Physical endurance was the best stat and not just because of all the usual stuff, but it also prevented hangovers. Glorious. That came with a downside however, removing any excuse to do nothing all day. Then again, we lacked any passive entertainment which made lazing about decidedly less attractive. I settled into a daily rhythm, exercise in the morning, smithing by day and runescribing once the sun went down. My project was well under way, a brand new ‘sword’. It was a perpetual one, designed as such for both function and a cheap way to train.
Barry paid up the remainder of his debt a couple of days later, prompting another lesser shopping spree. A small part of my riches were spent on having my clothes properly laundered, while most of the rest went towards a new, primitive secondary wardrobe. My old world wear was of significantly higher quality and comfort, plus infinitely more stylish than my new hide threads, so the new pieces served as temp wear.
A sudden commotion spread like a wave over the din of the foundry and my hammer strike went wide, the distraction nearly broke my concentration and almost ruined the reforge. Might as well see what’s up. Instead of allowing the glow to recede, the work-in-progress was whisked away to my sheath. My skill preserved it for some reason, letting me pick up right where it had been left off. A peek outside through an open door revealed the source of clamor. Kris and company had returned, a few days late. I originally assumed death before Jen told me this wasn’t unusual at all. My tools entered the carrying crate and then the rushing throng of excited folks gained another member. Felt appropriate to get a look at our glorious leader and her entourage of enforcers while enjoying a smoke.
The eight returnees touted ragged clothing, an eclectic mix of old and new. Their outfit included injuries, arm in a sling type of stuff. Only one of the tag-alongs held my interest for more than a moment, Jerry. Hard to miss the guy who carried two magic swords in his belt. His had actual cross guards, the prick. I was instead captivated by the big boss herself. She was a mountain of a woman with decidedly average but hard features and millimeter hair. Her makeup included a scar on her cheek and tattooed sleeves, fashion sense absent considering the military type t-shirt and cargo pants. Her monstrosity of a weapon was the real eye-catcher however.
My mind immediately labeled it a halberhammeraxe. The haft was polished magic wood, with the rest made of similarly arcane metal. It was larger than the woman carrying it and the butt had a metal spike with a horizontal protrusion somewhat above, probably functioned as a footrest to kick it into the ground. Several hints led me towards that conclusion, the trailing crescent blade of the axe extended all the way down from head to kickstand and she’d just demonstrated. Opposite the axe side was a much smaller but still significant hammer-side. Between these two, at the top of the haft, there was an extended spearhead. Thus, halberhammeraxe... pike thing. Metal shortage my ass.
They were swarmed by those who knew them while Kris disappeared into the government building together with Mel, who at first came out to greet them. Top dog carried one of those huge traveling backpacks with her. The combination of big brawny woman, big backpack and big-ass weapon had made her look like a caricature. All the fussing failed to impress me for long and work beckoned.
I wasn’t interested in making friends with people who threw themselves headfirst into extreme danger, as this group was known to do. They probably wouldn’t last long. It came down to simple statistics, taking a risk often enough made it inevitable that you’d land on the wrong side of the odds eventually. Regardless, the frontrunners were a frequent conversational topic and everyone knew what they did.
Their expeditions took place in the Underway, where they brute forced themselves past the traps and then descended the second stairwell. Minus-two didn’t swarm and contained singular superpowered Errant. Good thing I hadn’t gone down. That floor had been nicknamed Solo’s because of the third, called Groups. It contained small groups of super-Errant. The trailblazers had been forced to hightail it out of there when exploring and lost two members in the process - hence my survivability thesis. I wasn’t above taking risks myself, it was unavoidable these days, but there was a difference between making sure you were ready and only spending two days in town only to head back down again, which was their frankly insane course of action.
Nothing much of note happened in the next two days, until some greatly anticipated news landed on my doorstep - Jeb was done with my stuff, perfect timing. He was slated to head out to the Farm on the morrow. Unlike with my group, their eventual departure was meant to coincide with the arrival of another shift, with my crew up next after. This rotation between three groups was meant to continue indefinitely. The delay between my group and the second resulted from preparations made to implement improvements, the necessity thereof had only become apparent during our stay. A trail of smoke followed contemplative trudging through the mud to my favorite vendor.
There was no point in knocking since Jeb wasn’t a stickler for decorum. “Hey, B. mentioned you had something for me.”
“Sure do, ma best work yet. C’mere and have a look-see.” He didn’t actually want me to come over while he rummaged through his walk-in storage closet and then brought my commissioned goods over to display them on his worktable.
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A gleam of pride accompanied his display. “Quiver’s the hardest part, would’a made it bigger if it wasn’t all obtrusive-like. Ya can adjust the armor by yer lonesome. Had’da tear ‘part the jacket, most’o the paddin’s on the shoulders now. Good call, with the rain bein’ back.” I had to abandon the roof a couple of days back, fortunately the barrel had been stashed out of the house by then. “Same goes for the backpack, ain’t much original beside the straps. Gots plenty’o space. Gonna haft’a carry it by hand if it’s full. Yer lil’ things are inside it.”
Damn fine craftsmanship. “Fuckin’ A man. Exactly what I had in mind. We good on the bill?”
“We is, hope ya don’ mind if I cut ya short. Gotta ready’up for the trip.”
“No worries, you joining for drinks tonight?”
“’Course, haft’a judge the ‘shine.”
“No shit, the prison wine was too much. It’s no single malt but having something clear makes a world of difference. Had a taster earlier today, was good. Ah well, don’t let me keep you. See you tonight.”
His face twisted into indignation. “That rat bastard said he’d wait for me.”
“He says a lot of shit, pretty sure half of it is made up.”
“Ain’t that the truth. See y’all tonight.”
Having parted ways with Jeb, I tried on my brand new gear at home. The forearm and shin guards needed adjustment, but the conveniences of System-assisted blacksmithing mitigated the hassle, especially compared to ye olden times. At least there were no problems with pulling the straps as tight as my strength allowed. Accidentally cutting off blood flow proved impossible, another unforeseen benefit of PE.
A new series of belts replaced my old one, all reinforced with strips of metal. Those supported an oversized ‘quiver’, made to hold 12 summoned swords. It was a little finicky with all the peace-straps, couldn’t risk the ammunition dropping out with every tumble. Everything was made of magic material to withstand the rigors of combat. In local slang this meant they were considered ‘magic’, unlike my other additions - a winter-jacket-turned-cloak and an expanded cargo backpack. The last included a back-basket kit, ensuring no loot remained behind, ever. These were called ‘halfworks’, the distinction held relevance since they couldn’t be post-processed.
I considered reprioritizing my drawing practice towards reinforcing my gear but ended up deciding against it, best to find out how things held up first. Survival necessities comprised the rest of my long shopping list; a pair of water skins, toothpicks, rope, needle, thread – we had cotton now courtesy of cigarette filters, sadly fragments of clothing didn’t alchemize properly – a polished metal mirror, razor, and what not. Most of my minor belongings were magical.
Interestingly, Jeb had taken some liberties because a few of the creature comforts hadn’t been my idea. Even better, he dyed my armor black, ending my blorange days. One could squeeze the ropevines for dye after harvesting them manually, although the green tint of magic still shone through. Black went well with everything, especially dirt, making it all the rage. Overall, the look suited me, complimenting my dark green sweater and deep blue jeans.
My crafting endeavor capstoned the equipment renaissance, adding a shield. It suffered from an identity crisis though, self-identifying as a sword. As usual, the System gave zero shits about precision and my sheath skill stashed it all the same. The nuance escaped me, lax experimentation only revealed that a handle opposite a pointy tip with sharpened sides qualified as ‘close enough’. All my remaining bonemetal and ingots had gone into this.
The sword-shield hybrid was heavy and stood a head shorter than me lengthwise while being only a third of that at the widest part. My design narrowed out towards the tip, but launching it would probably require multiple activations to equal a single pop on my conjured swords. I’d stolen a clue after seeing Kristen’s weapon so the blade stuck out at the bottom, intended as an anchor. Hence the weight, complemented by an ‘adjustment’ for it.
Recent acquisitions spiked my mood, leading to a wild evening celebration at the pub that left my memory fragmented. Some things still stuck with me though, fading in during a confused luxury breakfast. Jen turned in early, she was heading out today along with Jeb, and the nerds had been weird. They played a new game yet took great pleasure in not explaining it properly. New friends expanded my social circle, sadly most went unremembered except for Kwame, who deserved an apology. I’d gone on and on about his foresight in choosing dreadlocks as a hairstyle for the pending post-apocalypse, along with a few other questionable topics, repeated over and over.
Building anxiety replaced the recounting of a mounting pile of social missteps, crafting became nearly impossible as a result. Oh, boy. A sneaking suspicion brought me to the windy watchtower again. Carlos raised an eyebrow at my sudden appearance, but neglected to say anything after being waved away, just like yesterday.
Somehow no vertigo accompanied my jump down this time, yet the permanent state of suspense faded away - it would come back in a few hours. I’d originally done it on a whim and now received final confirmation of what exactly had broken inside me. Most people had undergone a little transformation. The universal experience of massive trauma showcased itself in the form of behavioral oddities. Mine were damn near certain to get me killed.
I’d turned into a bit of an adrenaline junkie, currently desperate for a fix. My urges led to a plan, which our despotic government remained unaware of. Not so much because Mel might be disinterested, but it was her heavy-handed regulation that warranted avoiding. Trekking through the wilderness alone lost its appeal more than a month ago, but Barry’s newfound success at distillation landed me an eager partner in crime, and funding.
We managed to find a pair of unemployed ex-idlers and they took well to our offer of gainful, low risk employment. We didn’t need a lot more, just a bunch of planks and some makeshift rakes, plus camping amenities. I spent the remainder of the day adjusting my armor in uncomfortable anticipation.
Preparations complete, the only thing left to do was head out on the morrow.