ve sat out in the sun too long, while others are the more traditional golden color one associates with hay.
Although I lived in the city until my recent relocation into the folds of my own brain, as a child I grew up farther out in the suburbs and rural areas of north Texas. Areas that defy most zoning laws; places where you can stand on your tractor and see the high-rise buildings of both Dallas and Fort Worth on a clear day.
Not that I ever had a tractor, I admit to myself. I lived at the crossroads of the big city and the as-of-yet undeveloped rural areas, right on the edge of progress and stagnance. I didn’t live on a farm, but people I went to school with did. On the few occasions I was invited over to someone’s house because they had to invite everyone in their class to a birthday party, I had seen that view before. Because I was usually excluded from any games or pool activities, I normally decided to wander off on my own. Most of the time there was always that one parent that tried to include me in games, much to the chagrin of the other kids (and some of their parents). But since I never knew when my dad would show up to get me, or the shape he would be in once he did, I usually declined and waited out by the front of the house. The truth was, I really didn’t want to be there any more than the popular kids wanted me there.
For my dad, though, this was a great time. This was his once shot at freedom. Freedom to forget he was just a drunk, freedom to forget his wife had left him, freedom to forget he was a dad. So any time he found an invitation in my backpack while he was looking for loose change, he would get this excited glint in his eyes and try to pass it off as, “Hey, kiddo, looks like you got invited to a party! Sounds fun, I’ll take you.”
In later years, after I’d moved on to middle school and stopped getting invited to parties, he stopped using excuses and just drank in front of me.
I snap myself out of my pity party and once again consider the bales of hay and why they sent me on that tangent. I focus on the sun-bleached ones for a moment and clarity strikes me. For the bales to be that weathered, they would have to be sitting out in the sun and rain for some time. Days, weeks even in some of the more extreme cases.
How long have I been in-game? I ponder. I consider the time I spent running around committing harakiri; I try to add up each trip outside the campgrounds and I can’t come up with more than ten, maybe 12 hours, all lives considered. Hell, in this life alone I’ve lived longer than all my other ones combined. Unless, I consider a thought, when I die more time passes than I’m aware of? Like maybe it takes a day to resurrect me? Three days, maybe? Even if it takes a week, which would be ridiculous, that’s still not enough time for these bales of hay to look the way they do. So how long has this simulation been running before I came in? Is it possible for it to even run without me, seeing as I’m the actual hardware running it? Can I even call my brain hardware? I mean, it sounds a lot better than “squishware”, so….
I pause for a moment, and my eyes drift past the hay cart, past the bridge, and farther north to the forest. If I were to cut one of those trees down, would I find rings in the trunk? Would I find evidence of years of droughts or floods? How, if all these things sprang into being the moment my brain logged on to Pentamria? Are there ruins out there yet to be discovered, from a time that never was, built by hands that never existed?
Once again I am clobbered over the head by the differences between the games I’ve played and the life I now live. The trees in those games didn’t need to have rings, because it wasn’t even an option for the players to cut them down. You could walk up to a tree, you could walk through an entire forest of them, but in reality, just like digital houses, they were nothing more than code. An axe swung at the trunk would pass right through, or at most make a thunk sound, maybe even display a spray of bark to simulate a strike, but it would never be chopped down. I have no doubt, however, that if I were to grab an axe and go after one of those trees out there, it would be laying on the ground in a matter of minutes. Every chop would break further and further into the bark, deep into the flesh of the tree, until gravity took over and toppled it.
If that’s the case, I consider, will there be anything that resembles game mechanics here? Could I forge a dagger in 30 seconds, or would it take a day? Could I build a house in an hour, or would it take three months?
As I think about old reality versus new, my hand drops to my pouch and my inventory screens pop up. I remember the shared trading screen with Larian the merchant. Well, there’s that, I consider silently.
I swipe the inventory screen away with a thought, and continue walking across the dirt road to the inn. It’s only two stories tall, but considering the rest of the buildings are mostly one-roomed, single story structures, it’s by far the largest building in town. Several windows look out over the town to the front, and several more to either side, showing that this inn could probably house the entire population of the town if needed. There is a balcony that runs the length of the structure, with a door leading into the second story centered over the main entrance. Yet another sign swings in the breeze above the awning. What might have once been a brightly colored sign displays the image of a sword, blade down, stabbed through a depiction of a bed. Where the tip emerges from beneath the bed, the blade turns into a waterfall, pouring into a calm pool at the bottom of the sign. I guess that means this is the Bladewater Tavern, I think.
My heart pounds as I near the door leading in. In most games, taverns are sparsely populated with random NPC’s, characters you can’t talk to, interact with, or get quests from. They’re mostly for show. But somehow I don’t think this is going to be the case. It seems that every person and object is interactive, from the smallest ant to the largest tree, and everything in between. And now I’m about to step into a tavern filled with strangers, strangers fueled by alcohol, no less, that I can interact with, and who can interact with me.
I am not looking forward to it.
I know in game terms I have to, because the forest beasts have shown me that I’m woefully unprepared to live out there. I can’t level up without NPC quests, and I can’t fight the higher level monsters out there without leveling up. I step up onto the porch surrounding the inn and reach out to the simple wooden handle attached to the door. I take one more steadying breath, then I pull on the handle.