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The skies over Port Town were grey, ominous – like the Menu tuned to one of its more obscure settings for some of the colorblind aspirants. Baldr walked through the port district chewing on some local delicacy. It didn’t take much to notice a handful of tails – both clerics in robes and more traditional thief-looking plainclothes types.
Still, the high-level hunter walked about without a care in the world. And so long as Calaf stayed near this unexpected savior, he wouldn’t have to worry about any clerical ambushes either.
Calaf explained the region’s level up issues at length to Baldr as the latter ate some skewered fried fish smothered in sea salt.
“Mmm. So the town bishop is fudging the level numbers of the local beasts?” Baldr managed between bites. “Would certainly explain why the cathedral gave me the cold shoulder. Still, while I noticed some over-leveled dire-gators on the way in, they’re not actually disrupting pilgrimage traffic.”
“They’re not?”
With one last bite, Baldr finished off the fish.
“Lot of routes through the swamp. Lot of ferries on each finger of the delta to pick up the slack. Pilgrims will find their way here eventually. Which is to say, it’s not my circus to corral.”
“It’s not?” Calaf tilted his head. “But the head bishop of Port Town is-.”
Baldr interrupted him. “Nope. Just making sure the pilgrimage route is secure. Going to swing north to Firefield next. Local corruption is the domain of local authorities.”
“But the thieves’ guild are the local authorities,” Calaf protested.
“Guess the locals just love thievery then. They probably depend on corruption and bribes to shield their little mom-and-pop cobbler stores from competition, or skim goods off the top of various cargo ship holds.”
“Are you… not a hunter of the church? A defender against corruption and iniquity?”
Baldr interrupted him. “I’m defending the church’s pilgrimage route – and by extension – trade routes, to ensure a steady flow of aspirants north, and a consistent glut of dead, at-level monsters granting gold and XP. Oh, people talk about wanting their local authorities to be squeaky-clean moral exemplars, but at the provincial level, anyone who is anyone got where they were by greasing palms. It’s what they want, a leg up on the other guy. Fast-tracked service for them and theirs. Someone benefits from having over-leveled dire-cows running around, pushing up the price of dire-beef. Bishop Cross is probably performing a favor.”
The pair walked – Baldr moving faster than anyone Calaf had ever seen despite still being at a casual pace, while the Stalwart struggled to keep up in the hunter’s wake.
When they reached the market district, they found a run on some of the butcher’s stalls. Dire-cow meat was going for triple the asking price. While kebabs of deep-fried fire-gator were suddenly a rare delicacy. A gator kebab vendor went up and marked the price of his wares up another 15 gold while Calaf was watching!
So that’s their angle. “It’s all just market manipulation!?”
Baldr nodded. “Usually is.”
The pair were within view of a great lighthouse on the natural cape sheltering Port Town from rougher seas. As it was daylight hours – albeit overcast – the lighthouse was not yet lit.
“Look, I’ll bring this up at the next archbishop’s meeting. Be sure to curtail some of the Port Town diocese's more aggressive monastic recruitment schemes. Beyond that, I’ve got to clear a route to Firefield.”
Calaf frowned. This was not quite the cavalry of devoted church agents chopping at the bit to weed festering corruption out of this parish that he’d been hoping and praying for during his days of captivity.
They were nearly at the north gate. Any temporary commotion from the level editing of dire-gators had since died down.
“The Bishop of Port Town personally profaned the name of the Scout!” Calaf declared.
Baldr stopped in his tracks. The hunter turned. A look on his face indicated that he required additional information. And so, Calaf explained the confrontation in the cistern, the nature of the thieves guild, and the conflation of their own holy Scout with some sort of pickpocketing brigand.
“Hmm. Is that so?” Baldr asked. “Well, that’s suddenly in my wheelhouse. Can’t go having some local clergy conflating the Heroes of Yore with some apocryphal folk legend. You’ve got my attention, but Bishop Metz has likely gone to ground by now. Unless you’re expecting me to knock off the entire cathedral solo – possible, but not my job description – I’m going to need some sort of lead.”
“Well, he’s probably with the relic that controls creature leveling,” Calaf said all matter-of-factly.
Baldr sighed, the kind of sigh that comes from having been involuntarily set up to serve as a mentor for someone who needs a great deal of mentoring.
“Look. Port Town doesn’t have a proper reliquary.” Baldr talked extra slowly. “It was assumed that such a public spot would just be a beacon for thieves, treasure hunters, hell, drunken sailors. They’ve got the leveling relic, an item from the Thi- the Scout, and that’s about it. Probably held on the Bishop’s person.”
Well, now they were back to square one. Couldn’t do anything until they found Metzger.
“You have.” Baldr held up two fingers. “Two hours. After which, I’m walking through this gate and heading north. If you’ve got a lead, I’ll go investigate at least until the next dead end. That’s what’cha got. Surprise me.”
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Calaf stomped back through the port district, making sure to avoid the cathedral district and the cistern. The tails that had followed them down through the port and market were no longer visible in the sparse crowds of midday. It’s possible they were just very hidden, or perhaps they were simply more concerned with the level 89 elephant in the room.
A great breeze off the ocean had inflicted Calaf with a status effect.
Effect: Chills
Description: -2 to Agility, +5% damage taken.
Effect: Crestfallen
Description: -5% reaction time. -1 Intelligence. -1 Charisma. -2 Arcane.
Huh. Arcane was rarely affected either way by status effects. Why, laypeople didn’t know what that was even used for. Something of a dump stat, certainly for anyone without high-level battlemage techniques. ‘Chills’ was obviously due to the fierce sea breeze – his armor was meant to protect from blows, not from southerly breezes. And as for ‘Crestfallen’…
None of this made any sense. Metzger and these apostate clerics were one thing. But even Baldr was rather nonchalant for a church hunter – the upper echelons of the Menu’s faithful. The opposite of Walter really. Whereas that man was implacable and perhaps colorless, Baldr was a bit of a peacock. Seemed to treat his church duties as a chore. Maybe he’d grown cynical from so many years of grinding levels?
For the first time on this journey, Calaf wanted to head back to Riverglen. Maybe if he didn’t find a lead by Baldr’s timetable, he would just head out the southern gate before nightfall. Could always send a dire-pigeon to Firefield to let Jorge’s party know not to wait for him.
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This little diversion in Port Town had delayed him by a week. Jelena was probably halfway to the Fellmarsh by now, with not a trail left to follow.
Calaf sighed again. The time kept slipping – nearly an hour had passed since Baldr’s ultimatum with not a sign to speak of. As one last gambit, Calaf clasped his hands.
“Oh, holy Menu. Oh, most sacred interface. Hallowed be thy name. As you did for our forefather the Paladin, guide my hand to help aid the innocent.”
Just a muttered prayer. Charlotte always suggested it in a pinch. As for whether it worked, Calaf hadn’t personally seen a miracle occur. But the Menu was there to help, put on this earth to elevate humans above savage perdition. With another sigh, the Stalwart moved his hands down to his pockets.
Alas, the miracle never happened…
His hand brushed against a weird knot in a pouch on his person. Odd, how long had that been there? He checked the pouch. There was a crumpled-up piece of paper. Not rubbish – but a note, from Gerard.
Huh. Calaf recalled Gerard patting him on the back all friendly-like before they parted ways. Had he been trying to sneak in a message?
“Secret passages.” This phrase, spelled wrong, of course, was scribbled atop a rudimentary but recognizable map of Port Town. A dozen dots – one at the cistern, one at the cathedral, pockmarked the map, all connected with faint chalky lines that indicated catacombs or drainage channels. There was a signature curving sandbar that sheltered the port. And there, too, was a dot – solitary, no connections to any others.
A perfect hiding place.
Secret passages, eh? Well, if he’d known about this smuggled map earlier, he could’ve snuck into the cathedral the old-fashioned way or maybe snuck out during his captivity. Still, it was most certainly a lead. And there was still time to surprise Baldr.
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“Okay, you’ve got my attention, kid,” said the hunter when presented with evidence. “Ah, let’s head out. Might still be able to wrap this up in time to make it to Firefield on schedule.”
The pair now stood on a dune, looking out at the lighthouse on the edge of the cape. It was a squat thing assembled from porous plainskarst imported up from Plains Junction. The only stone nearby that would sit on this barely-above-sea-level cape without toppling into the sea. Still, the lighthouse was a squat thing. But, according to the map, it was a potential thieves’ den hideout.
Baldr snapped his fingers, and immediately, a mostly transparent golden sheen surrounded the lighthouse in a box formation. It jutted out to sea a few dozen paces as well.
Custom Spell: Cage of Gold
Effect: Surround a 100 by 100-yard square in a golden barrier equivalent to 10,478 HP. Lasts 24 hours or until dispelled by the caster.
“Heh. Little concoction of my own,” Baldr explained. “Quadruple the range of the bog-standard cleric’s barrier spell and sextuple the strength. Up at the end of the line us high levels invent new spells like this all the time.”
Next, Baldr pulled out a dagger. An odd instrument for a cleric. It was jagged, with a bit of a serrrated edge. Still, at level 60 it was comparable in damage to any zweihander Calaf would be able to wield.
“Past level seventy or so, if they spec into melee builds the differences between cleric and battlemage become a little blurred,” the hunter explained. “Step right through. Barrier’s harmless to anyone in the party.”
At long last – an opportunity to learn how true high-ranking hunters of the church operated. Calaf shadowed the high-level cleric closely, watching him work.
Baldr took off through the golden mirage with an excited chuckle. Calaf followed. It was wise to let the higher-level church senior take the lead here. And yet, for a church hunter, Baldr’s mood seemed a little… all over. It would still be an hour or two before the lighthouse was lit. The pair approached with little on the way of cover out here on the dune.
A single door sourced from local oak was not so much kicked down as it was sliced into twelve dozen pieces by Baldr’s barriers. A gentle kick with the hunter’s shin then caused the whole thing to collapse into a pile, easily swept aside.
The room within was empty, some moldy remains of an abandoned lighthouse keeper’s dormitory had not been used in some time. There was a spiral staircase carved out of stone as well, venturing up at a steep angle to the beacon, and down into a chamber built into the lighthouse’s watertight foundations.
Baldr hummed as he walked down the stairs and similarly disintegrated the next door into wood shavings.
The Interface handled several quaint day-to-day actions. For instance, their eyes did not have to adjust to the pitch-black interior beneath the lighthouse. They saw clear as day six clerics and two plainclothes pickpockets, fussing over a map of the delta sunken into the plainskarst foundation. The two plainclothes thieves and one of the thieves in clerical robes pulled out knives and a spiked club, respectively.
With another snap of his fingers, Baldr summoned another storm of barriers out of thin air. Three perfect grids right over his various targets. Before they could react, hopefully before they could ever notice anything was wrong, the trio was diced into pieces. The Interface listed their HP down in the negative-triple digits. Deader than anyone Calaf had ever seen, for sure. A level eight up against the sewer dire-rats critically hit a foe down to the negative-fifties once, but this was overkill of a kind seldom seen back in Riverglen.
Next, Baldr took his knife and danced towards the nearest cleric. The cleric put up a purplish barrier of his own, but Baldr’s knife shattered it in two hits, then killed the hapless cleric dead with a third. -3/67 HP.
Four others remained in the room, startled and reeling and throwing up their own panic barriers.
Baldr counted with:
Custom Spell: Shackles of Gold
Effect: Restrain multiple targets with threadbare panes at the shoulders, knees, and neck.
The four crooked clerics were at once sprawled out and displayed vertically, arms frozen where they’d been in the process of casting barriers or perhaps drawing maces or spiked mails.
“There we go,” Baldr said, triumphant. “I have a sworn witness that testifies that you’ve been conflating the Scout, vanguard of the Heroes of Yore, with some local folk thief. That’s against church doctrine. And from sworn members of the cloth, even. Why, the penalty for that is…”
“Sir, the leveling issue…” Calaf managed.
He didn’t even want to look at the piles that remained of three of their opponents. Striking first when outnumbered was… wise. But at Baldr’s level nobody in this town was a true threat. He could have demanded a surrender at least. The code of chivalry dictated.
“Oh, right. Hmmm.” Baldr gazed around the room with his Interface. “False brick there, three things to the right.”
Indeed, a brick glowed a curious light blue over along the far wall. The chamber was circular, and Calaf walked past the restrained clerics on his way to check the wall.
“Sir, it’s a…” Calaf held up a key ring with some rusty picks on the end.
“Ah, the lockpick of the, uh, Scout.” Baldr wasn’t even looking at him. “Used by the old hero in fact. A priceless artifact, and one imbued with the power of the Menu. Be worth a pretty penny, but I’m sure the greybeards up at the Grand Cathedral will want to keep it on lock.”
“Do you want me to trade with you, sir?”
“Eh, keep it for now. There’s one last thing. What was it.” Baldr paced a bit. “Oh right.”
The church hunter turned to the nearest restrained cleric.
“You’re boss. Bishop Metz. Where is he?”
Terror filled the restrained man’s face. “F-firefield. He’s gone to Firefield.”
Baldr snapped. The golden barrier surrounding the man’s neck shattered, as did the skin around the captive’s neck. One minute the head was there, the next, it was gone. A trail of blood pointed somewhere off towards the darkened corner of the room. Calaf didn’t dare look.
Name:
Vic the Cleric
HP:
-34/69 (Pretty dead)
Calaf brought his hands up to cover his gaping mouth.
“Not even.” He forgot to breathe. “Not even anything left to consecrate. To commend to the crypts…”
But Baldr merely walked up in front of the next captive.
“That guy telling the truth?”
The captive only nodded vigorously, as much as his neck-restraint would allow.
“He left you all here to die.” Baldr said with a slight tremoring chuckle to his voice. “Patsies. Leave the peons to die while the boss slinks off. Admire the gumption. Well, I was just heading to Firefield. What a coincidence. Got a thieves guild branch there?”
Again, the hunter snapped, and the captive’s arm was instantly severed. Down to 2/45 HP in an instant.
Baldr opened his mouth and said something, but Calaf couldn’t hear anything over the screams.
The Paladin path, starting from Shielder, was meant to protect the innocent. These men were… not innocent. Apostates, even. And yet, they were unarmed prisoners. To his shame, Calaf found that the Holy Menu itself stifled any attempts he could take to intervene. The option to attack Baldr or defend the captives was simply not allowed under the Interface. Calaf and Baldr were in a party, after all. And even if he were to break that pact, the level difference was greater from Calaf to Baldr than between Baldr and any of the opponents he’d just instantly gibbed into chunky salsa.
“I said: hey, new guy. It’s getting late. Why don’t you go light the beacon upstairs?”
Baldr hadn’t looked at Calaf since they entered the room.
“The… light house?” Calaf looked to the now-armless captive as two other captives awaited their fate. “R-right.”
Already, the man with the impromptu amputation had dipped down to 1 HP. Bleeding out. Calaf went for his healing items before leaving the room. Maybe there was a chance… healing herbs, or even just sleeping nettles to knock the man out. Only, the Menu didn’t allow him to even provide this mercy. The cleric’s name was in red. They were technically in a battle after all, no matter how one-sided, The Interface wouldn’t allow trades or even to use a single potion on him.
Calaf took a few steps towards the stairs. His skin crawled.
Right at the door, he turned around.
“Sir?” he asked, weakly.
“Sun’s getting low, newbie.” Baldr had taken to staring down a third terrified captive. “Didja need anything?”
“W-why?” Calaf managed.
For once, Baldr looked at Calaf with a rather unreadable grimace.
“Why what?” the hunter asked with a shrug, then severed the limb of another victim with a snap of his fingers.
Calaf left without another word, screams of anguish echoing in his thoughts.
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