Warren scratched absently at a healing scab on his arm. In order to avoid talking to his father or the doctors, he'd been living in The Age nearly 24/7 for over a week now and if he was being entirely honest with himself, the realism probably would never stop being amazing to him. Cuts and abrasions faded to bruises before healing completely. There were only two ways to get instant healing, magic – be it spell or potion – or respawn and neither were attractive options. Magic was rare, the only clerics were NPCs and they never left their churches, and though potions were possible they merely accelerated the healing process. Feeling a stab wound knit itself together in fast forward didn’t make it hurt any less. Respawns were right out. Warren had only experienced one of those, and it had been mercifully quick.
And it wasn’t just wounds. The food tasted and smelled real. The air that flowed over his skin felt appropriately cool or warm and carried the scents of flowers in the fields, wood and brass in the buildings and blood in the aftermath of battle. If he wasn’t watching where he was going, he could actually stub his toe. He felt the heat of flames, the roughness of the leather binding on the handle of his katana, the sweat running down his back. Sure, there were little things that took him out of the moment, like when the mark on his arm itched to let him know one of his attributes had levelled up, but he relished the itch sensation even if he cared little for the numbers-go-up of an RPG.
For the moment, though, what he was feeling was a mite stymied. He had established himself as the leader of the team of fighters he’d joined on the first day not by killing the most enemies, but by making sure nobody had to be sent for a respawn. Sure, there had been some minor wounds taken, his arm was evidence of that, but his leadership had ensured that weaker members were covered, stronger members directed to the place they were most effective and loot was distributed equitably. In his eyes, it wasn’t much different from leading a football team. Make sure the quick guys get their chance to run, tackle the big guys with your own and make sure the guy communicating the calls doesn’t get wrecked by the opposing team. The loot thing was new, but settling interpersonal disputes was a team captain skill as well so it wasn’t all that different. As his father once said, “You can’t make everyone happy, so make sure they’re all equally unhappy.” It was advice that served him well after battles when the chests appeared.
Right now the band of misfits were sitting in the inn where they first met quaffing ales and trying to choose the next quest from the board. Quaffing, he’d learned, is much like skolling, but more of the drink goes on your body and the floor than down your throat. While the term was new to him, the act reminded him of when his father and his uncles “took things to the back room” at family events and all tried to drink each other under the table. The next day you could get a buzz just by walking past the open window.
Underage User. Alcohol Effects not enabled. Warren swiped away the annoying text box. I wish they’d get rid of those damn things, he thought. I don’t need to be reminded every time I buy a drink. The churchy types had insisted on the inclusion in the very first patch, amongst other things.
Most of his compatriots were waving away their own intrusive notifications, with a few exceptions. Warren wasn’t sure if it was because they didn’t need to or were just trying to seem more mature and pretending they didn’t get the popups. Whichever was the case he decided to play it cool and disguise the next one as waving away a fly or something. “To loot and levels!” he toasted. It was a victory cry they’d come up with on the third day when everyone had levelled up at the same time after a big fight. The sensation had been intense enough that several members had needed to log off for a bit.
“Loot and levels!” The crew raised their mugs, spilling more ale on the table and their clothes. “Huzzah!”
When everyone had finished making a mess, Warren beckoned over their skald. Dennis was a woad painted man in a leather kilt and not much else, who dropped a pile of scrolls on the table. The guy wasn’t a true battle bard as such, but he sure had a knack for finding the right words to rally a flagging ally or draw the ire of a monster in the heat of battle, which was good enough for now. He also had a knack for finding the jobs that would be most interesting to what was shaping up to be a fine mercenary band.
Warren scooped up the scrolls and opened them one by one. “Right you lot, where next? We’ve got the usual kobolds in the fort to the north?”
“Boo, boring!”
“Bandits in the forest to the east?”
“Get to the good one!”
This went on for as long as Warren could get away with, hyping up the excitement until they were frothing for the big reveal.
“And, this.” Warren popped open his inventory and withdrew a scroll with a golden shimmer coming from beneath the surface of the parchment. “Dave found it on the body of the chieftain we took down last night. It didn’t come from the quest board. You each owe Dave a drink for this, for RNGesus has truly smiled upon us.”
Multiple full mugs were slammed down on the table in front of a beaming Dave, which he began to quaff as hard as he could. One of the benefits of getting, and then giving up, a rare drop was a round of drinks after a day’s adventuring bought by everyone who benefitted. Until a stabilised second hand market for loot developed it was the best way to compensate people that Warren had been able to institute. NPCs shopkeepers always bought low and sold high, even for what the gaming veterans called “vendor trash”.
“Good man, Dave,” Warren nodded in his direction before continuing. “Thanks to him we have a shot at what looks to be The Age’s first raid content. In fact, in order to activate this quest, it needs to have at least ten thumbprints at the bottom.” Everyone marvelled as Warren further unfurled the scroll and held it up to the light. Tiny sparkles fell from the bottom and wafted in the air and the ten boxes where they would be placing their thumbs to accept the quest had scarlet pulsing outlines. He didn’t actually know if what he had claimed was true, but it sounded impressive so he ran with it.
“A ten man minimum?” shouted one of the guys at the back. “Tell him he’s dreaming!”
“Loot and levels, my friends!” Warren reiterated. “That is what awaits us in The Archology. This scroll asks us to find and plunder the depths of an Ancient ruin. I know we’ve all heard rumours of the Ancients, Those Who Went Before, The Old Ones. They go by many names. You might have heard those who have trained the Appraise skill joking about the hints at their society in the flavour text on weapons and armour. There have been unreadable runes on cave walls and ruined frescoes that allude to a high tech civilisation that mysteriously vanished centuries ago. Well,” he waved the scroll around so that it scattered glowing motes over the table, “now we have a chance to obtain some of their technology for ourselves. Unbreakable blades, impenetrable armour. Not to mention the gold and jewels left behind. Who’s with me?”
An extended round of quaffing began and lasted until late in the night. As the party raged, the members of the crew came up, individually and in groups, and affixed their print to the scroll. Every time the boxes were filled a new line appeared underneath to allow more. One or two of the guys had questions about where the quest would be taking them and how they were getting there, but most just had that glint, the golden gleam, in their eyes. The mention of treasure had made the decision for them. To his relief, Warren didn't even need the brush offs he had prepared in case someone became insistent.
At the end of the night Warren stumbled into the barracks of the watch house where he’d rented a bed and footlocker for when he logged out and collapsed onto the coarse horse blanket and pillow that felt like it were stuffed with rocks. As unpleasant as they were, he still savoured every sensation. Despite the inebriation mechanic being disabled for him, the room whirled anyway. “Loot and levels,” he whispered to himself as he fell asleep.
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As per the terms and conditions agreed to in order to play, he was logged out the moment he lost consciousness. He hadn’t noticed that little tidbit nestled amongst the legalese, he had done what every user had done since the beginning of contract law: scroll to the bottom and hit “I accept”. It had been rather jarring, that first night, as he hadn’t yet earned enough to rent a room at the inn and had instead just laid himself down on a pile of hay in the stable. Falling asleep in the warm and fragrant virtual world was a harsh juxtaposition to the cold, starchy hell he woke up in. Not to mention the moment of panic when he found himself unable to move again. He’d tried to scream but choked instead, the monitoring machines doing the job of summoning the nurses at a dead run for him. A few pokes at the drip beside his head and he had been relegated to warm oblivion once more.
Now that he knew what to expect, returning to the real world wasn’t such a traumatic event. That didn’t mean that it was entirely peaceful either, as he could hear his father in the hall fast approaching, his strident voice berating some hapless hospital flunkey. Warren had exactly zero desire to join the poor sap so he kept his eyes closed and logged in as fast as he could. As every child did since the dawn of time, he prayed that his parental units couldn’t tell the difference between fake sleeping and real sleeping and let him be. It wasn’t like the game wouldn’t eject him if there was sufficient external stimulus. There were times when the doctors needed to talk to him and they weren’t going to log in and come find him. Sticking him with a pin had been a bit over the top though.
“I wish I’d waited for breakfast,” he complained to himself as he stepped out into the sunlit main street. His stomach growled and he wondered if it was a sound replicated in the real world. “Not that hospital breakfast is anything to look forward to. Good thing I know where to get a decent bacon and eggs around here.”
Ten minutes later he was sitting at a table under the awning of the inn, relishing the afterglow of a delicious breakfast as the morning shift wandered past. Putting off anything more strenuous than ordering another coffee, Warren pulled out the scroll to re-read it while he watched the NPCs as they interacted like real people on their way from home to work as he waited for the crew to log in. It had taken only a few days for this world to seem more real to him than the one he’d been born into, which made it all the more frustrating when it didn’t operate the way it was supposed to. The normal fairy lights showing where to go next that came with every quest scroll he had accepted before had completely failed to manifest, which was unusual in and of itself, and the scroll text offered him no clues as to actually start the quest chain. Most quest scrolls were expressly detailed on what they required of the Traveller, and those that weren’t, well, they weren’t his sort of thing anyway. This one simply had a single line of text saying “Seek The Archology and prevent the rising of the White King” and an ornate family crest below it. No maps, no clues, nothing.
“No, no! Not that way! Ugh!”
Warren’s pondering was interrupted by a small bipedal trashcan stumbling into the edge of his table. His mug wobbled and nearly fell into his lap before he slammed his palm on top of it to stabilise the errant drink and avoid a painful scalding. That stupid geek is at it again, he grumbled to himself as he watched the mechanised moron topple over, thrashing and spurting steam and hot water all over the ground. Wait a sec, a geek! Puzzles are their thing!
As the player with the elven avatar rushed over to pick up their broken toy, Warren sized them up. Clearly this was some basement dwelling dweeb, and his unblemished skin was a stark contrast to Warren’s own scabbed and scarred form, so Warren guessed that he probably never left whatever workshop he had here in town. Assorted tools hung from belts and straps around their body, some of them Warren had seen in pictures or in shops in town, but more had a certain home-made vibe to them. He wore no armour at all, just denim overalls covered in pockets and oil stains. Notepads and pens protruded from several of the pockets and wires and gears spilled from others. On his head, black dreadlocks were held from falling into his face by a set of goggles that sported multiple lenses of differing colours and magnifications. He had clearly come quite a way from the first day – but very much in a very particular direction. In all, it pointed to the kind of person who enjoyed crosswords a little too much. Just the kind of mind that Warren was looking for, in fact.
“Hey, pal. Careful with that, you almost burned me,” Warren chided gently. You don't want to scare these creative types, especially if you need something from them. Start by making them think they owe you something though. That’s the ticket. Warren could hear his father’s advice whispering in his ear.
The elf’s head jerked around, as though only just realising he wasn’t alone. “Oh, you. Sorrow.”
Not “sorry”, Warren noted. Not an apology, but sounds like one to someone not paying attention. DEFINITELY a smart one here. “Isnae a problem, dinnae fash yersael. Have a seat, and one for your bot too.” Warren stood and pulled out two chairs at his table.
Warily, the elf set his creation on one seat, first ensuring it was no longer leaking, then took one himself. “Fine, Scotty McScottface, what do you want?”
As there didn’t seem to be any malice in the casual slur, Warren maintained a poker face with everything he had. “Who says I want anything?” Warren flagged down a waitress and ordered another mug of coffee. “Maybe I remember you from launch day and just felt like we didn’t get off on the best foot. We’re all part of the same starter town and when the faction wars kick off I hope we’ll be on the same side.”
“You figured out the faction wars are coming?” The elf’s already narrow eyes closed even further. If they’d been in the real world Warren would have thought he was of Asian descent, with a clear epicanthic fold. “And you’re keeping your allegiance to this town? I had you pegged as a ‘loot and levels’ type, uninterested in the wider picture.”
Warren felt an icicle run down his spine at the mention of his crew’s impromptu motto. Has this guy been eavesdropping? Would it even count as eavesdropping with how loud we are? “Well, how’s this for a piece of the wider picture? Bam!” Warren slapped the scroll on the table top, scattering glittering motes everywhere.
“Is that… a legendary drop quest scroll?” The elf breathed reverentially as his demeanour changed in an instant. “They’re a one in ten million chance.” He reached towards the shimmering item in awe. “How did you find one?”
“By being awesome,” Warren boasted, gently pulling it out of reach. “Now, if you want, I can let you join in when we clear out the dungeon it mentions. At the moment, the run is planned for tomorrow morning.” If we can figure out where to go, he left unsaid. “It’s an Ancient Archology, could be right up your alley. I’ll bet you know who they were. There’s probably going to be plenty of puzzles, traps, books and machines for you to play with, all high tech stuff - none of this mediaeval scrap. What do you say?”
“I say, it sounds like you’re going to need me.” The elf leaned forward and poked his long, thin finger at something in the middle of the scroll. “See here?”
Warren spun the sheet around to see better and tried to figure out what was being pointed at. “Where?”
“Exactly, you don’t even see that there’s a problem.” The elf crossed his arms and leaned back. “Tell me, where do you think you are going tomorrow morning? Where is this archology?”
Warren grumbled to himself. The knife-eared bastard had spotted the issue instantly. “Ach, you got me. I dinnae ken,” he huffed. “How can ye tell?”
“Because you wouldn’t have just shown me the map AND the key if you knew what you were looking at.”
“Oh.” Warren stared at the scroll, seeing neither a map nor a key. He decided to try bluffing. “Well, you know there’s going to be monsters in there too. I’m pretty confident you couldn’t even get to the end by yourself, let alone beat a raid boss. I think you’d need us too.”
“Do I look like I’d walk into an Ancient ruin by myself? I’m literally building a minion army.”
The ambulatory trashcan took this as its cue to fall completely apart in a most spectacular and noisy fashion, showering the ground with screws, cogs and springs. Both Warren and the elf stared at the pile of parts until the final bolt finished rolling.
“I don’t think R2-Dumbass is going to help much there,” Warren noted.
The elf heaved a deep sigh and leaned forward, putting his crossed arms on the table and burying his head in them. “Fine. I need working blueprints, ones I’ll probably never find out here in the wild. These improvised designs I came up with just aren’t working.” His muffled voice heavy with resignation. “May I please join your raid?”