CHAPTER 9
“Ooh, check out Padfoot! Homie got game!”
“I’m getting some very strange readings from his vitals, though.”
"Yeah, I bet you are! Do they happen to be centered around his balls?”
“No, it’s actually his fight or flight response. He isn’t aroused, or at least that isn’t the strongest emotion.”
“Dude, you’ve seen what this dork looked like before the game, he’s terrified. This has gotta be the first time he’s even touched a girl before while she wasn’t sleeping. He probably has a stockpile of chloroform and rags in his pantry.”
“I’m telling you, something else is up. When he first saw her and spoke with her, his pheromones were in overdrive, but now his glucose levels are way high, and his amygdala is spiking.”
“What the hell does all that mean? Is he...is he about to attack her? Dude, I don’t want to watch this shit. I ain’t gonna watch.”
“Get back here, our job is to observe and evaluate. We have no idea what he’s going to do.”
“The hell we don’t, man! I got a pretty good damn idea what I’m about to see, and I really don’t want to!”
“Look, she opened the door for him, and he’s going in. He even moved past her to get in the door, he’s not going to attack her, or he would have pushed her in.”
*pause*
“Well, not yet anyway. His adrenaline is plateauing, not rising. If he was going to do it, his heart rate would be through the roof right now, but it’s not.”
“Yeah, well Hannibal Lector’s heart rate didn’t get above 80 while he was beating those guys to death and eating their faces and shit.”
“Seriously? This guy is some lonely coder geek that’s probably never even seen a naked woman unless it was on a computer monitor. He’s not a serial rapist, he builds computers for a living. Look, he took the key and she’s gone. Everything’s fine.”
“And damn if she doesn’t look disappointed. Oh thank God. I really don’t like this guy already, but bullshit if I was gonna sit around and watch him assault her.”
“You *do* realize that this is just a game, right? She’s just a set of pixels and data code.”
“That’s not the point, dude."
“Anyway, his glucose levels are still high, his adrenaline is still highly elevated, but I don’t think it’s her he’s after.”
“What? Well then he needs to get his diagnostics checked, because something ain’t firing on all cylinders. Wait...is he...did he want the bartender?”
“No, he’s not horny. He’s...angry.”
I almost wink at her as she closes the door, but I figure I better not try my luck. I don’t think I’ve ever winked at anyone in my life, and I’m not sure I could pull it off. She might think I have tourettes or something. As it is, no sooner does the door shut than I slam the lock home and the fake smile leaves my face. My eyes quickly scan the room as I drop the lantern off on the nightstand, and as they do I’m reminded of the flashing skill icon. I quickly open it and am rewarded with a small notification screen.
CONGRATULATIONS!
You have improved your PERSUASION skill to Level 2! By convincing someone of your intentions, true or not, you have become more skilled at getting what you want! You can Bluff, Persuade, and Lie your way out of just about any situation, you sly fox!!
+1 to all PERSUASION rolls
(+2 total)
CONFIRM
I shuffle over to the window, clumping my feet loudly against the worn wooden floor. There are a couple of near-threadbare rugs placed here and there in an attempt to make the place a bit more homey. They soften my steps slightly, but I stomp a tad harder to overcompensate.
I get to the window and look out over the darkening landscape. To my delight, it looks out over the rear of the inn; I recognize the shape of the wooden outhouse, even in the faint starlight. A glance over by the bedside table shows me the lantern Leena gave me as I entered the room, and I smile. I stretch languidly by the window, then turn and shuffle back over to the bed. With a quick puff of air, I extinguish the wick in the lantern.
Darkness floods the room, a thick blanket of velvet, and with it a strange sense of peace and comfort. Here, alone in my room, I know there are no prying eyes. Well, aside from you voyeuristic bastards in my head, I amend. Hope you enjoy the show!
I fumble loudly with the many buckles on my leather, unbuckling then quickly rebuckling the straps across my chest several times. I even go so far as to actually remove my belt pouch and drop it lightly on the floor. I kneel quietly and pick it up, only to drop it, repeating the process again several more times with different amounts of force. After six or seven times, I pick it back up and silently buckle it back around my waist. After quietly adjusting everything to where it sits comfortably once more, I reach down and test the bed. The mattress, if you want to call it that, is nothing more than a gigantic pillow, just over six feet long and four feet across. Barely enough space for my big-ass self, I think. Hashtag-humblebrag! I turn around and sit on the bed with as much force as I dare, and I’m rewarded with a loud creak from the wooden frame. The bed even shifts a bit, bumping into the wall.
Even better, I think.
I lay myself back, still fully clad in soft leather from head to foot and roll around a few times, trying to get comfortable. Surprisingly enough, it’s actually not that bad. I don’t know what they used to stuff it with, but it’s not nearly as pointy and pokey as I would expect from a hay, or even feather, stuffed mattress. I mean, it’s no temperfoam adjustable bed, but it wouldn’t keep me awake, I admit. Then I remember my leather armor, and I realize I could probably be laying on a bed of rusty nails and I wouldn’t feel it.
“Remind me to create the first memory foam mattress,” I say out to the universe.
I stretch once more, eliciting a throaty groan that turns into an exhausted sigh by the end of the stretch.
It really does feel good, I tell myself. I decide to relax a while, and my eyes drift closed for a bit, letting all the worries of the day slough off me. Soon I feel relatively rejuvenated. Gone are the burn of my legs from hiking, the stress of being a permanent digital character in a video game inside my head, the multiple deaths and dismemberment by feral animals….
The cuckolding by Norm the town prick.
And with that nasty little reminder, I feel as if a bucket of cold water has been poured over me, flushing away all remnants of fatigue from my muscles. I roll over onto my right side, near the edge of the bed. But instead of settling down, I reach over the side, touching the floor with my right hand. I very slowly roll my weight over the tipping point and like a whisper, stand back up. My feet now make next to no sound on the wooden floor, the slightest creaking and groaning the only sound indicating my passage. But even that I’m unconcerned with, as I can still hear the jackass downstairs holding court. For some reason that laughter sounds as fake as that old sitcom, canned and stale as the shit beer my dad used to drink.
My resolve hardens to concrete.
I reach the window in near silence and look closely over to the window frame. A simple barrel bolt in the frame locks into a slide on the top of the window from the inside, with a matching slide on the bottom of the window itself to allow it to be locked in an open position. I press down on the window to relieve the pressure on the lock. It slides easily, if a bit crunchy, in the socket to unlock the window.
No idea where I learned THAT little trick from, I chuckle to myself. Thanks, Stealth Skill! I reason. I say a little prayer to whatever sneaky-type gods there are in this world and do a test run on lifting the window.
It slides, albeit with a bit more difficulty than the barrel bolt does, until I hit a snag about six inches up. There is a squeak, a soft, high-pitched one that I’m sure didn’t carry any further than the door to my room, but it was enough to make me stop immediately. I very slowly lower the window back to a closed position and turn away. My eyes cast around the room for anything that might help, and my eyes fall onto the lantern.
Once again, an idea comes to me from that new part of my brain, the same one that knew how to access the spell system or understood how to look for tracks in the forest. I might not have known what they were, but I knew to look for them. I need to come up with a way to tell the difference between what I knew in my old life and what I am learning here, I think to myself. B.C. for Before Computer and A.D. for After Download? I pause, considering the implications of that and shake my head. Too Earth-y. I put that on the back burner and slink across the room to act on my idea.
With the fading light outside nearly gone, I pick up the lantern and examine it. There is a metal handle that attaches to the frame’s copper cap, and the glass...thing in the middle. Tube? Chimney? I wonder. Either way, the frame is an octagonal wire “cage” made of dark, weathered copper, which attaches to a larger, rounded base. The glass inside is thick and crude, with bubbles and imperfections reflecting the waning moonlight from outside.
It is still warm to the touch from being lit, but it’s not impossible to handle, especially with my leather gloves. In fact, the heat almost feels nice through them. I hold the frame carefully in my hand so as not to bend the metal, or worse, break the glass, before I grasp the bottom of the lantern’s rounded base. I give it some torque, and am rewarded with the base shifting and coming loose. It comes free from the wire cage and glass section, and I can see the oil-soaked wick dangling from the upper part of the assembly. I look back and forth between the two, wondering which would be the better method, and decide to use the wick. I carefully set the base down, the fuel sloshing thickly. I grab the wick as close as I can to the copper wire frame and pull gently at first, then with a bit more effort as the cloth weave resists my efforts. After an additional bit of force, the wick comes free from the top and I am left holding about four inches of braided and oil-soaked cloth.
I move back over to the window as quietly as I can. When I examine the frame of the window once more, I am pleased to see there is actually a metal rail guide. I was unsure of how primitive this inn was, and I am pleased to see that there are, in fact, some modern construction techniques.
I press the oil-soaked wick to the edge of the rail guide and smile when I see a slight sheen appear on the metal. I lightly slide the wick up and down on the railing, and watch as the wetness begins to ooze down the metal, eventually disappearing behind the top edge of the window. I repeat the process on the other side, then turn to toss the still-wet wick onto the bed.
The window slides noiselessly and effortlessly in its frame now, and I smile as I pass the section that squeaked before the oil. It slides all the way up, and I see that the bottom empty slide lock matches up perfectly with the barrel bolt, just as it was made to do. I quietly push the bolt into its home and the window stays, securely held open.
I lean my head outside and look below. My eyes roll in frustration, because of course there is no awning. I am approximately 20 feet off the ground with no latticework, ledge, or even a rope ladder to lower me to the dirt ground below. Hell, I lament, I’d even take a damn drainpipe. To make matters worse, there is a room directly beneath mine, so even if I were to dangle from my own window, any occupants in the room below would get a GREAT shot of my crotch as I hung there.
Would I be able to drop down and land safely, if not quietly, from this height? I ponder. I mean, no way in my old body, but this is my superhero body, right? I look back out of the window, and “hell no” comes to mind. The ground below is riddles with torso-sized boulders, decorative, but not very conducive to dropping nimbly down up in the dark.
My gaze flits in all directions now, and I notice that on each corner of the inn, there is an alternating, decorative edge that of all things reminds me of the old Lincoln Logs I used to play with as a kid. However, my room is nearly at the middle of the building, so they remain thirty, maybe forty, feet out of reach. I continue to look around for a solution and my eyes move up to the overhang.
Once my eyes catch a glimpse of the roofline above, I smile slightly. Under the eaves of the overhang there is a series of support beams. They stick straight out from the wall and meet up with the rafters of the roof above, creating perfect hand holds roughly four feet apart. It’s like I’m back in elementary school on the monkey bars, I think to myself, but this time I’ll actually be able to do it.
My eyes look back down to the dark drop below me. I hope.
Despite my new body size, larger in all the right places, mind you, my above-average Agility allows me to not only fold myself in half well enough to dangle one leg and my torso out of the window, but also to pull my second foot onto the sill and pivot, using that leg to stand up. I stretch up to my tip toes and am barely able to get one hand on the nearest support beam. I can’t help but stifle a chuckle as I think how ridiculous I must look, contorted and twisted over a 20-foot drop to the rocky earth below. Amazingly, I am able to heed that age-old adage of, “don’t look down.” I take a deep breath, knowing what must come next.
With a burst of courage I wouldn’t have thought possible, I use that one hand to gain purchase enough to trust myself to let go of the window and add a second hand to the beam.
And I don’t fall.
The beam feels solid in my hands, no creaking or bending, despite what must be my heavyweight fighter’s frame. I shift my weight back and forth between my hands to settle my grip before I dare to kip my legs forward, reaching out a hand to grasp the next support beam. My hand slaps thickly against the rectangular brace, and I still don’t fall.
Panic, determination, and most likely some form of digitally uploaded ninja-style shit make my grip like a vice as I hang there in shock.
And I still don’t fall.
A cheshire grin splits my face, and I let go with my back hand to join the front on the second beam. I repeat the motion, and somehow I can feel my smile growing even more. It’s a wonder I haven’t swallowed my own ears, I muse, borderline giddy with my accomplishment. I conquer two more rungs in that fashion, but I find myself awkwardly swinging the faster I move, and making what seems like a helluva lot of noise. With another deep breath, I make one more nut-check and this time, instead of joining my right hand to the same rung as my left, I swing forward, brachiating over to the next rung in one smooth motion. I marvel at how easy this comes to me, despite my fear and trepidation of attempting this feat for the first time over a 20-foot fall to the dark ground below. Once more I am forced to ask myself, Self, am I able to do this because of my knowledge of how monkey bars work, or is it because I rolled against my Dex stat and it said I passed? I pause and hang there limply for a second, one arm forward, the other stretched back behind me, before another thought intrudes on my mind. How much of what I can do is code, and how much of it is me?
I shake my head vigorously for a second to clear my mind of that never-ending spiral into madness, and then I focus on the task, namely not falling to a leg-breaking crunch on the rocks below. I slip my hand off the back rung and reach out to the next rung, once more easily grabbing it.
In this fashion I pass two darkened windows by way of eight more rafter rungs before I reach the corner of the building and am able to get my feet on the alternating supporting logs. Compared to swinging arm over arm across a 4-foot gap, climbing down the side of the building is like descending a set of stairs. Once my feet are back on solid ground, I instinctively crouch down close to the building and scan my surroundings for anyone, guards or city folk, that might be witness to my escape. I smirk as the closed eyecon for my Stealth skill activates. Thankfully it remains closed as I slowly peek my head around the corner of the building, keeping one eye on the guard, to see if anyone is out in the street. It’s so nice not to have to reach for the “C” button or anything to activate stealth, I think to myself. All I have to do is try to hide, and voila!
But as nice as the lack of keyboard commands is, it still feels...weird to be able to see icons with the corner of my eye as I move my head. They stay fixed in their places, but when I keep my head still and move just my eyes I can focus my attention on them. It really is just like wearing a VR helmet. It’s not like playing on a flat screen, because even though you can still move your character’s viewpoint with the controls and look other than where the character looks, you can still see your real-world surroundings. The wall behind your monitor, the gaming rig on the table next to you, the figurines from your favorite games lined up along across your desk. VR is so much more immersive because as you move your head, so does your viewpoint. I remember the first time I tried it, there was an instant sense of vertigo. I could feel the real world around me, but my brain couldn’t wrap itself around the fact that my body didn’t jive with what my eyes were telling me. I have even heard stories about people injuring themselves the first time they tried it, walking into a couch or even a wall.
In Pentamria, though, there is no sense of vertigo, no sense of being in two worlds at the same time, because I’m *not*. I am *here*, I marvel, and that’s what makes it feel so strange. I know it’s a game, no matter how amazeballs the graphics are, and yet I don’t have that sense of duality, that feeling of being awkward in my body, my eyes telling me one thing and my body telling me another.
Stolen story; please report.
I smile again as I consider the world around me, the quickly cooling air as the sun abandons her post in the sky, the rustle of drying twigs in the underbrush near my hiding spot. This is every gamers dream, I realized. Not only am I actually in a world of swords and magic, I’m an immortal! I can go anywhere I want, do anything I please, and not only can no one stop me. Even if they *do*, I just come back stronger and take what I want!
Which, of course, brings me back to my current situation.
I glance back out around the corner of the inn, and as I expected, the majority of the townsfolk are inside, most being in the commonroom of the building I’m leaning against. I do see one lone guard standing down by the bridge where I entered town just a few hours ago, but his back is towards me. He’s carrying a torch in his free hand, but I can’t tell from this angle if it is Kyle or Bryant. Not that I care either way, I consider offhandedly. I wonder if I can make it over to the merchant without anyone seeing me?
There are two torches that have somehow been lit on the innermost posts of the awning over the entrance to the inn, and there are single torches on each of the buildings down the path. The setting sun is long gone, descended behind the mountains to the point that the torches only cast about 15 feet of reliable light before being swallowed up by the blackness of encroaching night.
The dark shadows almost look like a sudden, unexpected open lane of traffic when you’re caught in rush hour. They almost seem to beckon, showing me the path I need to take in order to stay hidden. With a final glance in either direction, I move confidently and purposefully across the 15 yards or so of cobblestone path separating the two buildings. I get the feeling if I tried to hurry it up and run that my quickened footsteps across the gravel would give me away. And, if anyone was to look out their window or down the street, it would look much more suspicious to see a figure sprinting in the shadows as opposed to simply walking across the street. As I move, I keep a bit of focus on the stealth icon, as well as my slightly dropping stamina bar, and a grin splits my face. The “eyecon” never once wavered from the closed position.
Once I get to the side of the merchant’s shop, I find there is a wonderfully dark patch for me to conceal myself. It even offers me a decent view of the inn, so I settle in to observe for a few minutes. I feel the need to know the movements of the guards, the range of their torchlight, any patterns they might have in their patrols at night.
Out of curiosity, I do something I haven’t done in a while, and look at my character sheet.
NAME: PADFOOT
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
600
4/10
SKILLS:
STEALTH
STEALTH ATTACK
LOCKPICK
PICKPOCKET
SMALL BLADES
PERSUASION
UNARMED COMBAT
3 (34%)
2 (19%)
1 (0%)
1 (0%)
2 (78%)
2 (3%)
1 (0%)
SPELLS
NONE
ABILITIES
NONE
PERKS
Master
N/A
Hmm… I think to myself, I’m starting to rack up the skills! Me likey!
I think back to the kills I have, totalling 4 rats in this life so far, and remember that each kill awarded 150 xp. But before I can really consider that, I notice something else that confuses me. Progress to next level? With the number 4 out of 10 next to it. I look back at my skills, and I notice that the change in Stealth, Stealth Attack, and Small Blades adds up to 4. So maybe...when I have advanced skills equaling a total of 10 levels I gain a character level? That sounds pretty simple. I imagine that the higher the skill, the more difficult it is to level, but still. How does XP come into play, I wonder? It doesn’t have a max number, or a “Progress to next level” like the other one, so….
I was told there would be no math, I quote the old joke to myself. Whatever. I’ll figure it out when I get there. Until now, I got places to go, things to steal.
After a few more minutes, my impatience gets the better of me. There doesn’t seem to be a pattern to the guards movement, and most of their attention seems to be aimed outside the town anyways, back towards the treeline I came from just a few short hours ago.
One more quick glance to either side, and I hop up to move across the cobblestone road. I know where my goal is, even if I’m not entirely certain if it’s the right place. However, that gaudy stone building on the top tier of the village seems to fit loudmouth Norman in both opulence and taste, so I begin moving up the crooked rock staircase towards the third tier. The low stone walls seem more for keeping nature at bay than anything else. The flora behind the walls consists of just enough trees to obscure the view of the lower tiers, wildflowers of a staggering variety and color, and tall unkempt grass. If I ever wanted to invade this place, it would be so easy to do at night. All I’d need to do is hop over the wall and I could vanish into those grasses and trees.
It occurs to me that I could do that right now, but for some reason I feel more comfortable sneaking up the staircase than I would in the grass. I imagine there’s all sorts of loud crunchy leaves and stuff in there I couldn’t see until it was too late, I justify to myself. Rogues are meant for city stealth. I’m no ranger, traipsing around in the woods.
I reach the top of the staircase and find another cobblestone road leading perpendicular to the path I’m currently on. I crouch low at the edge of the stone wall beside me, still on the top three steps, and peer around the corner. To my right are several more wooden buildings, most likely homes or shops. Or both. There are a couple of signs hanging over doors, but it’s too dark to see the images etched, emblazoned, or painted on them. They dangle tantalizingly in the faint breeze, slight creaking sounds emanating from the ropes and metal rings suspending them. I have a strange feeling looking at those signs, one that I am having a hard time identifying. It smacks of excitement and, oddly enough, hunger?
No, I realize, not hunger. Need? I shake my head, still not able to pin down the urge growing in me. It isn’t some primal thing, like food or shelter or sex. This is...desire. A wanting, a craving even, for...something. A challenge? Adventure? Taking something that isn’t mine?
That last one strikes a cord. Did I really have a drive to steal something that wasn’t mine? Was this just plain and simple...greed?
Amazingly enough, that thought fit in the void like the perfect sized shoe. I shook my head and chuckled silently. Why does that give me such satisfaction? Why is it so rewarding when you cast around trying to find the perfect word when suddenly it floats to you on the aether, like a gift from some benevolent literary god?
The next thought I had dug its finger into that fresh wound of reality vs. fiction. Am I having these thoughts because I chose a thieving rogue as my class, or for some deeper reason? Had I been so deprived of things as a kid that now that I have the ability, I am being driven by these baser emotions?
Did I choose to be a thief to live out my base desires, or are my base desires being amplified because I chose to be a thief? Is there even a difference? Chicken or the egg? I think with a smirk.
With a shrug, I dismiss the thought as irrelevant. Doesn’t matter which, I’m here now, and by God nothing is going to stop me. I refuse to be thrown aside any more, ignored, made fun of! He stole her from me, so I’m going to steal from him.
My eyes narrow as I look across the small clearing on the upper-most level of the village. There is an open area, thirty yards wide at most, with various wooden stalls, kiosks, and lean-to’s centered around a stone well, medieval drawing bucket and everything. There’s even what looks like a message board of some kind, most likely for bounties I would assume. All in all, it looks exactly like any town center I've seen in about a hundred video games I’ve played.
You’d think with all the resources they have, they’d be a bit more original with the game design, I muse.
Almost like spokes in a wheel, there are walkways cutting through the surrounding trees to various buildings, most likely more shops, apothecaries, the usual. It’s funny how barren most people think these towns were back in medieval times, but if you think about it, they had to be incredibly self-sufficient.
Consider a simple suit of leather armor. You need the leather of course, and unless you could go hunt for it yourself, there had to be a town hunter. Once you have it, it has to be tanned by a...well, a tanner. You need thread, but not just any old thread, it had to be sturdy enough to hold up to repeated weapon strikes, weather, and just plain old walking around. Molds and patterns to cut the leather from a tailor, not to mention measurements to make sure it fits properly, hardening the leather, rivets from the blacksmith, the list goes on and on. Every one of those elements takes time and an experienced worker. That’s not even coming close to dipping into blacksmithing, fletching arrows, making bows, or shaping wood for hafts of axes and polearms, much less candle makers, herbalists, breadmakers, alchemists, and dozens of other roles needed by a town.
And that’s just in the REAL world. In a magical world such as this, I’m sure there’s half a dozen people that work with rare monster parts, potions, jewelry, wands, etc. Frankly I am amazed that the town is as small as it is. There’s not many more than two dozen buildings total in this place, and any village this far out from a major city has to be self-sufficient or it would sink.
My attention is brought back to the here and now by the slight glow of a torch, the rhythmic sound of booted feet, and a polearm on cobblestone coming from my left. The thump-thump-clack of the approaching guard causes me to pull back into the relative, and too temporary, shadows of the low stone wall I am hiding behind. I see the light flickering against the stones beneath me and I duck against the opposite wall of the staircase, closest to what I assume is a patrolling guard. I am able to move before the light touches me, however, and my “eyecon” barely flickers into the green before settling firmly back into the white-against-black closed eyelid. Unfortunately, that also means that my stamina has started to drop, now that I am actively hiding from someone. I guess my stamina doesn’t drop if I’m just walking around in stealth-mode? Hmm.
The footsteps grow closer, and I begin to panic as they get less than 5 yards from me. If they turn and look down this staircase, I’m hosed, I realize. I glance down and see that somehow, in all the panic, I have drawn my dagger.
My heart rate skyrockets as I consider what that means; either that I have drawn the dagger completely subconsciously, or I drew it purposefully, accepting that I am willing to kill another human to save my own skin.
Thankfully I never have to make that horrible decision, as the guard stops just shy of the entrance to the stairs where I am hiding. His footsteps pause before starting up again, this time fading slightly, and I risk a peek into the flickering torchlight. I see him walking away from me, thump-thump-clacking his way to the well that serves as the center of the town square.
A boldness I don’t feel tells me that now is the time to move. If he turns around to come back this direction, he will certainly see my crouching form on the stairway down. I can either try to scramble down the stairs to the next level, or I can dart up while his back is turned and hide behind the closest kiosk, no more than 10 yards from me. Luckily it is a small, U-shaped stall, so it should hide me perfectly unless he either walks around the back side or peeks over the counter.
As I am about to stand from my hidden crouch, a third option floats into my mind. Or, I could slide up behind him, clamp my hand over his mouth, and draw my blade across his throat.
My face twitches as I flinch at the unbidden thought. What the hell? Where did that come from?
From me, comes the quiet answer, one that I know both to be true and untrue at the same time. The quiet voice returns. I mean, he’s just a collection of ones and zeros, right? It’s data. Hell, he’s practically DESIGNED for me to kill. If he has hitpoints, he’s literally been made to die. My knife is already drawn and everything.
Another side of me, the human side of me, thinks, Dude, that’s another human. I have shaken hands with these people, felt their warm palms against my arm, tapped the forehead of a little girl. I’m just gonna straight-up, cold-blooded murder this guy?
Do I want to get caught? comes the reply.
I make my choice, and move.
I get up using my fingertips and toes, and matching my own footsteps along with his measured gate, I clear the distance between me and the guard in less than 5 seconds. My knife feels heavy and sweaty in my hands as I creep up behind him. Smoothly, I slide around inside the U-bend of the kiosk, crouching tight against the middle section. The knife is still in my right hand, white knuckles gripping the hilt pressed against the ground to support myself.
Once again I marvel at how I know how to do things like move on my toes, or match my steps to that of the guard so he will be less likely to hear my own stealthy motions. I notice a small flashing icon appear in the lower corner of my vision. Time to deal with that later, I think to myself, though I’m pretty sure I know what it is.
I can see the wavering torchlight flickering on the buildings and trees around me, casting my little hiding spot into even deeper shadows. The guard makes a couple rounds of the square, humming and mumbling what sounds suspiciously like a drinking song, before stopping at the well in the center of the square. I hear a rattling clank, the sound of wood on stone, then a second sound that I know I should recognize. It’s not until I hear the soft sigh and the distant, hollow sound of splashing liquid that I realize what this son of a bitch is doing.
He just unbuckled his pants and is pissing in the fuggin’ well! I fume. Remind me to ask where the inn gets its fresh water from… Another horrible thought comes unbidden to my mind as I remember relishing the feel of cool water from the barrel out back of the inn, cupping it in my hands as I splash it across my face , and how good it tasted as I drank a double handful. My teeth grit as I have my own private Crying Game moment, feeling the need to sob under the cascade of a warm shower to cleanse myself.
I seriously reconsider slipping up behind him and slitting his throat right here and now, but since I’m certain he has no idea I’m here, I force my muscles to relax. I notice that my stamina bar, once more than a quarter low from my mad dash to the shadows, has begun to actually raise back up. I guess when I’m not actively *trying* to hide, it’s not really engaged and I don’t need to focus so hard on staying hidden? There was no way this freak knew I was here, so I guess the game doesn’t even register that I’m hiding from him.
There goes gaming the system, I frown. I have played games where you can walk into a shop, wave to the shopkeep, then hide behind the counter where the proprietor can no longer see you. All you needed to do was just camp out while your stealth skill creeps up to max. It took a while, but you usually leveled up in the process, and got all the perks from having a maxed-out skill. I’ve even left games running overnight so I could wake up the next morning, ready to backstab the universe. No such luck here.
After an inordinate amount of time, the guard finally stops pissing and I hear him buckle his pants. The bastard is even chuckling as he does so. Doesn’t he realize he probably drinks from there, too? He buckles his pants and grabs his polearm from the edge of the well, then I listen to the sound of his footsteps as he retreats to the stairs.
The place I was just a few moments ago.
I thank my lucky stars I decided to move. As he passes, I sneak a peek around the edge of the kiosk. My head is hidden in the shadows cast by his torch, but I get a good look at his face. Brown hair hangs limply from under the back of his helm and I glimpse the tip of a thin, hawkish nose in the flickering light. Sick bastard, I think to myself.
Instead of going down the steps, however, he takes a left and continues along the path on this tier. Once the thump-thump-clank of his stride and light from his torch has faded from the surrounding trees and buildings, I risk a glance from my hiding spot. There, under the canopy of stars, the town square is empty. Faint celestial light falls on the empty stalls and stands clustered around the well. The entire scene looks washed out, wood and stone leached of all colors in the silver light of the stars.
The northern-most “spoke” off the town square wheel leads up to the warm glow of my destination; the gaudy house overlooking the entire village.
Norman’s house. It has to be. No one else in this town would live in such excess. He must be the mayor or some other sort of politician, I guess, based on the fact that his clothes are so much better than everyone else’s and his house is more like a church than a home. And, I add with a disgusted smirk, the fact that he’s such a prick. In my mind, anyone that seeks out that much power can’t be a good person. I hated politicians in the real world, and I find that no matter where I go, even in a damn video game, human nature is human nature. People in power are assholes.
The stone pathway leading up to the entrance is flanked on either side by several trees, which also means that it has ample shadows for me to hide in as I approach. At least these are natural and not some sort of pretentious, potted shrubbery or landscaping, I allow. The path is a slight, meandering “S”, barely more than the suggestion of a curve. The canopy of branches reaches out over the cobblestone path, creating a dark tunnel between where the starlight and the torches push back the darkness.
After a few seconds of quietly slipping along the edge of the trees, this shadowed area is where I find myself hiding, casing the house. I am still off to the side of the path, lest anyone looking from the village center see my dark form silhouetted against the torchlight.
Up close it seems even more ostentatious than I originally thought. The entire edifice is stone, unlike most of the wooden buildings around it. Arched stained glass windows, two stories tall, no less, adorn either side of the entrance, a vaulted stone opening flanked by yet more flickering torches. The ornate wooden door, recessed and hidden in shadows, has a small, four-paneled window just around eye-level. The roof, bearing another circular stained glass window, peaks almost 30 feet overhead. It’s so over the top that if it wasn’t for the lack of any symbols or icons, I could almost imagine this being a church or chapel of some sort. My heart thuds inside my chest as I consider the shadowy area between the torches.
I glance back the way I came, and there is only starlight and quiet. No other guards have made their way into the village center, and there has been no movement from inside the house. As silently as possible, I tiptoe up to the edge of the torchlight.
Gathering my courage once more, I take three quick but confident strides up to and through the darkened archway. My back makes contact with the side stone wall of the entryway, and my eyes screw shut as I wait for the outcry of alarm.
But it never comes.
I open one eye and glance around, hoping against hope that I have actually made it this far.
There is no tramping of feet, no growing torchlight, no shouts.
I did it! I crow to myself. My eyes adjust to the darkness within moments, and I find myself looking at the door handle with a professional’s eye. It is a simple thumb latch with a ridiculous, stereotypical keyhole. I chuckle to myself, both at the simplicity of the lock, and the fact that I can call the lock simple when I have never picked one in my life.
My hand drops to my pouch and the inventory screen pops up in my view. I select the lockpick icon, and suddenly I feel the somehow familiar weight of a small metal instrument set in my hand. Oh wow, I think with a smile, that’s weird. I momentarily lose awareness of where I am and what I’m doing as I begin to play with my inventory screen, inserting and withdrawing my lock picks, even making my dagger disappear into my belt pouch before retrieving it and replacing it in its sheath.
Focus, numbnuts, I chide myself as I get back to the task at hand. I can’t just reload and try again if I get caught .
Kneeling back down by the handle, I pull my lockpicks once again and slide them into the lock. I insert and apply gentle pressure to the tension rod, just enough to turn the cylinder inside a hair, then slide the pick into the keyhole. I smile as I feather the pick in and out of the keyhole, feeling the slight vibration of the pick in my right hand as I push the tumbler pins back into their casing. The slight pressure on the tension rod keeps the pins from falling back into the cylinder as I work, until with a satisfying give, the resistance on the tension rod vanishes and the entire assembly turns slightly. I apply more pressure to the tension rod and with a quiet click, the lock opens.
Holy hell I just picked a damn lock!
An almost feral joy bursts through my body as I press my thumb on the latch softly at first, then more firmly as I feel the mechanism inside move unhindered. There is another click, and the door opens just a crack. I take a last look back behind me, then with a grin threatening to split my face in two, I ease the door open just enough to slide in.