OrcSlayer was annoyed. Stuck at level 8, he faced constant interruptions that kept him from progressing. The Brotherhood had launched a multitude of schemes—NPC sweatshops, extortions, a ring of thieves, bands of robbers—each insulated from the main organization by layers of middlemen and secrecy. Breaches of security occurred daily, often demanding his personal intervention. Many underestimated the stealth abilities of a dark paladin, expecting a knife in the dark but never an armored knight silently emerging from the shadows, a longsword in hand.
Today, OrcSlayer had planned to delve into the Mine of Meklang dungeon, but an alarming message had been sent from the city archive. His informant there had informed him that heroes were attempting to locate the farmer Luthgar the blind, the former owner of one of their biggest production areas. As if they had any chance. There was no central register and Luthgar wasn't a serf; he could leave his lands as he pleased. The city of Mulnirsheim didn’t record those entering and exiting the gates. What did these idiots think they would find? Still, with a quest involved, there had to be a way for them to solve it. Dutifully, OrcSlayer sent one of his thieves to investigate and report back.
Just as he was starting his second ale, Nosy the thief returned. He sat down opposite OrcSlayer, casting a longing glance at his beer. OrcSlayer signaled the wench to bring another. Nosy impressed him by not scanning the terrace suspiciously; OrcSlayer was certain the thief had checked the area from the shadows before entering.
After some small talk, Nosy began his report once the wench left: "It's a team of three heroes—a thief, a warrior, and a master of the dark arts."
OrcSlayer blinked. "A what?"
"I made some inquiries at the Mage Guild and our informant at the Adventurers' Guild. Apparently, someone convinced the AI to accept a new mage class. The mages aren't impressed. It seems more like pun magic with the word ‘dark’ slapped in front of random esoteric disciplines. Dark ayurveda, dark chiropractic, dark aromatherapy... Rubbish."
"I wouldn’t dismiss new arts. I once knew a necromancer who invented the art of dark calligraphy. His talisman traps and curses were vicious."
"Noted. I’ll keep tabs on this ‘master of the dark arts,’ though he seems like a do-gooder type, not suitable for our Brotherhood."
"What about their inquiry?"
"There was a report about Luthgar missing his yearly tax assessment appointment. We left that, figuring it would only create new traces if we removed it. It’s believable enough that he forgot to cancel after selling his lands."
"They have a quest, so there must be a way for them to find something out. The AI usually creates three different hints for every quest."
"We found an old friend of his he met just before our sales date. That could have been a lead, but fortunately, he got a message from his daughter needing help with a leaky roof that none of the local craftsmen seem able to fix. He’ll be gone for at least two weeks, considering travel time. They'll have lost interest by then."
OrcSlayer chuckled. "The only real lead would be if they'd find Luthgar himself. Which would be quite surprising, considering he's buried three foot deep in the woods. For now, let’s see if they find any more hints. If they get too close, we’ll deal with them then. For now, focus on gathering more intel. Keep track of this master of the dark arts. Inform me if he invents anything we could use or if there are signs that he is not so innocent as he seems."
* * *
Two days later OrcSlayer met his informant again. This time Nosy ordered his own ale and had a constant smug smile. OrcSlayer relaxed. That had to be a good sign.
“So, you asked for a short meeting to make a report?”
“Yes. The quest has been abandoned. Those three were quite persistent for players, but after two days of searching archives, old ledgers and interviewing dozens of NPCs with no measurable result, they gave up.”
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“Excellent. Theres always the danger of a player finding fun in detective games, but compared to combat, dungeon delving or just plain exploring this awesome fantasy world, it’s just too boring for any sane player. That seems to be the last problem to solve for the moment. I’ll gather my team and head for the Meklang dungeon.”
* * *
Back in the warehouse, he was greeted by an excited office worker: “Mister OrcSlayer, I have to protest!”
He rolled his eyes in annoyance. “What is it now, Jared?”
“Your team member has not filled out any of the necessary requisition forms and just took a whole bale of wool for himself.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Mister Umblai. He saw us unloading the new shipment and just took a bale of wool from iron-sheep. That’s very expensive and we need it for the new three-layer-coats.”
“How is the project coming on?”
“Not good. We still need to powerlevel a seamstress. Our last prototypes looked pretty obviously armored. We need someone with master level skills to make the layers inside the leather coats unnoticeable. But back to your teammate, we can’t make the last five prototypes we planned, because he took our wool!”
“Whatever does he need iron-wool? Is his cushion to soft? I’ll talk to him.” OrcSlayer shook his head and went over to the other end of the warehouse. The air inside was thick with the scent of old wood and mildew, dust motes dancing lazily in the shafts of pale light that seeped through cracks in the wooden walls. Wooden beams overhead creaked occasionally.
There, between rows of crates, in an area that was widely avoided by workers, he found the hulking troll with his broad shoulders and weathered face, sitting on the floor in the dimly lit corner of the dusty warehouse. His night vision capable troll eyes reflected the sparse light. His mottled skin sprouted patches of moss and lichens from his back. His small eyes, squinted as he worked with a pair of giant knitting needles. These were bent out of metal pipes and clinked softly as he manipulated them with surprising dexterity, despite his thick, calloused fingers.
Before him, on a makeshift table formed from a couple of empty crates, rested a mound of iron-sheep wool. It gleamed with a metallic sheen, silvery and heavy and was spun into thick, resilient yarn.
Iron-sheep could only be found in the upper levels of the Meklang dungeon. They grazed on ore-rich grey grass that covered the floor of the giant dungeon cavern. Their fleece was a magical blend of wool and iron. Rust- and fireproof, which every revenant tried to test when seeing the stuff for the first time. NPCs tended to react with incomprehension when they saw players casting tiny lightning spells or touching steel wool with torches. As one had told OrcSlayer: “Of course it doesn’t burn, it’s iron. Duh!” He’d beaten the shit right out of the loudmouth.
He watched the troll, fascinated. The knitting itself seemed to be no small feat. The iron-wool yarn resisted his efforts, each stitch a minor battle against its stiffness. The metallic clink of the needles and the rough scrape of the yarn provided a rhythmic counterpoint to the ambient creaks and groans of the warehouse. Umblai's craggy face was set in an expression of intense concentration, his small, beady eyes narrowed as he focused on each stitch. Occasionally, he emitted a low grunt, the sound reverberating off the stone walls.
Umblai paused to survey his progress, his eyes reflecting a sense of quiet satisfaction. The harshness of his features softened, seeming to reveal a hidden appreciation for the craft.
“Hi Umblai, what…” The troll flinched in surprise and dropped a stitch. He looked up, a low growl coming deep out from his muscled breast.
OrcSlayer took a step back: “Woah! I didn’t want to disturb you.”
The troll looked back down and fished around with his needles for the lost stitch. After some deft movements, he finished his work and dropped the pipes ceaselessly to the floor. The loud clanging echoed throughout the warehouse. Umblai proudly lifted up a grey monstrosity of a garment.
“What in the name of all the gods is that?” OrcSlayer wasn’t sure if it was meant to be a two human tent, a giant bag to trap enemies within or some kind of garment.
“Over head pull thing.” Umblai seemed proud of his work, so OrcSlayer decided not to make fun of it. He looked at the mass of wool, then it clicked: “It’s a pullover!”
“Umblai said.”
“Didn’t we give you a chainmail vest?”
“Chain thingy not good. Can’t move in. Umblai not like.”
OrcSlayer looked at the rough surface of the pullover. He looked up at the now standing troll and after he nodded, touched the pullover. It felt even rougher and scratchier than it looked. You could use it to sand varnish off a wooden door or clean rust from weapons. Considering the thick stone like skin of the troll, he probably didn’t mind.
Umblai’s eyes unfocused and his lips moved silently.
“Did you get a notification?”
“Umblai now knitting skill journeyman I.”
OrcSlayer looked at him shocked: “You’re a Journeyman knitter?”
“Voice much likes Umblai’s over head pull thingy.”
He watched the troll put on the pullover. It was vast, even by troll standards, designed to accommodate his broad chest and powerful shoulders. He slipped one arm into the sleeve, then the other. The wool expanded and contracted to fit snugly without restricting his movement. The neckline stretched slightly as he pulled it over his head, the fabric yielding just enough. Umblai tugged it down over his torso, the hem brushing against his knees. The thing was thicker than OrcSlayer’s fist and seemed not to hinder the troll’s movement.
“Care to join me on a dungeon run?”
“Umblai not like running.”
“I mean, fighting monsters inside the Meklang dungeon.”
The troll’s eyes lit up: “Umblai smash!”