2.11 When In Doubt
The funny thing about tomorrow is that it never is tomorrow. That only happens with today. It was a good three days before Silven finally moved himself from the chess table in his study at Overwall and set about the dreary business of destroying his foes. In that time, a great flutter of positivity had swept through Solmond City. With Herbie’s muffled announcement that Silverlink would officially support the military, the feeling on the street was that the nation was gearing up for victory. Silven was feeling a little more glum than all that.
When Olgred finally asked him from around a safe corner why he had changed his mind about the adventure, it was good to get the whole thing off his chest. “I have the dreadful suspicion that getting rid of Wallace and Zolar might be my destiny,” he said over a morning swamp whiskey. “I have been given the quest after all. If I did send someone else out, or the whole army if I damn wanted to, that’s it. At least if I go, and I have that horrible feeling that I’m playing into the hands of my enemies, then I can put a stop to it.”
“What, leave them alone?” cried Olgred, pouring another.
“Not necessarily. It just might require a little more invention than sticking a sword through their chest. And now a toast, Olgy. You were right.”
Olgred looked shocked. “I was? What? When? This is incredible!”
“About the Elsenberg Principle. It seems there isn’t a limit to what we can do after all, if we pull back the workings of the world layer by layer. And yet we are still limited by ourselves.” He raised his glass and held it out. “Cheers!”
Olgred gulped and considered. “You refer to your quotas again, don’t you? I still think we should consider giving the gift of freedom to all.”
“I think we’ve peeled enough layers for now, and without any help from that Grennel. I don’t need to understand the world, just use it to shape things for the best. And now, my friend, you can do me a favour. You know how you mentioned that ultimately you’ll do what I need?”
“Hmmmm?” moaned Olgred, suddenly looking very flustered.
“I need you shut up about your stupid ideas. For good.”
“Oh, of course, master. You’ll guide us to a true utopia that transcends our base clutching desires, in time. I have full faith.”
“Did you just make that up?” Olgred nodded. “Good. Keep saying things like that while I’m gone. Any signs of mutiny, call me straight away.” He swept out to the living room, troubled by the sudden thought. He couldn’t shake the feeling that if he spent too long on this distraction, he may be facing rebellion a little closer to home. Time to get cracking.
Adventuring felt like slipping into an old pair of slippers. Ones that had worn through on one heel and the stitching was flopping open and there was that bit of rubber coming loose that kept tickling your toe if you didn’t shuffle at a just the right angle. First, thought Silven wearily, it was time to power up. Maybe he still had something stored up from the old days. Cautiously, he thought about what he would actually like to be better at, without the interference of those little critters.
“Morning!” squeaked a fluffy rabbit as it hopped out from behind his coat stand.
“No! Sir Meow-a-lot!” screamed Silven, shrinking back towards the wall.
“Meow,” said Sir Meow-a-lot.
The rabbit chuckled musically. “I am afraid you are inaccessible at present. I am the automated level guidance service. How may I help?”
Silven considered the words carefully. “Automated? As in, some sort of spell?”
The rabbit began to lick its paws. “The guidance service is not self-aware and has no entry for your question. How may I otherwise help?”
Silven sighed.”How many, you know, strengtheruppers do I have?”
“Twelve.”
Silven clapped. “Blimey! How’ve I got all that?”
“The last five points were gained from..... book-reading, shouting at a companion, walking, arguing with a companion, and having a tantrum at a companion.”
Silven ran a hand through his hair. “I really am getting worse. Well maybe, after this, I can get back to that meditation routine again. Go on then, recommend away.”
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After careful deliberation, he placed a couple of points into talking, ready for when it was all over, a few into sword-swinging, to make sure it would be over, a few more into health to ensure it would be over in the right way, and three into speed to get it over with as soon as possible. After more deliberation, he decided that he might not have been in the best frame of mind to make these decisions, but on the bright side, he had at least unlocked a sweet new flurry move, which would be employed to whisk an egg ready for lunchtime.
The rabbit hopped behind a chair and was suddenly an unrabbit once more. Silven didn’t have time to be pondering that now. He rushed to the cupboard, dove through the shopping satchels, and pulled out his sword. “Shit!” Something had eaten through the scabbard and roughened the blade within, leaving three dull blue smears in its wake. “Olgred!” he screamed. “If I catch you with that ZazzlePop again, it’s going all over your childish comics!” A fanfare sounded in the distance. “Oh, duck off!” he yelled, and marched for the door. The cool wind outside calmed him as he passed the TWEDIS greenhouses and made for the city gate. Perhaps that witch’s brew of a drink was for the best. He’d needed a new weapon for a long time. He would have always needed a push to get him into the adventurer’s market. That place was for weirdoes.
It hadn’t seemed to get much better since he had last donned a fedora and cape for that blasted customer profiling exercise last year. And now, here he was, fedoraless, capeless, and clueless, and all in one trip. The market was accessed via a horribly dingy alleyway, which seemed to end in a beskeletoned dead end before curving at the last second into a shadowy courtyard with equally shadowy merchants. In truth, it was all quite regulated and extremely profitable for the Guild of Taxations. It was just designed to attract a certain type, that was all. To, as a passing wholesale trader had told him in Overwall, make the kids feel uber.
Silven fingered his padded jacket awkwardly and barged through the noobs gawping at the pretty Swords of Pricking in the scruffier stalls by the entrance. Sadly, he thought, he was no longer new to this cursed game. And when he was, well.... he did it the hard way. He made straight to the biggest and smartest stall at the very back, the one that actually looked like it was capable of holding something decent. It was surrounded by retros, the old timers who had made it big boglet-bashing and threshtooth-thrashing before a certain anonymous company had taken all the fun away. Silven decided to remain equally anonymous and pestered the spectacled merchant for attention.
“Yes?” said the man, finally regarding Silven with a disdainful eye.
Silven pointed out a sword that had caught his eye. “That one, please.”
The man’s eyebrows rose until the glasses almost fell from his face. He reached up and unhooked the thin, faintly humming blade from its hooks on the board. “Ah, the Rapier of Blackened Doom. Some infidels would call it Funeral Doom, but it’s much too fast for that.” He ran a gloved finger affectionately down the metal edge. “It allows access to a most gruesome skewer skill whereby the throat of the opponent is-”
Silven thrust out a hand. It contained a bulging moneybag. “Sounds perfect. Let’s swap. I’ve got a warlord to kill.”
The merchant blinked, weighed the bag in an expert hand, and handed over the blade. “One thousand, three hundred, and fourteen gold. Enjoy it when you can.”
Silven hefted the blade suspiciously. It felt heavier than it should. He swung it and turned heads as it clunked lifelessly to the ground. He glared up wordlessly at the merchant as he begun to count out his money. And, wordlessly, the merchant pressed a finger to a sign. The sign said ‘No Buybacks.’
"That’s not for retros, mate. That’s for the no-life man-child slobbering unshowered raid-guild master race,” said a jolly voice to his left. Silven turned, nodded, and generally pretended to understand whatever the smiling shopkeeper had just said. “Well, good sir, what would you recommend?”
The man chuckled. “Well, let’s start with the basics. How many fanfares you had?” He eyed the useless blade at Silven’s side. “A little off eighty-nine, by the looks of things.”
Silven tossed the rapier heavily onto the merchant’s table. “I don’t bloody know! I’ve spent most of my time trying to ignore the damn things. I organise the vertical integration of a flourishing trade empire, not prance about caves playing with the little green blobby things.” He paused. “Mostly.”
The man chuckled. “Well, I’m the Chief of the Elephantkin, then. And looking at that alarmingly impractical jacket you’re managing to bear, I’m estimating thirty to thirty five.” With great efficiency, he rummaged under his counter and drew out a pair of swords, one narrow and long, one short and stubby with a spiked pommel. He held up each in turn. “These are your best basics for a bog standard DPS swordsman archetype. Now, it all depends on your strength and dexterity balancing, but I wager these two are about even. The Longblade of Flaming Titans adds a little fire damage which builds nicely with any sensitivity debuffs from an elemental dagger in the offhand or a regular swig of Juice of Fiery Reckoning from your potion belt. It’s got decent reach, high durability, and decent physical absorption, but lacks any spellboost slots and only has mediocre speed. In general, without any aura stacking, its base rate of damage is thirty-one sheep per minute. The Shortsword of Lost Gnomeania, on the other hand...” He cut in with sudden hysterical laughter. “Not that you’d want this in the other hand, with its zero dual flanking boost, but anyway... this is a bit faster, has high frost, ice, snow, dark water and corrupted sludge resistance, adds a couple of fanfares to singing for a little gnomey fun, and allows a gem of Mischief, Loathing or Annoyance into the third tier range. However, it does have a little less base physical, no elemental boosts, and scales poorly with Rage Quench. Base damage of twenty-nine and a half sheep per minute. So, which will it be?”
It took several seconds of impatient staring to make Silven realise he had been asked to contribute. He examined the faint red glow of the Longblade of Flaming Titans. He considered the third tier gem slot of the Shortsword of Lost Gnomeania. He stroked his chin slowly to buy a little time. “Which is more expensive?”
The merchant held out the shortsword. “This.”
“I’ll have that one, then.”
Seconds later, he had escaped and was gratefully taking in the sight of an imposing rebel fortress filled with ruthless foes. He remembered the first time he had looked back at this huge earthworks jutting up from the hazy marsh, recently free and recently debreasted, and shook the sudden feeling of vulnerability away. This was a new day, and, with his arms of age-old infuriation and apparel of overbearing profit, he would surely have his revenge.