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Part II: Min-Max Crusaders
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The caravan began a slow march to the edge of town, negotiating a route along the main drag that snaked in and around other faithful going every which way.
Just as they neared the ‘Welcome to Firefield’ sign beckoning travelers from the south, a great static sizzle filled the air. Calaf shocked himself bumping up against a north-bound pilgrim, whose eyes were pointed skyward. Indeed, every pilgrim still marching along the route was distracted or otherwise frozen in place, looking north.
For there in the sky, over the northern plateaus, arced a web of purple lightning. It fanned out from right to left – roughly the northeast to southwest, so bright it replaced the early-morning sun on the other end of the horizon.
So glaring was this arc bolt that all business came to a halt throughout the hustling, bustling Firefield. Everyone stopped to observe.
“Well hot damn,” mused one of the caravan-goers. “Get lightning storms in Port Town sometimes. Nothing quite like that. Heard it wasn’t supposed to rain up here in the desert.”
Calaf furrowed his brow.
“I don’t know…”
And there, hanging about in the atmosphere amidst the static and a low electric whine, was some Interface text.
Spell:
Thundararagara XXVI
Effect:
Deals Prodigious Lightning Damage Across A 200-mile area. (INT: 75, ARC: 75)
Description:
Do Not Use in Close Quarters
“Whew.” Another caravan-goer whistled. “That’s some kind of spell.”
It wasn’t uncommon for those Pilgrims who ventured to the hallowed stations near the end of the trail to acquire all manner of peculiar high-level gear. Legendary weapons and spells the likes of which appeared unnatural to the eyes of sheltered low-levels. A spell of that degree, though, required stats that few laypeople could ever hope to see in combination.
“Hey. You, there.” A fellow caravan guard poked at Calaf’s ribs awkwardly. “What’s the highest-level spell you’ve ever seen?”
“Mass Holy Cure VII,” Calaf said simply. “My foster father used it as a blessing during benedictions.”
Stat requirements… INT: 70, ARC: 15.
“Well, until now,” Calaf admitted.
As quickly as it appeared, the arc lightning dissipated. Always a busy city, Firefield returned to its business in no time.
“Everyone, continue onward,” said the caravan driver. “Guards in front. Just sweep the path for monsters. They’ll seldom attack from the open desert.”
“Okay, then,” Calaf said.
He took a step forward. The first proper step back home.
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Caravan journeys were often slow. Having to account for a dozen separate party members of various levels and walking speeds meant that they were limited by the lowest-level person’s weakest Agility stat.
Which is to say, progress proved glacial. By the time night fell, cooling the arid environs significantly, they’d just barely rolled into the first major watering hole south of town.
The dire-tarantulas swarmed shortly thereafter. Hairy, eight-legged, be-fanged creatures whose primary diet included liquified human innards.
Name:
Dire-Tarantulas (x12)
Rank:
Beast, Arachnid.
Level
34
Status:
69/69
Weapons:
- Venomous Fangs (x2)
- Webbing
- Hairy Feelers
Before Calaf’s surprise power-leveling spree courtesy of Jelena, even one of these things would have been a mighty foe. Now that he was not far from the coveted level 40, however, he juggled three of the skittering beasts as he held his mighty shield aloft.
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Dire-Tarantula Uses: Webbing
Effect: Slows target for venom injection and eventual digestion.
Resist!
Calaf’s Endurance was now high enough that his Effect Resistance easily shrugged off such a paltry debuff. With a mighty blow from Calaf’s spear, the first tarantula was slain. On his next opening in the Interface’s turn order, Calaf smashed the second tarantula with a shield bash that left it with the crippling ‘Broken Legs’ status effect. The second one limped back into the desert, while the third one foolishly tried to stomp on the Stalwart with its hairy feelers and was likewise run through with cold steel.
“They got one of ours! Guards, don’t lose sight of that one!”
And, not far from Calaf’s position, dragging a webbed-up human-shaped figure behind a shaded dune…
Name:
Golden Dire-Tarantula
Rank:
Beast, Arachnid.
Level
38
Status:
99/99
Weapons:
- Venomous Fangs (x2)
- Webbing
- Hairy Feelers (Gold)
With the blessing of the Ancient Hero’s relic still in his inventory, Calaf rushed over, fleet of foot. He poked at the creature with his spear, bringing forth paltry damage with each stab.
An aimed strike severed the webbing keeping this creature’s cocooned victim tethered to the dire-tarantula’s backside. This ugly, fugly spider ran off through a flash flood canal amidst the dunes, resolving to seek out less well-defended prey.
“Got him!” Calaf declared.
Alas, there would be no experience gained from an enemy that slunk off. Perhaps that was why retreat was somewhat frowned upon under the Menu. A gold-hued enemy was incredibly rare, and incredibly valuable. Calaf had seen maybe three golden dire-rats in his lifetime. Rewards for successfully felling the beast would be extensive. But for now, it was not to be.
“Anyone still standing, get back to the watering hole. It’s roll call time. Should find out who’s not dead.”
With the immediate threat of hungry dire-spiders overcome, some of the pilgrims began to set up a bonfire. Light would keep most dire-beasts at bay.
Calaf used his auxiliary knife to cut the beleaguered victim out of the cocoon of webbing. It was a hapless (and now terrified) level twelve, way out of his league for this region.
“Worry not,” Calaf said. “Just stick behind me. I’ll shield you from anything else that may attack.”
Calaf walked up a hill to do a quick spate of scouting. No further caravan-goers were being dragged off to the dire-tarantula nests to be implanted with eggs. Roll call should pass without a hitch.
In the dying light, Calaf looked off to the east. Japella was out there, the sand-colored stone dwellings blending in perfectly with the natural colors of the desert. Still, with his enhanced perception, the Stalwart could almost make out smoke from far cook fires.
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Level 40 would be a ways off. A dozen more fights like those fell spiders would put him within reach. But simply leveling up at that point was just the first step.
One more level up. Then Calaf would be able to continue his class progression journey at any cathedral along the way. Each level came progressively slower from this point out. If he’d been a Stalwart for most of his journey on this particularly eventful pilgrimage season, he could expect to remain the next rank, Squire, for the remainder of a decade.
Calaf couldn’t help but notice that he was at the higher range, level-wise, of pilgrims and guards in the convoy. There were maybe two level forty-somethings, and the median level of guards was about thirty-two.
Making it past level fifty would put anyone in the top thirty percent of faithful worldwide. The number of people north of level seventy could be recorded in a modestly sized church text. Anyone north of level ninety was rare indeed, perhaps one of a few dozen per class in all of history.
Low-level pilgrims, too weak for guard duty, gossiped around the campfires.
“I’ve heard there’s new baubles that can guide your stat distribution on level up,” said one.
“Oh? I’ve seen one,” said another. “They’re all the rage around Deepwood. Saw a level ten with INT in the forties already.”
No sooner did this rumor fly than did the sky lit up as a fireball streaked across the sky from the hinterlands far, far to the southwest dead ahead over the high desert. It was so fast it could be mistaken for a meteorite, but it had a terrestrial origin and was launched into the sky on some pretense. The dark of night returned as the fireball sputtered out.
“Why, a few levels like that and you’d be able to cast all sorts of strange spells.”
“Aye,” said a fighter-class. “Why, maybe I’d even be able to cast some spells after a level or two of that.”
Caravan drivers dumped some fresh wood onto the bonfire, sending its flames and the accompanying shadows flying out in long arcs over the desert dunes.
As he stared into the fire on that last day, Calaf wondered what levels would be gained, and what adventures would be found, on the long road home.
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The journey between Firefield and Port Town took three days. Two days of desert travel, with the second day at least spent in the relative comfort of a proper inn at the desert’s very edge. The caravan got a modest meal of gruel and dire-chicken at the inn, rubbing shoulders with some other traders and rumormongers along the path.
“Hey, I’m almost at-level for the region,” said a twenty-something Defthand, a Scout path Stalwart-equivalent. “We should visit the Olde Docks. Can get some level-up material for the eventual level-up to Thie—er, Scout. I mean Scout.”
Calaf’s ears perked up. Those blessed lockpicks did wonders for his eavesdropping skills.
“Nah. You don’t want to do that yet,” said a higher-leveled Battlemage of some kind.
“Well, why not? Every Scout needs in there eventually, ya?”
“’Cause, despite the name, Ye Olde Docks are stuck out in the swamp somewhere.” The Battlemage hunched down and whispered from here on out. “Never stays in one place for long. Know what I mean?”
“Well, that just means I need to stake the place out,” said the Scout-aspirant. “Get in and out before it wanders off again.”
“It’s also home to denizens pushing level 80,” the Battlemage cautioned. “Just because these dungeons are based in lower-level zones doesn’t mean they’re meant to be completed while you’re here. They require a dedicated team of utmost experts in their class to even get into the place.”
“Ah,” the Defthand’s head dropped, deflated.
“It’s a challenge for level 65 and up. Don’t even try to go for it. And never alone.”
“What, you’re a Battlemage, yeah? Surely you’ve been to the Battletower.”
The wizened battlemage nodded, eyes narrowing.
“Aye. A castle of traps and tricks. The enemies are nothing special, but I’ve seen people twenty levels higher than me flung across chasms by strange spring-contraptions.”
The Battlemage shuddered.
Suddenly, Calaf had a newfound appreciation for anyone who achieved the highest ranks of any given path: Paladin, Battlemage, Cleric, Scout, even Bard, he supposed.
One day Calaf would have to venture far north to Fort Duran, the holy site of the Paladin, and brave its ancient ramparts. But not this day.
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The crew awoke hours early, thanks to another web of high-powered lightning arcing through the sky that gave the twilight an illusion of midday. This bolt came from further away, diminishing the static in the air. But curiously enough, it seemed to come from due west this time.
Lightning would continue well past the usual sunrise, only to cut out thereabout ten in the morning. Regardless of whatever natural disasters were occurring out in the hinterlands, the third day of travel began by the Delta’s riverside. The caravan boarded a riverboat and was delivered swiftly, danger-free, through Port Town’s gates.
Calaf exhaled. This was perhaps the one place in the world the Stalwart would rather not be. Not much should have changed in the week or two he’d been away from this den of iniquity.
Still, he gathered his composure and took another step into his least favorite station on the Grand Pilgrimage route.
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