I
awaken
feeling—strained. Mentally, maybe, from yesterday’s stress, whose sources quickly reoccur to me and cause my temples to ache; but also physically. My legs are awkwardly folded so I can feel the bite of the virtual morning breeze where they exit my makeshift blankets, and my spine feels like it’s been stretched—
Huh?
When I open my eyes, I notice my head is higher up the beam I slept against than I remember, and when I fumble to feel for whatever’s raised me up from beneath, it’s with
a long, unwieldy arm
that finds nothing but the seat of my cloak. My thoughts race toward a realization, but before I’ve quite understood the cause of my disorientation, my eyes flit over to a young woman standing in the alley, light brown eyes fixed on mine, shortsword drawn and pointed—with the familiar blaggard, hissing, at her boots.
“Ph-phil? Is that you?” she says in a voice like Adelaide’s—the cadence is exactly the same, but the timbre icier and more musical.
Adelaide - lvl 1
100/100 HP
“Adelaide?”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
——
One of my favorite things, really my very favorite thing to do when a new RPG comes out, is to create the most hideous monster possible through the game’s character creation menu. Most players, especially of MMOs, where one has to inhabit their avatar as not only a martial but a social vehicle, prefer to create beautiful avatars that will ennoble their actions and win them favor, and menu options have largely come to capitulate to this desire. Arguably the greatest virtue of VR media, after all, is the license it grants users to embody whatever form they wish, overcoming the impliable ugliness of mortal flesh. And it’s in opposition to this tendency that I’ve come to get such a kick out of embodying preeminently ugly beings, true monsters, amid the beautiful rabble of a new medium, if only for a few days. Call it attention-seeking behavior, call it trolling—I call it the Promethean delight: the joy of creating an entirely new and unforeseen lifeform.
- Mimyou - <=
[Mart]
[Inbox]
[Contacts]
[Media] <=
[Nexus]
Open: Last Advent
Recent:
Musepace <=
Mimmiworks
Tabletop
Siminar
Alexandria
KotR
. . .
Musepace
Paused: Ballet “Die Geschöpfe des Prometheus” …
⏵<=
⏸
Playing . . .
Now—let’s get to work . . .
Last Advent <=
Presets
Theo
Egad
Fionn
Ajax
Gwen
Agnes
Daphne
Hilda
(Import UM)
Different builds, genders . . . we want the beefiest.
Ajax <=
Appearance
Build: 4
Complexion: Sallow <=
Age:
--------------[]------ <=
Voice: Gibraltar 1 <=
Pitch:
[]-------------------- <=
Hair: Shaggy Bowl <=
Color: Mammoth <=
Face <=
Face
Eye Width:
--------------------[] <=
Brow Depth:
--------------------[] <=
Nose Bridge Height:
--------------------[] <=
Nose Bridge Width:
[]-------------------- <=
. . .
Eye Size:
-------------[]------- <=
Color: Charcoal <=
. . .
Almost . . .
Mouth Size:
--------------------[] <=
Lip Thickness:
[]-------------------- <=
Teeth: Snaggle 3 <=
. . .
And—
Jaw Bite: Underbite <=
Jaw Depth:
--------------------[] <=
. . .
Ear Size:
[]-------------------- <=
. . .
Skull: Dwarf 5 <=
Ah . . .
Voila.
——
I remember the train of selections that crystallized as my monstrous avatar as soon as I hear the molassesy voice that issues from my mouth.
“I see your character name . . .” she says, “but you look . . .”
“Surprise,” I say, grimly. “Was supposed to be a joke. Fee, fi, fo—you know. Need me to say your middle name? Mi-”
“Oh, God.” She recoils, sighs, and swats at the air between us. “You look terrible. And no thanks.”
She attempts to check her reflection in her sword. Overall, she still looks remarkably like her UM, the main differences being her new light-brown irises, shoulder-length and more voluminous wavy hair, commensurably lighter, and a gaunter face and physique. When I saw her yesterday, I saw the UM that hasn’t changed in over a year, so it felt uncannily like old times; but her current avatar strikes me with the poignancy of my not knowing how much she’s changed since going off to school. This is not the sister I know. And my avatar . . .
Could this mean . . . ?
~ Chat/server ~
Server: We hope you're enjoying Last Advent!
Patch Notes - LA 1.1
Fixed:
- Character model bug. Hoo-oops!
- Forest Hideout glitch
- Hitbox tomfoolery :angry_mizaru:
- ITEM DUPLICATION :irate_mizaru:
- Mob laziness. Go, mobs, go!
- Minor connectivity issues
. . .
Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
Connectivity issues!
[Log Out] <=
The cobbles in the alley distort into a sea of static, into which Adelaide’s character sinks, all in an instant as I-
return to Last Advent.
Ad’s eyes twitch as she also tries to logout.
“Character model bug” is fixed—hence our changed appearances. “Forest Hideout glitch” could suggest something about the difficulty I had starting out there? But I grow doubtful about the relevance of this since nobody else seemed to have spawned there, save MercuryPoisonin . . . whose UM must not have been revealed as part of the character model bug. My optimism about the patch notes—which might suggest Mimmisoft is working on getting us out even if logout is still impossible—sinks back into an enervating pessimism when I realize the message at the end of the notes implying there won’t be another patch in the near term, alongside Mizaru’s sinister amusement.
“No, no, no—come on! It should be fixed by now,” Ad says, trying and retrying to leave. Her breathing accelerates and her eyes twitch between her intuitive menu and my monstrous self. “Doesn’t the message say so?”
I slowly and clumsily stand up, using the beam as my support as I raise myself onto my new limbs with about as much success as a newborn calf. Once I’m fully upright, and I feel the fringe of my formerly oversized cloak brush against my shins, I stumble over to Ad and reach out in an effort to comfort her.
“Stay away!” she shouts, steadily aiming the point of her sword at me.
The blaggard hisses again and looks ready to pounce.
“Adelaide—it’s really me—it’s Phil.”
Her sword lowers shakily,
and she nods light nods before sheathing her sword and shaking her head in disbelief.
“I’m sorry—I just . . . I can’t think straight right now.” She stares at her hands, stares and blinks at the shingled roofs around us, the quaint and derelict frontages and doubly locked doors within the alley, the shining cobbles, the lurid blue sky that smothers us now and then in the shadow of a coursing cloud.
“Ad,” I say, “we have to stop trying to log out for now. We’ll go insane.” I reclaim my goblinskins
Goblinskin (2) - Common
Leathery, fluffy stuff that bears the stench of an old curse. Can be sold or worked by a tanner.
(Take) <= (Discard) (Guild)
(1…) (All) <=
Goblinskin (2) moved to inventory
and gesture for Ad to do the same. The blaggard dashes back into the shadows as I fling my ungainly arm.
“Maybe you have gone insane,” Ad says, “but I’m going to keep trying.”
“Suit yourself. They must be getting close to fixing it.” Lies. “In the meantime, we need to take care of ourselves, and that probably means earning some gold.”
She eyes me almost irefully. “You really want to play this game? After all that happened yesterday?” Her goblinskin blankets cushion her as she falls abruptly to sit on them. “This isn't the time for roleplaying, Phil. I'm staying here until this works.” And her gold-flecked eyes, wide with stress and irritation, begin to twitch through her IM again. “I can’t let my grades slip.”
How can I tell her it's no use?
I don't have the stomach to do so, so I sigh deeply, wander toward the alley’s twisted egress into the King’s Road, and say, “Alright, I get it. I’ll go see if Rainmaker’s had any luck at the fountain and try to find some questing leads, so-”
“Wait. I’m coming too.” She seems to perk up at the mention of the fountain and subsequently pockets her goblinskins and dusts herself off, though this does little to clean her weathered starter gear.
As I lope out to the road, with Ad following, I notice For Sale signs on the cramped houses and apartments in this alley, and if only to sate my curiosity, I examine one on the splintery door of the most dilapidated, lopsided house building around.
(Read) <= (Info)
Chansley House - 5 Blaggard’s Nest - Two-Bedroom
Asking Price - 750g
For more info, visit Sir Chansley’s office on Wyrm St.
After I read this, I check my map to find this Sir Chansley’s office highlighted in white, as well as the name of our alley, Blaggard’s Nest, listed when I focus on it.
750g . . . I guess it could cost more. And that innkeeper tried to charge us 30g for one night!
“A thousand gold for these dumps?” Ad says, her eyes fixed on another sign.
“Beats rent, though,” I say. “Something to work toward.” Would take a ton of grinding.
The thought of building a home in this alley and then in one of its houses, within which we might be safe from this game’s terrors, carries me out of the Nest with a faint sense of purpose.
——
“We want out!” a chorus of players mantled in fresh robes of autumnal green, orange, and red chants as they march up the road. “We want out!”
“As if anybody’s listening,” groans a thin, elf-eared player lying on the side of the road with a group of others cross-legged, slouched, and supine. Clusters of camping players like these line the road, some chewing on dusty hard bread or sinking their teeth into mealy green apples, some weeping, most lying silent and still except for their slow virtual breaths.
“This feels weird,” says a young elvish woman walking slowly arm in arm with a tall, broad-browed man. She slows to a stop to waggle her foot and pinch the pointy tips of her ears.
“You look beautiful,” the man says, gingerly clasping her hands away from her ears. “And the sooner we get to the Pantheon, the sooner we can get out of here and back to our UMs.” He tugs her onward with a glove-clad hand.
The Pantheon, huh? Must be in that Cathedral district.
“Breadrolls! Pomons! Water, fresh-bottled from the Ember!” says bethrain harbinger - lvl 1 trader. “All victuals, one gold each!”
“We don’t have any gold!” shouts a petulant voice from the opposite roadside.
“rbsstyou poor, poor things!” cries a petite man—pierson dolmir - lvl 1 baron—with fair eyelashes that glint in the sun. “Alms for you miserables!” He tosses small sacks of coins, tied closed with twine, into various pockets of the crowd and then dashes up the road in his pointy shoes and billowy black and purple robe, sobbing dramatically the whole way. A patrolling line of guards scatters to break up the resultant brawls between parties over the gold after some quick players snatch the bags, and Ad and I snake through this mess along yesterday’s route toward the Heart, where we left Rainmaker last night.
Along the way, we see a couple parties of harrowed, determined-looking players hurry past us in which one carries a large, muddy spherical stone. Others have scuffed and torn outfits, the temporary scars of battle that accompany low HP, and fewer than five players in their parties, which, alongside their despondent chiseled faces, indicate losses.
The whole city is far more colorful in daylight, and adding the refreshed bustle of NPCs to this, and superadding the change of yesterday’s homely player characters into bulky giant-blooded brawlers, elegant elf-eared archers, fairy-eyed fencers, health-drinking halflings, and other typical fantasy configurations, most of whom are clad in cheap new tunics, cloaks, and robes—taken altogether, this feels more properly like a VRMMO at launch, at least until one scrutinizes the weary faces of the day-old playerbase or wanders into a street of layabouts camping miserably along the roadside.
In Cathedral Circle again, outside of what I assume to be the Pantheon, that Lady D’Augustine waits a few steps up at the entrance. Below her a picket of stolid guards bearing polearms wait, preventing the harassment we saw yesterday, while a long, coiled line of players files slowly through the picket and up to the knight. She repeats basically the same dialogue, not quite audible from here, to each. All I can detect is a hint of haughtiness or indignation in her voice that wasn't there yesterday. After speaking with her, players enter the cathedral itself.
“Someone said that could be a way out,” Ad says.
“Too good to be true,” I reply. “It probably initiates a quest. We can check it out later, after the line's shortened.”
“. . . Okay.”
Later, just outside of the Heart, a woman in an ornate, dark-green dress with golden floral embroidery teeters anxiously from side to side with her hands folded and rubbing each other with their thumbs. Her neck swivels from side to side until she lays eyes on us and hurries over, pinching her dress with both hands and lifting it to allow her to run.
“mmhello, brave adventurers! I wonder if you could lend me your assistance. I was out for my morning stroll earlier and—silly me—I wandered a bit too close to the Canals!”
“Out of our way,” Ad says.
“Wait—this could earn us dinner,” I whisper to her. “Ah-hem—ma’am, how might we assist you?” My baritone voice, large stature, and monstrous face seem not to repulse this NPC. It may help that I have my hood up, slightly canopying my features from view.
“Ah, kind man: as I was walking somewhere near the Anchorage Aisles, a filthy little waif assailed me from the shadows!”—she splays her fingers and thrusts her palms outward as a gesture of surprise— “and stole my coin purse! I had no more than twenty gold in that purse, if I remember aright, but my favorite charm, my little golden bee was in there!” She brushes a tress of auburn hair from her face to reveal forlorn eyes and a hopeful smile. “Oh, FeeFiFoFum and Adelaide, if you’d be so kind as to find that urchin and recover my purse, I’d happily give you the gold therein, in return for my little bumble bee.”
“Consider it done,” my voice booms. Ad begins to walk on impatiently.
“Oh!” the woman, carabella clearwater - lvl 3 merchant, gasps, “I am lucky to find such illustrious help as yours, FeeFiFoFum. May I call you Fee-fee?” She places a gentle hand around my becloaked bicep and smiles, her indigo eyes glittering.
Quest Received!
Carabella’s Coin Purse
Search the Anchorage Aisles of the Canals for a precocious thief.
Reward: 20g (+?)
“Uh, if you want,” I say. Virtual blood rushes to my face. “Now, where should we meet you after retrieving the purse?”
“Meet me in my shop, Clearwater’s Wines, at seven p.m., after closing. Go up the stairs around back and knock thrice on the door. I’ll let you right in,” she says with a wink, “and you can deliver my beloved bee into my hands.”
My IM says the current time is 11:38 a.m.; we should have ample time for such a simple starter quest. “I promise I’ll find that bee,” I say.
“My hero! Well, I must away to the shop!” She hugs me, dashes away past Adelaide, and then turns to blow a kiss. “Adieu!”
When I catch up with Ad, she asks, “Having fun?” in her most ironical tone of voice.
“What I’m doing is finding work, actually. Twenty gold could get us an actual place to sleep.”
“I’m not spending another night in this game,” she says, turning away to focus on the street.
The players we see in the vast open area of the Heart ahead are roughly divided into two groups: those who are desperately waiting, more or less motionless, for the log out bug to be fixed, and those who are rushing frantically between shops, roaming NPCs, and assumedly down the King’s Road to the city gate. Like me, the latter groups seems to recognize the necessity of preparing to survive in Last Advent for as long as we’ll need to, whereas the former follows Adelaide’s line of thought in denying—or failing to understand—the severity of the situation and waiting to finally log out.
A loose crowd of players in colorful tunics like autumn leaves rustles before the central fountain, allowing periodic glimpses through to a figure slumped against the rim, snoring. The crowd practically parts as players notice my face, and scoffs of disgust and bursts of laughter herald my passage. Someone flicks back my hood and shouts, “Troll! Troll!” while their party pretends to flee in terror.
Normally I’d be reveling in this.
“Cut it out!” Ad says, her sullenness checking the humor of passersby while we continue through to the fountain.
The sound of the surge of the water greets us as we approach the figure sleeping where we left Rainmaker last night. Others have gathered around the fountain’s circumference to rest or confer, but this bulky halfling with a long, corded copper beard, fiery eyebrows of a slightly darker hue, and a mess of wavy brown hair snores peacefully apart from the crowd, framed by the fountain supporting him. His brows are furrowed with the agitation of a nightmare, and his entire face is careworn with wrinkles as of middle-age, as if some enchantment has kept him in a fitful, yearslong slumber that has changed him gradually into this statuesque dwarven form.
Rainmaker - lvl 2
“Rainmaker?” Ad says in her new voice.
The halfling’s snoring is abruptly cut off by a raspy gasp and the flickering open of eyelids to reveal orange and gold eyes whose pupils shoot here, and there, before fixing on the two of us. They rise slightly to read our nameplates, and then Rainmaker smiles sadly and begins to push himself upright. He’s a bit shorter than before, and apart from a familiar glint in his eyes, looks completely unfamiliar. As should I.
“My friends,” he says in a bright, guttural voice that cuts through the babble of the surrounding crowd. “It’s good to see you. Aside from my party, you’re the first familiar faces I’ve seen today—”
“Meaning,” Ad mutters, her head hanging dejectedly.
“Yes.” Rainmaker nods, outstretching his stout hairy arms to gesture at the broad Forum of players about us and the monumental silhouettes of the virtually ancient structures that constitute the perimeter of the Heart, beyond which loom the sloping buildings of the elevated districts of the city, the white tower, and then the jagged range of mountains further on. “Looks like we can’t respawn—or log out—even after this first patch.”
“What does this all mean?” Ad asks.
“. . . I don’t know, exactly,” he says.
“Means we can’t afford to die. That we'll need to survive Last Advent with these avatars for as long as it takes . . .” I say. Rainmaker admires my new form concernedly, cracking a guilty smile, while Ad stares desperately at me as I move to look over the rim of the fountain and into its foamy water.
In the pool, I see a face like those of the jeering, fanged creatures engraved in the stone of the fountain. But it’s my face—at least until we escape Last Advent.
An entirely new and unforeseen lifeform, huh?
My masterpiece grimaces back at me from the pool.