“That sounds . . . a little ambitious,” Ad says, deflating our two companions somewhat. Rainmaker raises his eyebrows and inhales, but before he can speak, a player wanders clumsily out of the hallway beside us, rubbing his stomach and smiling contentedly.

“Food’n there’s reeeally good,” he says, his slightly iridescent blue eyes blinking slowly. “Gotta try the sh’pherd’s pie. B’now I’m outta gold . . .” And with that, he wanders out, bumping on his way into a door jamb and a small table, causing a red-painted sculpture of a dragon to jiggle on its belly before resettling.

“. . . Can’t have people overhearing us,” Rainmaker says. “But, yeah, it is ambitious. That’s the idea.” His face flashes with excitement, checked only by his grief and exhaustion, whereas Prim’s furrowed brows and slight frown are staunch.

“Cyn and Xeno and DimZ,” Prim says in an almost reverential low voice, “started developing a plan for some kind of governance as soon as it was clear we couldn’t log out. In retrospect, I think their minds jumped straight to Questdeaths, like igNoble’s. The division of supplies and the march from the hill were an ad hoc prototype for a structure through which we could work to preserve everyone from harm or trauma until the log out fix. No man left behind—and hoplite soldiers, in keeping with—”

“A democracy,” Ad and I whisper. I continue: “You want to make sure no guild swallows up all of the players and defines the status quo.”

“Basically,” Prim says, with Rainmaker nodding slowly. “And as to that objective, we’re now a big step behind. Rain and I have quite a bit of deliberating to do with the other planners.”

“Boring stuff,” Rainmaker smiles.

“Boring or not, it’s a good idea considering how chaotic things have been already,” Ad says, her calculating eyes homed on that dragon sculpture. They flick back to Rainmaker and Prim. “How can we help?”

“Just gonna take a lot of planning tonight. But why don’t you two meet us back here tomorrow morning? We’ll have a better idea of what supplies, how we wanna get the word out, all that stuff.” Rainmaker smiles and looks at Prim, who seems slightly irritated. Ad seems unsatisfied but nods.

“Something you could do,” Prim says, “is investigate that supposed storyline igNoble brought up. We’ve heard the Pantheon is in Cathedral Circle and that there’s an AGI knight there, but none of us have gotten the quest yet. If you could report back on the content of the dialogue and the quest objectives, that’d give us a better idea of the White Knights’ motivations.” He itches the scar on his avatar’s face. “And if you need to find us tonight, Rain and I each have a room in the Green Dragon.”

“Twenty-one and twenty-four,” Rainmaker says. “They're not instanced, so you can knock. Like I said last night, though, our rooms are packed with our parties, so I’m afraid we can’t offer either of you a place to sleep.” He frowns. “Will you be okay?”

“We should be fine for another night,” I say, looking to Ad, who shrugs. “I’ve gotten a quest that should yield some gold, so we’ll probably get a room somewhere near you both.”

Ad perks up. “Phil, why don’t you go get that coin purse while I go to the Pantheon? Divide and conquer,” she says, seemingly excited to contribute something.

“Split up? No—no way,” I say. Is she insane? “Not a good idea to go roaming the city alone. Remember how crowded it was there?”

She frowns. “It looked way calmer today. There was, like, a single-file line. And it’s supposed to be safe within Losthearth, right?”

Yeah, it’s supposed to be. Still—

“Maybe I’ll even find another source of gold since that quest just fell into your hands. We’ll be better able to afford a room if we focus on separate tasks.”

“She’ll be okay,” Rainmaker comforts me. I glare at him and he raises a brick-red eyebrow.

“Ad—the answer’s no.” I’m not losing her again.

She leans forward with her hands on her virtual knees and stares intensely at me. The difference between her avatar, like a maturer, adventuring version of herself, and her UM is starker than ever. “Okay. If you’re concerned about me, that’s great. I’m concerned about you,” she says, pointing at my monstrous mug. “But I am nineteen years old. You’re my brother—not my boss. And for as long as we’re stuck in this shitty game you picked out, I’m going to make myself useful-”

Her angry, knitted brows fall slack and her eyes sadden when she realizes she’s blamed me for our captivity, but I’ve already stood up on my monstrous, lanky legs, pulled my hood over my eyes, and turned to leave.

“Phil—I’m sorry—I just need-”

“Just meet me in the nest later. And be careful.” I wave at Prim and Rainmaker without turning. “We’ll see you two tomorrow,” my avatar's syrupy voice says.

She’ll see how much it sucks to play a VRMMO alone, and then we’ll stick together from tomorrow on. No big deal.

On my way out of the Monkey’s Paw, I admire that painstakingly-carved red dragon near the door.

“zsee you next time, ‘venturer,” says Marcus Mizarunan, still amused enough by our interaction to chuckle.

——

igNoble's speech has ended, but the spectacle in the forum has yet to dissipate completely—I still see flashes of the White Knights’ armor deep beyond the crowd, and it sounds like they're cheerfully welcoming and chatting with the new members of The Adventurers’ Guild, although their leader is conspicuously withdrawn, addressing questions from behind two de facto bodyguards.

If he really beat Questdepths and he's right about our server being an imitation—all of the clues point to this: permadeath, inexplicable gore, inability to log out—then maybe the White Knights are on the right track. They've already leveled up that high without dying . . .

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

But it's too early to start grinding. There's still a chance we'll get logged out within the next few days.

I mull this over as I lope out of the forum and down a street to the north that will bring me, according to a golden, fang-shaped pin on my map, to those Anchorage Aisles in the Canals.

Passing players stare absent-mindedly at me as they converse. Loners brush past me and mutter apologies before meeting my eyes, yelping, and running off. Some of the particularly distraught players lying on the roadsides or knelt between others under colorful storefront awnings point and laugh

I am FeeFiFoFum, the leper of Losthearth.

This doesn't impede my questing, at least—or stop me from savoring my freedom. When I reach the Canals, named for deep, narrow, muddy old canals in the center of some streets, I see a gaggle of NPC children wrestling for scraps of food. A single, patiently striding guard shoves the outermost one with his club without swiveling his helmeted face as he walks past, and the children consequently press themselves against the mud-spattered stone wall of the ancient building behind them and curse at the guard:

“Imp! Impy imp!” “Fiend!” “Booo!”

“You missed!” cries the one who was shoved, sticking out his tongue.

The guard jerks his armored torso to return toward the kids, his club raised overhead.

“Excuse me!” my voice booms. I run up to the guard, who stops in his tracks and turns his head, giving the urchins a window to dash away. One says “Giant! A good giant!” as he flees, and the guard swivels his head back and grrrs before returning to me.

“bbwhat?” he says.

NPC child abuse? What the fuck, Mimmisoft. Glad I didn’t bring Ad.

“Ah-he-hem,” I grumble, “I was just wondering where I can find the Anchorage Aisles. Lost something there.”

He leans back incredulously, staring up at me and slowly slapping an open palm with his club. “Pfft. The Aisles? Need your fix of dragontears, huh, adventurer? You look it. Worthless lot.” And he pushes past me before slowing back into the former gait of his patrol.

And drugs. Lovely.

I take a left down the narrow, shadowy street ahead, and a few sallow eyes flash at me from the darkness and maintain their gaze. Multiple NPCs are camped in makeshift tents beside long-dead fires. They’re all halflings except for a single fae—marked by sparkly features like that player’s iridescent eyes alongside an uncannily curved frown—and all are clothed in rotten rags.

“hhayee, ‘venturer, lookin’ for a quest?” one says droolily, beckoning me with a bruised hand.

“ssyyalms, ‘venturer, alms for us poor lil’ paupers,” says the fae, the corners of his mouth curling slightly upward into a smile.

“gwwelcome, son of Gorion, welcome!” says another, clutching some kind of stone charm on a twine necklace as she shuffles slowly toward me on her knees. Her eyes sparkle with tears.

“Sorry—sorry,” I say, rushing past them into a similarly dark street. The storefronts all have For Sale signs nailed to their doors, and these and a few aged, dutch-roofed houses look to have been colorful centers of activity many virtual years ago. There are no other players around, nor NPCs on this street, although I can hear muffled shouts echo from the labyrinth of alleys around me, as well as the vigorous rush of water from what must be the river that passes through Losthearth to the north.

Something glimmers down the street.

Another kid, a young sandy-haired boy dressed in filthy clothes of burlap or linen,

ranmir canal - lvl 1 urchin

holds up a nugget of gold between the thumb and index finger of his bandaged hand. The rest of his splayed fingers tremor, and his expression is of utter delight: he breathes slack-jawed, many teeth missing from his smile, as he admires the gold, turning it slowly between his fingers to reveal

a pair of golden wings. In his other hand: a coin purse.

I attempt to creep slowly forward while his attention is captured by the charm, but after my avatar takes one ungainly step, Ranmir’s glowing eyes turn to look at me, his awed expression turns blank—he books it down a neighboring alley.

“Hey!” I yell, leaping forward into a sprint after him.

Second Wind:

Restores (40) HP on use and gives a temporary increase to all stats (dependent on user level)

Activation time: Instant

Duration: One minute

Cooldown: One hour

Might as well use my hourly speed boost.

Dex - 10 +1

Mid-run, this feels as if the gears of the machinery empowering my stride have been oiled—one step flows more fluidly after the other, and I feel myself growing gradually more used to this new body. But the kid is fast, skids to turn corners almost instantly on his worn-out boots, slides under outcropping poles and planks to lose me.

“Hold on, pipsqueak! That’s my dinner and lodging!”

I follow him around one more corner—into a tight alley in which I have to turn slightly sideways to walk—and squint down the grimy, fly-ridden passage to see . . . a gecko?

A small, dark-brown lizard flicks its tongue at me and drags its fat belly away with flopping legs, one of its yellow eyes fixed on mine. When a rat screeeeaks and runs out of a grate in one of the beige walls beside us, the “gecko,” an Archy - lvl 2, suddenly leaps to pounce on it, gulping it up with one bite and a few retch-like swallows while the rat still shrieks.

And Ramnir is nowhere to be seen.

“Dammit,” I say, stepping cautiously forward and over the archy and the piles of refuse beyond it. My boots almost break a couple of wooden pallets before I reach the end of the alley.

“Ramnir, oh Ramnir!” I sing in my goofy baritone. “Where aaaaaaaare y-ACK!”

A bag of rough, fishy cloth falls over my hood and face

and two pairs of wiry arms seize me, dragging me roughly down stone stairs into some hole in the ground.

I writhe and flail my monstrous arms, but even at Str - 10 +1, I cannot resist.