Peter always felt slightly weird as he logged into The Age of Steam and Sorcery. The avatar his consiousness inhabited was a bit taller and thinner than his real body. Not to mention the brass and bone contraption where his right arm should be. He turned it back and forth, admiring the intricacy of the pistons that drive the movement that muscles normally provided. It had been a gift from the Avatar of Life, compensation for dissolving the flesh from that arm with her touch.

“Urghk,” he felt his gorge rise at the memory of that sensation. It was compounded by the slight seasickness-like feeling that came from using the mobile network brick his father had given him. His stomach settled after a moment though as his brain properly synched with his surroundings.

Sunlight streamed through windows, illuminating a cosy little one-room cottage that wouldn’t have been out of place in Victorian England. There was the couch that Peter had appeared on, two very comfortable armchairs - currently occupied - and a very ornate writing desk. By the back door a kitchen table sat with four plain wooden chairs tucked neatly underneath. Peter’s rat DB, short for Dangerous Bastard, played with the fourth member of the team on the rug in front of him, trying unsuccessfully to snatch a choc-chip biscuit from the hands of his tormentor.

“Ye gave us a scare, laddie” the resident of one of the armchairs rumbled. Anyone who didn’t know better would have mistaken it for an animated suit or armour, the sort that costs an arm and a leg.

“I’m sorry Woz, I texted you as soon as we got in the car,” Peter shrugged, lying back and trying to sort through the memories of that night. “Mum dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night, stuffed me in the car with all our… well… stuff, and drove us up the coast to grandma’s place. We’re staying in a beach house on a tiny island. Which, I know,” he looked pointedly at the other occupant of an armchair, an elfen figure as emaciated and pale as his own digital body, “sounds like my family is as rich as Woz’s, but Pham I assure you this place is a hellhole.”

Pham radiated affrontery, and put a hand to his chest like a Victorian lady. “Petey, how could you think that of me. Just because you’re living on the beach in a gated community and I’m currently sharing a room with four siblings - three of whom snore worse than you - you make out like we’re on opposite sides of some class war.”

“It doesn’t count as a gated community when the gates are there to keep us in, not out. And I’m sharing the room with my Mum and the contents of grandma's liquor cabinet.” Peter stood up and strode over to look out the window. Beyond a low brick fence, fields of wheat waved gently in the breeze. “The floors are covered in sand and the whole place smells of fish. All the time.”

Woz jerked up at the mention of alcohol, his armour clanking. “Och Petey, d’yer think you could snaffle us a bottle? From the cabinet ye ken?”

The figure lying on the floor let DB have the cookie and rolled over to pull a face at Woz. Her leather armour creaked as she flipped from lying to standing like a martial arts master, and then flipped Woz the bird in a mastery all her own. “You need to lay off the booze, mate. You’ve already cleaned this place out.”

Peter turned back to the room. “Dani, are you saying there was drinks here? Actually, never mind, doesn’t matter. And no, Woz, I can’t bring you any for two reasons. One, I’m stuck here for the foreseeable future so I’m only going to be attending school virtually, and two, the actual cabinet is in the living room. The contents are in this room because Mum drank them already.”

Harrumphing like an old man, Woz settled back into the chair with his arms crossed. “Fine, be that way. Get on with it.”

“Well, Mum’s getting a divorce, Dad’s not answering the phone, emails, anything. All I’ve got is this wifi device he gave me before we left but the only place I get signal, other than at Grandma's place, is up here at the old gun emplacement. Which means any time I want to log into The Age I have to climb a damn mountain. I’m just glad tourists aren’t allowed on the island and all the residents are old people so nobody comes up here but me.”

Dani flopped onto the vacant spot on the couch and put her legs up over the arm, careful to keep the actual boots off the material. “Right, but what happened last week? You were just about to say something before you vanished.”

Peter frowned for a minute, trying to remember past a long and harrowing week. Comprehension dawned suddenly. “Right, loot! We’ve got a chest to open.” He popped open his inventory, the tear in space hovering at shoulder height as he reached in and extracted the ornate chest that had been the reward for defeating the final boss and retrieving DB. The moment it left his inventory, gravity and the mass of the chest took over and the steel banded wooden container landed squarely on his toes. The sound that came out of Peter could shatter crystal wine glasses at twenty paces, but the pain faded quickly as he jerked his abused appendages out from under the crushing weight. “Not a word or you get nothing,” he waggled a finger at his companions who were struggling to maintain composure.

There was no keyhole on the front of the chest, just an embossing of a cog with a skull at the centre. Peter pressed his palm, the flesh and blood one, to the skull and twisted it to the right. He didn’t know if that was the right thing to do, but he felt like it was. The cog turned 1/8th to the right with a click and the lid sprung open.

Pham peeled himself out of the armchair and looked over Peter’s shoulder. “Woah,” he breathed. “I’m rich biyach!” Glittering prizes shimmered and shone in the lamplight. Buried in the pile of coins here and there were larger items, bits of equipment looking just as shiny as the lucre that surrounded them.

“Oi,” Dani protested, “WE’RE rich. Equal fights, equal rights to the looting. We all played our parts in taking down that shifty bastard.”

“Heh, shifty,” Peter chuckled. “I saw what you did there. Nice.” He held out a fist for a bump. “Now, this thing’s interface is giving me a bunch of options on how to divide the spoils, but I’m just going to hit the split the money equally button for now and see what else is in here, cool?”

When he’d received the assent of the group, Peter hit the button in the lid of the chest that was visible only to him and the coins swirled up and around his body, streaming towards and into the members of the party. With his inventory still open he could see this counter in the corner that kept track of his finances flickering as the number increased rapidly. He looked more carefully at the display, realising that the numbers were presented on tiny nixie tubes. Peter had come to love the steampunk aesthetic in all its brass and mahogany awesomeness and all these little easter eggs tickled his fancy. He dug around in the pile of items left behind and held up the first thing he wrapped his hand around.

“Breaker of Tempests?” he read from the tooltip. It was a war axe/hammer combo with a handle that looked like an Ent had grasped the head and then been hacked off at the shoulder. Once out of the chest there was no way it would fit back in, being taller even than Warren. The moment the butt touched the floor gravity made itself known and the haft ripped itself from Peter’s hand to fall like the tree it resembled. DB leapt out of the way as the metal head struck sparks from the stone floor.

Warren picked up the weapon and twirled it like a baton before tucking it into his own inventory. “I’ve already got one from the Vengeance: GameOver event last year, but unless anyone else wants it?”

Nobody objected. The only sound was DB licking a smouldering patch of fur.

“Anyhoozits,” Pham dipped into the chest, fishing around for something interesting. “How about one of… deez!” He whipped out a balance scale and nearly braining Peter in the process. The brass sliding weight clanged into the endstop, tipping the balance and almost pulling free of Pham’s grip the way the axe had Peter’s. “Whoop, sorry about that. Dibs!”

“What is that?” Dani asked. “And what’s with the plaque at the bottom?”

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Pham squinted at the engraved brass strip on the bottom edge of the scale. “A measure of wheat for a penny? No idea.” Pham set the scale on the writing desk and pulled a coin from his inventory. “But as to what it is, it’s a set of scales. Veeeerrry accurate ones.” He put the coin in the tray and slid the counterweight along the rail until he was happy. “Perfectly balanced.”

“As all things should be,” intoned Warren and Peter, to Dani’s confusion.

“You two stop that,” she waggled a finger at the boys. “HE’S the weird one.”

“I resemble that remark,” Pham peeled down the bottom eyelid of his left eye. “Now, this thing is a work of art. We’re going to make beautiful explosions together.” He put the scale into his inventory and pointed at the chest. “Who’s next?”

Peter gestured for Dani to have a turn so she stuck her arm in and had a rummage.

“Ow.” She pulled out her hand with what looked like an oversized hypodermic syringe with a tuft of red fur stuck to the non-needle end. It had barely pricked her through her glove so she pulled it out and dove into the chest once more, pulling out the rest of the weapon. To Peter it resembled a rifle - but one that could only have been designed by a mad scientist, or maybe Pham. The buttstock was clearly a bound brass air chamber that was affixed to the black wooden body. Copper pipes ran all over the main body of the body, joining crystal chambers with a variety of couloured liquids before disappearing into the wood again. The magazine, if you could call it that, formed a complete circle above the weapon and the rear sight hung from the top of its inside rim. A leather strap from the forestock to the buttstock completed the ensemble.

“Oooh what’s this do?” Dani pumped the forestock and a syringe fed into the chamber and a dial on the back end of where the bolt would be on a normal rifle ticked up to the first of three marks. She racked it again and instead of ejecting the syringe there was a huff of compressed air and the dial nudged up to two. The coloured liquids began to roil in their chambers.

Before she could make another motion Warren put his hand on the barrel and pointed it at the window. “Maybe we don’t test new gons indoors? I like my eardrums, ye ken?”

With a firm grip on the barrel and pump mechanism, Warren led Dani to the back door and pointed the barrel out over the back gate. Dani racked the pump handle once more with obvious strained effot and watched the needle creep up to three and hover there for a second before pulling the trigger.

FOONT!

A syringe vanished into the distance with the speed of a thousand startled gazelles. Its passage left a quickly dissipating mist cloud and a promise of sonic damage in closed rooms. Dani’s smile was matched only by Phams’ maniacal chortling. Peter and Warren shared the look.

“Could we maybe, um, save that setting for boss fights?” Peter asked as he tried to work the ringing out of his ears with the heel of his palm. “I mean, I’m kinda famous for having a deathwish and I STILL wouldn’t want to use that thing.”

Dani just rolled her eyes and slung the weapon over her shoulder. “Sure mate. You certain you’re not just a teensy bit jealous?”

Peter just shook his head and wandered back inside. So far the chest had produced wonders for everyone but him and he was hoping for something epic for completing the Geas. There were two pieces left in the bottom, a cloak and a large cog with a scintillating blue gem in the centre. Peter pulled them out and passed the cloak to Warren. “For the one I ruined. Besides, I think this fits your theme.”

Warren took the cloak and shook it out. It was bright red with gold rimming. The centrepiece was woven gold thread depicting a flaming sword over a tower shield. In letters above and below that shimmered and appeared to flicker like real flames read “Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum”. He breathed out slowly. A single tear traced its way down his cheek. “Aye. That’ll do.” Rather than put it on, he folded it gently, even reverentially, and put it in his inventory. “That’ll do nicely.”

Picking up the last item as Pham rejoined them in the room, Peter turned the cog over in the light, watching the way the gem shimmered and reflected. “Dani coming back, or having too much fun?”

Pham shook his head and sat down in an armchair. “She’s having too much fun with her new toy. Speaking of toys, whatcha got there?”

Peter opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a knock at the front door. That’s a new one, he thought as he held up a finger asking Pham to wait. He opened the door with a tentative “Hello?”

White mist crossed the threshold and pooled around his feet. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen stood beyond, in a shimmering white expanse lit by a diffuse but powerful glow.

“Well, Peter? May I come in?” Fjor asked.

Shaking himself from his stupour, Peter ushered the Avatar of Life into the room. The air wafted as she passed, bringing the scent of rich forest loam and pine needles to his nose. He shut the door, cutting off the swirling mists and found his companions standing as awstruck as he had been. To be fair, it’s not every day the local equivalent of a goddess pays you a visit.

“Warren, Pham, this is Lady Fjor. Avatar of Life. Ma’am, this is Warren and Pham. Dani is outside. I can call her in if you want?” Peter introduced them.

Fjor looked around the room distractedly. “I beg your pardon? Oh, no. Let her have her fun. It is you three that I really must speak with. I have a few issues to discuss, but first and formeost, you completed your Geas and for that you have been rewarded. I need you all to present the artifacts from the chest, Peter first.”

Peter stepped up and handed Fjor the cog. She turned it over in her hand and the blue gem dimmed steadily until its once saphire glow was a glossy onyx. “You have done well Peter. You have taken the first steps on the raod to becoming a true Paragon. Now you must seek out the remaining parts of Death’s Rainment. For it is only holding the whole Rainemnt will you forge a pure connection to Bani. Hold out your weapon.”

Unslinging the scythe from his back, Peter held it out in both hands. Fjor pressed the cog into the base of the blade where it met the haft. Clockwork-like filigree errupted from the edges and embossed itself along the length of the blade though it left a clean space along the cutting edge. A second handle emerged from the middle of the haft, which curved to look more like a true wheat scythe than the single straight shaft it had been before. A brass endcap formed over the butt of the haft and slowly became a dragon’s head. Fjor reached out and twisted the handle that had appeared and the blade roateted around the cog to run along the haft, the tip just touching the handle. From the base of the handle a brass trigger emerged. Peter stared in amazement at the transformation with his jaw on the floor.

“Peter. You have a talent for rushing into a situation. Most times this is the right choice, to save your friends, or rescue a stranger. You have courage in the face of insurmountable odds. But sometimes you must step back and take in the whole picture. The true form of the Reaper Of Souls will give you the perspective you sometime lack.” Fjor pushed the weapon back towards him and Peter stepped back to examine the prize more closely.

“Pham, if you please?” Fjor beckoned.

Pham stood up and held out the scales reverentially. His hands were trembling enough to make the tray on the scale ring like a little bell. Fjor took it from his hands before he dropped it.

“Pham, I can see the hunger in you. For strength. For knowledge. For riches and power. For some this would be an eternally sucking void in their soul, but I see you. You use this desire to fuel your efforts to become a better person. You seek strength to lift your friends. Knowledge to understand the world. Riches and power to underpin your good works. You cloak your love in misanthropy. I. See. You.” Fjor passed a finger over the brass plaque, bringing it to a lusterous shine. “These scales will help you weigh the world. They are no weapon like the Reaper Of Souls, but a means to gain insight. The first challenge will be to learn to use them, and I would not deny you the growth engendered by solving that puzzle yourself.”

“Th..Th..Thank you ma’am,” Pham stuttered. All of his usual internet leet-speak mannerisms were gone. He recieved the scales back and retired to the writing desk, cradling his prize like a baby.

“Warren, your cloak?”

Warren pulled out the fabric and placed the folded item in Fjor’s oustreched hand. She shook it free with a cloud of golden sparkles that faded to red, then black. “Turn around, please.”

Warren turned around and Fjor reached over his shoulders to fasten the garment around his neck. When he turned to face her once more he kneeled and she smiled warmly but a little sadly. “Warren. You have been in this world a long time and have accomplished much. You are always the bulwark, the one who stands between your friends and danger. But this does not come from a good place. I know of the hurt inside. With this cloak, the first step on the path to the Paragon of War has been taken. You must find within you the place that hurts the most and lance it. There is a difference between being good at fighting and effective strategy. You knew this once, you must find that again.”

Warren stood, mute. After a moment he stepped back, pulling the material around himself.

“To that end, I must place another Geas upon you. All of you this time. The Seven are rising, and though you have defeated the Paragon of one, it is not gone and all Seven will seek you now. Through their agents and the remaining Paragons, the will seek to remove you from this world that they may end it completely. I hereby charge you: Seek the rest of your Rainments. Take up the Mantles of the Paragons. Restore the homes of the fallen Avatars.” Fjor exploded into a cloud of green and white motes and the door opened to allow her egress.

“Bugger,” breathed Peter. “Here we go again.”