Moving in the silence of grief and determination, Grey, Damsel, and Crow stealed across the night toward their destination; the Misty Mountains.
It had not been but an hour before, trekking along the main roads, Damsel turned toward her two party members and put a finger to her lips. She pointed down the way past the tall torchlit lamps that lined the sides of the road, then Grey saw her eyes read the area in front of her as though she was reading a book there. A faint grey icon with the look of greeting card pulsed with light in the right hand corner of Grey’s peripheral.
Private message from Damsel @ 23:57 -- Looks like the Hero Vision chat function works; guys, I feel a distinct malevolence up ahead.
Grey nodded at her, equipped his Shield of the Misnomer then the bone sword with eyes of a determined deer in the headlights. He gripped hard on the hilt of the low-level on-hand weapon, readying himself for a fight. Crow, however, shook his head and closing his eyes, for a moment, seemed to adjust one of his skills. Then, when he next spoke his voice sounded like nothing but a calm, yet eerie wind.
“Smart move switching to private chat, Damsel. Now, both of you, go and hide behind that large oak,” he commanded, “and don’t make a sound. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Grey stared at his self-proclaimed rival astonished and a trifle annoyed. Of course the town’s pride Rogue prodigy had the Whispering Winds ability; the ancient language created by the Sky Elve’s Assassin Guild back when Bitworld had been young which granted the speaker with the power to pass along secret messages, which to the ears of anyone outside their party sounded like nothing more than a passing breeze.
By Crow’s head the luminescent prompt that showed he was listening to Ghost of You by My Chemical Romance dulled to a faint grey. He threw on his hood, equipped two obsidian daggers, and quickly raced off the road. Grey and Damsel crept behind the large oak, looked down the foggy path and listened. After a bout of silence, they heard the distant pattering of objects falling on cobblestone, a single scream quickly cut to a gasp for life, then a rustling of leaves as though something was being dragged through them. The two friends looked at one another warily and Grey rolled his fingers along the handhold of his shield. It wasn’t but a moment later that Crow appeared before them, wiping his blades off with a cloth. The light of the lamp was falling on his face and it caused a slight predatory glow in his eyes.
“The main roads are being watched, and if anyone with even half an ear was listening they would have heard that.” He sheathed his daggers, brushed his bangs to the side, and searched the shadows. “Fuck, how could I have been so stupid? So slow. . .whatever, let’s go.”
The rest of the journey was long and arduous as they kept to the woods, hanging beside a river that wound through the trees and the craggy rocks. Moonlight cast down through the branches and leaves, reflecting glimmers of light off the water, and in the darkness, Damsel stopped them for a moment to watch as strange ethereal sparks of light danced between the trees. It was a rare sight, she’d told them, witnessing the nature of nocturnal fairies.
“We don’t have time for this,” said the Rogue.
And off they went, eventually reaching a large waterfall that blocked the way. Crow scoured the area and came back with news that they’d taken a wrong turn somewhere and by the looks of it they’d have to travel around the waterfall.
“At this rate, we won’t even reach the mountains until tomorrow afternoon.” He scowled at the sky. “And I don’t want to travel during the day, not with the Agents of Light about.”
Damsel had been holding two fingers to her breast with her eyes closed. “I think I might have an idea!”
“Great,” Crow said sarcastically. “The Empath has an idea.”
“Hey, watch it,” Grey said.
Damsel smiled at her best friend.
“Oh, look at that, Grey,” she giggled. “Crow is an Empathist. Makes sense, most melee classes are, but only until they meet someone with the true gift.”
“Fine, gifted one,” Crow said. “Let’s hear it, what’s your brilliant plan? Feel the waterfall into running upstream for us? Call up some fairies to fly us?”
“Something like that, actually.”
Then she was gone, leaving the two young men to sit on some rocks by the cascading falls in silence. Grey wasn’t the most talkative person in the best of situations, small talk made him feel incredibly uncomfortable, but as he looked at Crow, the idea of having an actual conversation about anything made his insides turn. The only thing he thought they had in common was that they’d both lost their parents. But, Grey thought, at least his might still be alive.
Finally, he heard the sound of extremely heavy footsteps cracking fallen logs in the distance, and the closer the sound got, the more unsteady the ground became. It shook rhythmically. Grey then heard trees parting high up above and looked up, nearly falling off his seat. It was the biggest troll he’d ever seen, and Damsel was riding in the creature’s hand.
“He said he’ll lift us over the waterfall,” she said giddily as the creature lowered her onto the ground.
For once, Crow actually looked scared, and Grey couldn’t help but feel a little bit of joy at that.
“How’d. . .how’d you do that?” the Rogue asked her.
She simply shrugged. “Oh, it wasn’t hard. Trolls live a solitary life, and no one ever listens to them. Amazing what showing someone care and respect can do.”
The troll nodded shyly, and smiled its big rocky mouth at its new friend. Then, easily fitting all the young heroes in his one granite palm, he hoisted them clear up the fifty foot high waterfall. Crow hopped off expediently, followed by Grey. Damsel, had the troll raise her to his gleaming yellow eyes and pointed at him with a motherly finger.
“Now remember,” she said, “sometimes it’s okay to ask for help, okay?”
He nodded. Then she kissed where a nose might’ve been, and he let her go. As they walked away in silence, she waved once more to the monolithic creature, and the party continued their woodland journey by the way of the rolling river. The moon gleamed and the stars flickered in the sky. They passed on through the rest of the night without incident, and by the time the sun was rising over the distant horizon the party came up on the first of the footsteps they’d seen since leaving the road six hours prior.
“Shhh,” Crow said in his Whispering Winds voice. He knelt down, placed his hand on one of the prints and inspected the tracks. “Okay, we’re fine. These belong to hunters, not to them.”
Something about the way he said ‘them’ sent a chill down Grey’s spine.
“Who’s them?” he asked.
But Crow didn’t answer; he just waved his hand, and led them forward out of the woods toward a tall fence made of thick logs that were filed at their pinnacles and tied together. In the middle were two dwarven guards and they stood on the left and right of a gate. Behind the gate was a sentry tower that was alight with a flame and as they approached the gate, Grey looked up at the tower in awe. There was a single Hocklith holding a cross bow and patrolling inside it. With his avian eyes he held the heroes in a piercing gaze.
“I’ve never seen a Hocklith before,” Grey said to Damsel.
Crow sighed. “Don’t make any surprising movement, Grey. They act faster than they think. Creatures with that fast of instincts and that great a lack of intelligence is a danger to everyone.” They went slow, and were stopped within five feet of the gate. The Rogue quickly whispered, “Let me do the talking.”
The dwarven guards stepped forward, their axes held across their chest, and craned their necks to stare down the tall Rogue. They glanced to one another seemingly unsure of who was on authoritative talking duty that day. Crow answered that question for them promptly.
“My name is Crow son of Thyran,” he said, “we seek supplies and passage into the Misty Mountains.”
The two dwarves grunted and scanned the party with the natural Inspect ability granted to all Gate Guardians across Bitworld.
“You three, in the Misty Mountains, har-har. One level thirteen Rogue,” the red-bearded one grunted, “a level one Empath and a level one. . .” then his eyes narrowed, trying to place Grey. “What class be you, squid?
Grey stuffed his hands awkwardly in his pockets and shuffled his feet, searching for an answer that might suffice, but as he looked up at the Hocklith who had its crossbow aimed at the young hero’s chest, he found he could not speak. Crow stepped in front of him guardedly, and his voice dropped into a strange song.
“You don’t care about his class, he is no one. And it’s not your job to dictate our quests, for our being here does not interfere with the business here. Let us pass.”
The two dwarves stepped back, their expressions filled with stupor.
“Hmmmph,” said the heavily mustached dwarf, “yar, you may pass.”
Together, they stomped back to the wheels on both sides of the gate and heaved the metal forward. Clinking, the gate slowly rose upward, then tilted diagonally back and went horizontal. With Crow in the lead, the party members walked under and as they passed the sentry tower, the Rogue shot the Hocklith a sharp, eye as though daring to give them trouble. Then they navigated the small path which lead them through the fringes of the market, past a group of badly beaten but well-armored Champions who were arguing with a sturdy looking orc over being cheated.
“Stay close,” Crow whispered, “and remember. . .”
“Let you do the talking,” Grey finished for him begrudgingly.
Damsel laced her hand in Grey’s as they walked across the muddy path. She had two fingers pressed to her breast and was slightly trembling.
“What is it?” Grey asked her.
“Something malevolent.”
Crow stopped in his tracks and snapped his head around his shoulder.
“Like on the road?” he asked.
“I don’t know, maybe.”
He placed his thumb and index on his chin and stared at the ground.
“No, they’d be crazy to do anything here, but still, Damsel, keep a feel on the place and if it intensifies around anybody, let me know as quickly as possible.”
She nodded and Grey felt his own heartbeat speed. There was something the Rogue wasn’t telling them and he felt certain that it had something to do with Crow’s father’s dying words, and as the young hero looked around, he could not help but wonder if perhaps there was more to what had happened in town than what the townspeople had assumed. The questions rose in his mind again, as they had so many times since leaving his past behind in search of his mother; why had the dragon kidnapped her? It still didn’t make sense, something so random. And Crow was even more cryptic than usual.
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The Rogue glared down at the young hero.
“Look,” he whispered, “you need to quiet your fucking mind right now, noob. I can sense your thoughts and I don’t even have any telepathy skills. If there are any wizards prodding through minds here, then you’re going to get us into trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?” Grey asked.
But Crow only shook his head. “It’s nothing of concern right now,” he said, but high charisma stat or not, even he couldn’t lie that well. He had both hands near his blades and his fingers were practically playing a piano on the daggers’ hilts.
Grey felt uncomfortable with the entire thing, on edge as he ever had, and more confused than ever before. And even with Damsel’s palms flowing pulses of calm into him, she still didn’t have high enough skills to overcome all which troubled the young hero. He smiled at her nonetheless and they followed Crow deeper into the marketplace. Crisp morning air filled their lungs and a light fog tangled about their feet as they trudged through the mud. In the center of the area was a large flickering fire, and as they approached it, a variety of shops began populating -- a blacksmith, a florist, two different merchants, an apothecary, and so on -- and with them, segregated crowds of Non-Hero-Classes (NHCs), worn down parties much like their own but with far better armor. Grey could make out little in the way of conversations, the sounds of dialogues piling on top of each other into utter nonsense. Scents of smoking meat wafted through the crisp morning from an Orc butcher setting up for his first customers who were lined up in front of the stand.
“Calm down,” whispered Damsel to him.
“Sorry.”
They came to a stop next to an elvish merchant that was calling out to people about having the best coffee in the marketplace, and Crow did the closest thing to a smile Grey had seen him do. The Rogue quickly went to the merchant, offered him some coins, and as the elf made the beverages, Grey could not help but creep as close to the stand as possible and eavesdrop on the casual conversation Crow was having.
“What sort of travelers have been by?” the Rogue asked the elf.
“What sort of travelers are you looking for in particular?”
Crow brushed a bang behind his ear. “Just competition I suppose. We’ve all just traveled from oversea and had heard that the Misty Mountains were a good place to start. My little brother and sister, you see, are quite low-leveled and I worry about them.”
The elf clicked an espresso hanger into place at a strange contraption, snapped his fingers and three streams of amber liquid trickled into little iron cups below. He turned over his shoulder, glanced at the party and nodded in understanding.
“There have been many higher level heroes than you three, but most of them have proved most genial of characters,” he said, pouring the three steams into three cups which had already been filled ¾ full of black liquid. He put a lid on each and brought them to the counter, smirked and nodded at a jar in front of a register. “I would hate to give information about them, they tipped quite well, to stay anonymous. But, I might be able to be swayed.”
Crow sighed. “I completely understand. How much do I owe you?”
The elf sighed as well, heavier, and the exchange was made. A tip as well, but only what Crow clearly thought was necessary. He handed two cups to his party members and for the second time ever, Grey could see a wicked smile on his face.
“What are you so happy about?” he asked.
“I just gained twenty-one experience points for that conversation” said Crow, taking a sip of his coffee. “And that elf provided me with a good deal of information.”
“I don’t understand.”
“And you lied,” added Damsel.
“To someone that likely talks with every vagabond in the marketplace, and provides information to anyone who offers a price for his knowledge. Likely, that malevolence you felt earlier, Damsel, already offered him coin to pass on intel if three kids such as us approached.”
“How do you know that?”
“When he offered his services if I tipped him, he was trying to get me to reveal myself by paying for information that only three people in danger would need. But by telling me those who tipped him previously wished to remain anonymous he let his hand slip. Stupid easy, honestly.” The Rogue held the cup to his lips and breathed in the steam, then flicked his eyes around the marketplace. “Either way, let’s be fast. I checked both your character screens previously and it looks like neither of you have much in the way of money. Since my parents. . .” he trailed off, cracking his neck. “I, however, have come into a bit of funds myself since yesterday. I’m going to give you each 400 coins to spend on either armor or a weapon.” He shot a sharp eye at Damsel. “Don’t be stupid with them.”
“Hey,” she said, “just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I spend frivolously.”
“You’re an Empath. Empaths spend impulsively. Doesn’t have anything to do with your gender.”
Grey puckered his face as he tried forcing down more of the revitalizing beverage.
“Why,” he asked, “are you giving us money? It seems, well, nice.”
“I don’t know what we’re going up against, but I’m not a fucking tank or healer. I kill things, I can’t worry about the two of you if we find ourselves in a fight, which we will; this is the only way I can think of (other than spending a bunch of fucking hours killing rabbits and shit) to improve your chances of survival. Understood?”
“You didn’t have to be so rude about it,” said Damsel, gasping. “By the Gods, I could even feel your hatred for us.”
The three approached the nearest merchant, a young man barely older than Grey who looked quite unhappy in his career. The place was a hodgepodge build which would’ve barely even been acceptable by the Lemonade Guild of Bitworld’s standards, and a crooked sign hung from the sloping roof which read;
STEVE’S LYTE ARMORE AND WEPENRY
Damsel put her hands on the stand, then pulled them off for it was quite dirty, and stared at the sluggish moptop merchant who was sitting, half asleep in a chair. There was a little bell on the stand and she inspected it like one might inspect the bacterium of a rare disease. Grey pressed it for her. The merchant perked up about as much as he could manage and yawned.
“Welcome, how may I help you?”
In the left hand corner of Grey’s vision, a translucent drop down box appeared.
BYE
SEL
KWIT
He read the words curiously, almost finding himself second guessing his own knowledge of spelling, then remembered what he’d heard in his old Second Period Class; that each merchant of Bitworld programs their own shops, glanced at the merchant and no longer second guessed himself. He and Damsel both clicked BYE and it didn’t take long for Grey to realize that everything the merchant had for sale could only be used by Empaths and Wizards. He exited out and waited as Damsel thoroughly inspected each item.
Crow stood protectively behind his two party members studying the merchant for a moment, until finally he stepped past Grey, up to the stand where he charmingly put his hands on the surface.
“Steve?” he said lightly, “is that you? We had a class together, right?”
“Ummm,” Steve stammered, blushing. “Yeah, I was hoping you wouldn’t recognize me.”
“Why?”
Steve sighed, then eyed the Rogue, then Damsel, then Grey depressingly.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this, I studied hard back at the Academy, and I…”
Grey glanced up at the stand’s sign again, and couldn’t help but think otherwise.
“...but when I took my Tutorial, the simulation’s boss populated and it wasn’t a minotaur or anything like that; it was a group of heroes. I was standing behind a merchant stand, like this one. I was chosen to be an NHC. Then the school burnt down so I couldn’t even finish my business studies. My parents, you probably remember them, both on the Champion’s Committee, they disowned me. So now I’m here.”
Crow was shaking his head remorsefully. “Shame, you were always good in, erm, that class we had together.”
“Yeah?”
“Definitely, I always looked up to you, really, I did. Hey, maybe being an NHC isn’t so bad. Tell you the truth, I’d switch places with you in a heartbeat.”
The merchant started standing up excitedly.
“Oh,” said Crow casually, “but I couldn’t do that. Rules of the field test, of course. Still, you should take pride in your work. Without honest merchants with fair prices, heroes would be useless.” He smiled the way a serpent might , and turned to Grey and Damsel. “Did the both of you find what you were looking for yet?”
Grey nodded, inspecting some pauldrons.
Crude Pauldrons
Cost: 102 coins
Level 1
Durability: 22/22
Defense: + 2-5
Item Class: Very Common
Forgery: BIT-MART
Quality: They’re called crude pauldrons, what do you think the quality is?
Weight: 12.3 lb
He clicked on the item to buy it, and a red prompt appeared telling him he didn’t have enough money to buy the item.
“I guess I haven’t. Everything is too expensive.”
Crow sighed and turned to Steve. “Hey, I know it’s a lot to ask but would you take 100 coins instead of 102? I’m teaching the noobs how to budget, but it’s hard with inflation and all that.”
Steve’s eyes seemed to glaze over, and Grey watched as the cost of the pauldrons dropped by thirty percent. He shook his head in irritated amazement, then bought and equipped the item. The pauldrons fit loosely over his baggy hoodie, and as he looked down at his jeans and running shoes, yearned for the day when he had actual armor, and stopped, thinking once more about the mystery that was his Class and whether he’d be able to equip any Class Specific Items he wanted or if he wouldn’t be able to use any of them at all. He knew as well as anyone that there was far more to becoming the best hero possible than just leveling up, and found himself suddenly worried.
With Damsel’s Empathic beauty and Crow’s high Charisma, they were able to get a bundle deal for her; it consisted of a crude bow, small quiver, and a fine looking tunic which draped well around her figure, cutting off mid-calf. She was inspecting herself and shuffling her feet uncomfortably.
“What’s wrong?” Grey asked.
“I’m wearing a long duster’s tunic, chuck taylors, and a baseball cap. I don’t think I match.”
“You don’t,” said Crow. “But you’re a level one. No one expects you to match.”
They left the merchant and as they walked, Crow explained how Charisma was a Rogue’s best friend, and why no party should ever find themselves without at least one master of the attribute. And despite his disliking for his rival, Grey couldn’t deny that the Rogue had talents, so he listened intently. They stopped at one more shop to stock up on some more potions and Crow charmed his way into getting some free food.
“You stole that,” Damsel scolded him quietly.
“Sometimes Charisma needs to be utilized in creative ways.”
“Grey,” she admonished, “please don’t tell me you’re taking notes right now.”
“Um,” he stammered, quickly unequipping the standard notepad that every hero had in their inventory. “Nope.”
At the edge of the marketplace, Crow told them he had one last stop to make, then ordered them to wait on a nearby bench and keep to themselves. He hurried away toward a large black, gold, and mysterious looking tent of extravagant silk, then, looking both ways, slipped under the flap. Grey could not pull his eyes away from that tent and after a few minutes, stood from the bench.
“Where are you going?” Damsel asked.
“I want to see what he’s up to.”
“You really don’t trust him, do you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Grey didn’t have an answer he could pinpoint. There seemed so many to choose from, and some of them he wasn’t entirely proud of. He glanced at her, then at the tent.
“Fine,” she said finally, rising to her feet. “You’re so stubborn sometimes.”
They ran toward the tent and snuck around the side of it, getting as close to the sound of a dialogue as they could. One of the voices belonged to an old lady who’d likely smoked her own potions for far too long, but the other was Crow’s. He was speaking in his Whispering Winds, and yet, Grey thanked the Gods, the Rogue had forgotten to take his party members out of understanding.
“No,” the Witch said, “I’m retired from my days of an illusionist.”
“This isn’t about retirement, it’s about duty.”
“There’s no duty anymore, the prophecy is a sham.”
“Tell that to the dragon that killed my fucking parents.”
The Witch fell silent for a moment, and Grey could hear her rummaging through a few potions, cleaning perhaps, as though too old and callous to conjure up a sentence of sympathy. A glass fell and broke.
“Look what you’ve made me do,” she hissed.
“You’re clumsy, don’t blame me. Now, are you going to help me or not?”
“No. You’re a foolish boy, He has the Nine already. So unless you know something I. . .you do know something, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes, or at least the eye you don’t have covered up by that stupid hair of yours. You should cut it, it looks stupid.”
“I know more than I can tell you, but you need to trust me, like my parents once trusted you. He might have the Nine, but without the. . .”
“Shhhh,” she hissed again. “Don’t say it, people might be listening. Fine. I’ll do you this favor. But even if my illusion can lead them toward the next town, they will eventually realize where you’ve gone.”
“Eventually will be long enough; it has to be.”