Rogue Dungeon: Troll Nation (Chapters 4 - 6)

Chapter Four

Path to Progress

Using the telepathy function of the Dungeon Lord’s throne, Roark contacted Kaz, Zyra, and Griff and told them to meet in the kitchen. Kaz was already there when Roark arrived. The Behemoth was nuzzling noses with Mai, the buxom young widow they had hired to train interested Trolls in the artisty of Cooking. Though it had initially looked as if there would be bloodshed between the two when Mai had insulted Kaz’s favorite chef and added additional spices to one of Kaz’s stews, they had become nearly inseparable. And sickeningly shameless about displaying their affection for one another. 

They were an odd pairing, to be sure. Kaz was easily twice the size of the buxom Mai, and no one in the Citadel had ever heard of a dungeon monster and a villager having a romantic relationship. But neither seemed to notice to oddness or, if they did, neither seemed to mind.

As a round of giggling issued from the strange couple, Roark glanced around the kitchen, hoping to find Zyra skulking about, pretending to vomit. The shadows were disappointingly empty.

“What’s this all about, Griefer?” Griff strode through the door, one hand wrapped around the hilt of the short sword at his side.

At the sound of the grizzled trainer’s voice, Mai leapt away from Kaz and began patting her hair and straightening her skirts, a bright blush filling out her pink cheeks like a young maid whose father had just caught her stealing kisses.

“Have you seen Zyra?” Roark asked.

“Just came from down that way,” Griff said, affixing Roark with his one remaining eye. “She wasn’t in the lab messin’ with her potions when I passed by, so your guess is as good as mine.”

“Is everyone waiting on me, then?” The hooded Reaver Champion in question breezed into the kitchen. She sounded a touch out of breath, as if she had sprinted to the kitchen from a good distance away. Zyra made straight for the mead in the corner and pulled herself a healthy flagon before downing it in a series of painfully large-looking gulps.

“Where were you?” Roark asked.

“Gathering supplies.” She refilled the cup, then took it to the rough-hewn table and sat. “It takes a ridiculous amount of ingredients to keep this place in Health Potions and Contact Poisons.”

“Maybe we should put out a call for Trolls interested in Alchemy,” Roark suggested. Zyra was the Citadel’s only trained Alchemist, a bloody inefficient use of the resources. “A few apprentices wouldn’t go amiss. They could fetch ingredients and run errands for you.”

“I’m not interested in Changeling-sitting, thanks,” Zyra said.

More likely, the paranoid Reaver Champion didn’t want another Troll working in close enough quarters to stab her in the back or slip a vial of deadly Coquelicot Extract into her ale. Roark would have to prove to her that the usefulness outweighed the risk—probably more than once—before she would give in. A fight for another day.

“All right,” Roark said, folding his lean form into the bench at the head of the table. “We’ve seen what the Vault of the Radiant Shield has to offer, and one thing is abundantly clear, we can’t beat Lowen and his troops on our own.”

“What we need’s allies,” Griff said, unknowingly echoing Roark’s thoughts. “More and stronger of ’em.”

“Can we invade and claim another dungeon?” Zyra asked. “Get them fighting for us?”

Roark frowned. “From what I’ve read in the Dungeon Lord Grimoire, such a thing is possible in theory, but wildly impractical in reality. If we take out another dungeon lord and occupy their dungeon, the rest of the dungeon lords will think we’re putting a target on all their backs, and that will ensure there will be no peaceful alliances made. It’ll spell war after war after war, and frankly, I’m bloody tired of civil wars.” Besides that, invading foreign territory and forcing its natives to fight for him felt much too close to a move the Tyrant King would make for Roark’s liking. “No, I think Griff is right on the mark. We need other dungeons to join us of their own free will. And to do that, we’ll need to provide some sort of incentive.”

“Gry Feliri calls that the Honey-Glazed Carrot,” Kaz said, lifting an enormous claw-tipped finger into the air. “He says it is much more effective in creating repeat guests of your first-time diners than the Vinegar-Laced Wine approach.”

Zyra shrugged one shoulder. “I like the Poisoned Mead for Everyone approach better. It’s faster.”

“Faster, but not a long-term solution,” Roark said. “You’ll only make enemies, and like griefing, they’ll just keep coming back. What we need is a new way of life to offer the other dungeons, something that will help them not just survive, but thrive.”

“Sounds like you got an idea,” Griff said, rubbing at his scruffy chin, regarding Roark through his squinted eye.

Roark was definitely starting to get one. He kept talking, letting the inspiration unfold as he went.

“If we can give them a chance at self-sufficiency, they won’t have to keep up the cycle of hero-fighting. Skilled labor, a free market, a chance to flourish.” That had been what the Trolls of the Citadel craved. What they were still craving. A chance to live their own lives free of the invading heroes who plagued them. “What if we had a marketplace just for mobs? A place where they could gain access to Trade Skill books, training, better weapons and armor, potions, and even food. Anything that might make it possible for them to have a good life defined by more than just the heroes they’ve fought.”

“There are already marketplaces all over Hearthworld,” Mai said. “You lot go all the time.”

“We’ve got access to disguises,” Roark said. “The other dungeons don’t, and without a way to blend into the crowd, they’ll be killed on sight. But if they had the chance to access the same advantages the heroes can without the risk, they would be mad not to jump at it. If we could provide them an opportunity like that, I’d wager we’d have to beat allies away with a stick.”

“But how can Roark make a market?” Kaz asked. “What will he sell? Weapons he’s smithed?”

Griff cleared his throat. “Actually, I might know of a way. Gimme just a shake.”

The grizzled weapons trainer ducked out of the kitchen, leaving the rest of them looking at one another in confusion.

“You really think all this is necessary?” Mai asked. “Getting the mobs all riled up? Seems like it will just be a spot of trouble down the road.”

Roark nodded grimly. “The man we’re up against will wipe us out without a second thought—you and Griff included—all so he can get his filthy hands on something I have.” The World Stone pendant felt cold against his chest, though it sat atop his dark leather armor. “He’ll murder and torture and destroy anything or anyone who gets in his way. And when he finally does have his way, he’ll take the …” Roark faltered for a beat. “The item back to a despot even worse than he is.”

“If Roark says Lowen must be stopped, Kaz agrees,” the Behemoth Thursr said, puffing out his chest and straightening himself to an even greater height. “Kaz will let no one harm Roark. And if anyone even tries to harm Mai”—his blue face darkened, forehead creasing into thundercloud of anger—“Kaz will be very upset.” 

“I told you to let me sneak in to the Vault and coat everything with Virulent Contact Poison,” Zyra said, fishing a poison-coated flechette from her belt and walking it idly over her knuckles. 

Roark felt his insides go cold at the thought of Zyra getting that close to Lowen alone.

“He’s more dangerous than you understand,” he said. “He would gladly capture and torture any one of you if he suspected you knew me. Hells, he would probably do it just for fun even if you didn’t.”

Out in the corridor, Griff’’s boots rang on the stone floor.

“Here it is.” The weapons trainer strode back into the kitchen and tossed clothbound tome onto the table in front of Roark. “Settlements of Hearthworld. I’ve taken to readin’ of late to help me fall asleep. This one’s all about how to found yer own Settlement. Most heroes do it by having their guild take over a small town and turn it to their uses, but a person could found a brand new one. Bein’ as you can do pretty much everything else I’ve seen heroes do, I figure you might be able to take this on, too.”

Roark flipped open the book and began to scan the pages.

The key to founding a new settlement was setting up the marketplace, which called for, at minimum, 600,000 gold pieces—no problem at the rate they were looting corpses—eleven senior officers, a coat of arms, a charter, and a series of specific professions. Roark could fill both the position of Master Blacksmith and Master Enchanter, and at the level of Gourmet, Kaz was already more than qualified to take the spot as Master Chef.

“This says we need a Master Alchemist,” Roark said, glancing up from the page at Zyra.

“Nearly there,” Zyra said. “A few days and I’ll have it.”

Roark nodded. “We also need five distinct skill trainers. We’ve got Mai and Griff. We’ll need three more.” He traced a claw-tipped finger down the page and tap-tap-tapped. “… and a dedicated Merchant.”

The too-wide smile of Variok, the weapon merchant from Averi City, flashed through Roark’s mind.

“Mai, have you talked to Variok since Kaz became a Gourmet?”

The buxom chef shook her head. “He’s been gone the last three times I went to the market,” she replied, a tinge of irritation in her voice. “I been using another merchant. Slimy filth’s been gouging us blind. No one knows a thing about where the elf might’ve got to. That, or they aren’t saying.”

“We’ll have to find him,” Roark said. “If we can recruit him and fulfill the rest of the requirements laid out in the charter, we can officially found a settlement.” He read on. Having the marketplace would give them better prices, attract more and better skill trainers, and give a number of boosts to crafting—fewer ingredient costs, more efficient productions, less waste when destroying an item, and faster crafting leveling.

“Bang-up idea all around,” Zyra said dismissively. She set her cup on the table and leaned forward. “Say we do get it up and running. How is anyone from another dungeon going to visit it? It’s not as if they can walk here. Roark’s the only reason we’re able to leave the Citadel at all. Are you going to go around making Vassals of everyone, or have you learned how to make Infinite Use Portal Scrolls that can be targeted from one dungeon to another?”

“Fair point,” Roark conceded. “That’s one obstacle I don’t have a way around. Yet. But I will find one. Everyone thought killing Azibek was a fool notion as well, yet here we are.”

“Kaz never thought such a thing!” the Behemoth protested, aghast. “Roark’s plans are brilliant!”

Zyra raised her flechette. 

“I thought it was foolish.” Her hood turned to face Roark, and he thought he saw a teasing glint of teeth. “At times, I’m still undecided.”

“After all Zyra has seen Roark do, how can she still have no faith?” Kaz insisted.

Roark spread his hands wide to stop their bickering. “Let’s focus on the settlement. We can argue about who was right and who was wrong afterward.”

“What should we do about Variok?” Mai asked. “It’s a decent struggle to get one merchant on your side, and that’s no lie. I’ve seen a fair few heroes try and fail, and they were high-renown folks, not terrifying Dungeon Lords of deadly Citadels.” She tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear and shot him an apologetic smile. “Only calling a spade a spade, mind you, I don’t mean no offense by it.”

Roark waved her apology off, but Kaz spoke up.

“Why would Roark be angry that Mai recognizes his might and excellent leadership?” the Behemoth asked. “Heroes should be afraid of the mighty Roark the Griefer.”

“Because humans like to look all squishy and edible,” Zyra said.

“Oh.” Kaz nodded. “It’s a cultural variance. Gry Feliri talks about those in Cooking With—”

“Of course he does, love,” Mai cut him off. “My point is, Griefer, I’m thinking you were lucky to get the elf to warm up to you in the first place. You may not be able to do it again, and certainly not in such a short time period.”

Roark frowned and rubbed his temples. They didn’t have time to waste. From what he’d seen, Lowen was preparing to mobilize any day now. The bastard could have the entire Vault of the Radiant Shield knocking down their door tomorrow if he wanted.

“All right,” he said finally. “It’s time we take another trip to the market. Maybe with all of us asking, one might have better luck getting information on where Variok’s gone. Failing that, we can start looking around for a backup. And while we’re there, we can start gathering the rest of what we need.” He stood and looked from Kaz to Zyra. “You’ll want your disguises.”

One way or another, they were going to found an Infernal Settlement. The very first Mob Marketplace in Hearthworld.

Chapter Five

Never Gonna Give You Up

Scott Bayani tossed the cartoony fist mace onto the altar.

“Oh, an item for me, a totally human sorcerer, to enchant!” Danno the Sorceror said, hopping up and down on his penguin feet and slapping his flippers together. His fake beard slipped away from his beak, and he hurried to adjust it. “What great fun! Nwaaak! Ahem, I mean, yay, because that is how totally normal humans, like me, talk.”

Scott rolled his eyes as the penguin waved his flippers over the mace and began to sway. Kismet was such a joke compared to Hearthworld. Like, if you had ten minutes with nothing to do, it was almost a decent waste of time. Or if you were seven years old.

“The ritual is complete, thanks to me, a totally normal human sorcerer,” the penguin said.

The mace reappeared in Scott’s hand. He inspected the new bonuses.

And of course half of them were red.

The penguin shifted from flat orange foot to flat orange foot. “Even totally normal human sorcerers accidentally curse things sometimes.”

“Get bent, you fucking lame-tard,” Scott said, too bored to even really be mad. The truth was he just didn’t care about this stupid game.

He turned on his heel and stalked out of the cemetery, throwing the mace over his shoulder. The lag on the movements was un-fucking-believable. You’d think a low-res mess like this would at least be able to run halfway suitable graphics on a system with as much memory as his InfiniTab, but apparently no such luck.

“Logout.”

The corny flute music and caricature of a medieval village disappeared, replaced by a menu showing his account, Gamerscore, list of achievements, and all the games he had.

He’d already tried to get back into Aftermath: New Bangkok, StealSTUFF9, GunSlung, and even MotoXJRPG: Final Yakuza Death Race. Epic fails, each and every one. Double for Kismet. Their quests were baby play, the graphics sucked anus, the storylines sucked more anus, and most of the servers had been abandoned for Hearthworld anyway. The few people who hadn’t left were losers Scott hated.

“There’s nothing to play.” In spite of the automatic speech clarification and amplification of his CandorSight UIVR headset, his voice sounded flat. Like someone who had died of boredom. “There’s nothing to do.”

He had eight hours before he had to be at work. Eight freaking hours! What was he supposed to do, spend eight hours looking at porn?

The Hearthworld thumbnail just sat there, staring at him. Taunting him. Mocking him. You know this is what you want.

“Ugh, fine!” Scott selected it, disgust rolling through him. 

Driving war drums erupted as the familiar Hearthworld loading screen appeared. His pulse sped up in anticipation, the mild self-loathing quickly giving way to the sharp edge of anticipation and white-hot adrenaline. Malaika and Infernali fought each other in the sky over the Hearth, while the mortal races duked it out below. The smell of volcanic smoke and the clash of battle filled Scott’s senses. Immediately, all the tedious frustration of the past few days sloughed away. Colors and smells and sensations became more vibrant.

“Now this is how you make a game,” Scott said, enthusiasm creeping into his voice.

The loading screen faded away and a grid with all his saved characters appeared. 

“Welcome, Scott Bayani!” the announcer boomed, his voice matching the epic tone of the intro scene. “The battle awaits! Which character would you like to select?”

“OG,” Scott said.

The Level 28 High Combat Cleric flashed twice, then everything started spinning. The character selection screen disappeared and Scott found himself standing on the streets of Averi City.

He took a deep breath, absorbing the smells of spicy, sizzling meat, the clank of armor and rustle of fabric playing under the murmurs, laughter, and shouts of the crowd. There were a crapton of people on right now. Still, Scott couldn’t stop himself from grinning as he set off toward the marketplace. This was what he’d been missing. He felt so fucking alive. Like he’d been half asleep for the last week, checked out in every possible way, and now he was awake again and able to enjoy life.

First thing first, he was going to find the dumbest, easiest, dicking-around quest and go get it done. A palette-cleanser. He had to get his last month of being jerked around out of his head. Because he was done with that cocksucker Roark the Griefer. Screw that guy. Scott wasn’t wasting another freaking second on that assclown. Sooner or later, the admins would get involved and fix the Griefer’s pipes good. Hopefully, somebody would be around to screenshot it when that dick got what he deserved.

Scott headed for the Notice Board. He’d pick up something fun and easy he could finish today before he had to go to work. He was down on both gold and gear, thanks to that stinkstar Roark—

Nope. Scott stopped himself, taking a couple of deep breaths—in, out, in, out. He was done even thinking about that loser. That douche wasn’t living rent free in his head for another second. 

He cut through the crowd of newbs looking for parties and assassins looking for freelance contracts, getting close enough to read the fluttering notices and wanted posters pinned to the board.

Maybe he could go after an easy bounty. Those paid pretty well, but they took forever to complete. Plus, you almost always had to bring the prisoners in alive.

Clearing pests from a meadery sounded all right. At his level, he would probably end up mowing them down, easy-peasy. That would be pretty satisfying right now. Work out a little pent up aggression on a bunch of measly plague rats. 

Scott was reaching for the tag when he saw someone who looked oddly familiar. A lanky guy in boiled leathers with one of those crooked honkers.

It almost looked like the guy the Griefer had been posing as the last time he fucked around with Scott.

But nah. That just went to show how bad the assbag had gotten into his head.

Scott grabbed the rat-clearing tag and yanked it down. It respawned immediately.

With a renewed spring in his step, Scott put a marker on the rat-infested meadery and set off to kill some shit. A return to the good days. 

Chapter Six

Marketplace Intrigue

Randy Shoemaker couldn’t believe his eyes. He knew what he was seeing was real, but there was nothing about it that made any logical sense.

Randy twisted out of the way of a Rog in Divine plate mail and an olm in mismatched red robes and a Ragged Initiate’s Cowl. The players didn’t slow their stride or say a word to him as he passed. They had no idea he was there. His brand-new admin privileges granted him the ability to wander through Hearthworld completely invisible if he so chose, and he was taking full advantage of it to follow the prime anomaly through the Averi City Marketplace.

Just ahead, Roark the Griefer wove through the crowd. Thanks to his admin tracker, Randy knew it was the Griefer in spite of some sort of illusion spell type modification Roark was using to make himself look human and hide his gamer tag.

No spell meeting that description existed in Hearthworld. Nor was there any way to modify a user’s tag. The game was specifically set up so that spoofing a gamertag couldn’t be done. That was part of the accountability process—removing anonymity was one of the big ways to keep the community running without major hiccups. If there was any doubt before that this guy was a modder, there wasn’t anymore. Here was the proof. A player playing as a mob, making trips to the market, buying and selling, talking to NPCs—even eating food—while hiding both his appearance and gamertag with spells that shouldn’t exist. 

Even stranger, he wasn’t on his own or surrounded by PC friends he’d decked out with mods. There were two humans with him. Griff, an NPC skill trainer who was supposed to be waiting in the Sulkie Selkie with a fetch quest for players who wanted training in weapons, and Mai, an NPC cooking trainer. According to the information Randy had gathered so far, Roark had somehow changed Mai and Griff’s scripts to relocate them from their set locations to his dungeon, the Cruel Citadel.

Holding hands with the cooking trainer was a Behemoth Thursr in modded armor that shrank his massive form to the size of a large Rog. Another impossibility. NPCs and mobs only interacted for rescue quests, and only when a player got within range to save or ignore the attacks.

There was a second mob glued to Roark’s side, a Reaver Champion hiding her face and horns under a PC spellcaster’s cloak she shouldn’t have access to. No one looked too closely as they passed—why would they? This was unprecedented, after all—and so they all missed the hints of deep, midnight blue skin and snowy white hair.

Randy scowled, a little surprised to realize he was outraged. Not just that this Roark had somehow infiltrated the project he’d spent the last eight years of his life working on, but that Roark had gone the extra creeper step and modded this female mob so he could indulge some kind of monster girl fetish. She wasn’t real—for all intents and purposes, she was just strings of code—but it still upset Randy to see some jerk using a woman. Even if she was a Troll.

Near the center of the marketplace, the Griefer and his entourage stopped, chatted for a second like a football team in huddle, then broke off, spreading through the market in each direction.

Randy tailed the Griefer, determined to find out what the modder was up to.

Initially, when Randy got his new clearance, he had tried monitoring the anomalies in the Divine dungeon. But after two days of slaving away, only logging out long enough to eat and sleep, all Randy had learned was that the Malaika Heralds modified by another modder named Lowen never left the Vault of the Radiant Shield. Ever. Like Roark, Lowen and his anomalies were immune to most of Randy’s admin abilities. System analytics had been worse than useless. He couldn’t boot the modders off. He couldn’t immobilize them. He couldn’t isolate their code. And the data he managed to get was so strange and conflicted he couldn’t make heads or tails of it. 

The best Randy could do was monitor them. That was fine for the short term. 

He didn’t want to confront either of the modders yet. He wanted to know his enemy before he struck, Art of War style, but Lowen never seemed to be doing anything. Roark, on the other hand, was always writing up spells and abilities which didn’t exist in-game, crafting armor and weapons that had no basis in canon, and organizing his Infernal dungeon into a more efficient industrial slaughterhouse for heroes. It was no wonder the Griefer was killing players left and right who should be able to one-shot him; Roark had written himself in abilities that would be radically nerfed if they occurred naturally in the game.

The strangest thing of all, though, was that Roark hadn’t logged out. Not once since he’d logged on a little more than a month ago. For all practical purposes, he’d been on 24/7 for weeks with no apparent change in avatar functionality. Even if the Griefer were running a complex script for his avatar when he was AFK—and how would he even manage that?—there would be some noticeable change in avatar gameplay. But there was none. Not even a few hours’ inactivity where the guy might have been sleeping.

It was mystifying. Absolutely baffling. Frankly, the software engineer in him was begrudgingly impressed, and the programmer in him just had to know how he was doing this. Randy was sure if he just kept dogging Roark’s steps, the Griefer would eventually screw up. No one could play a perfect game forever. Then … Then Randy would have the concrete information he needed to move on.

                                                                                    ***

Roark felt eyes on the back of his neck. He had to force himself not to tense up, but keep walking as if he didn’t notice. When he reached Mogrifa & Mogrifa, he studied the reflection of the marketplace in the glass set into the door.

The usual crowded jam of heroes filled the paths between the vendors behind him, but none of them were looking his way.

Still he felt the skin down his spine crawling. In Traisbin, when he’d felt that, it had meant it was time to move on to the next place the T’verzet needed his particular skill set.

According to the countdown timer on his Illusion Claok, he and the others had been asking around the marketplace for twenty minutes. Maybe someone had caught on to his disguise—a hero from Braind_Fish’s party, perhaps. Or PwnrBwner_OG. As he grabbed for the door handle to the bookseller’s, Roark searched the glass once more.

No one. Just the ebb and flow of traffic, the occasional press of bodies. But no lingering stares. No obvious tails. 

The bell over the door rang as he ducked into Mogrifa & Mogrifa’s.

And nearly collided with Zyra.

There was a glint of wet obsidian as the hooded Reaver retracted her poisoned claws and tucked something into the folds of her cloak.

“I nearly Scratched you,” she hissed, leaning in close enough for him to hear. Her hood shifted as she looked his Illusion over from head to foot. “You look just like one of them.”

For a split-second, it was on the tip of Roark’s tongue to tell Zyra that he was one of them, that his Jotnar form had been forced upon him by his arrival in Hearthworld. She knew he wasn’t native to this world. But considering the nearly human face she was hiding beneath her own hood, he doubted she would be very impressed with his true form.

Then he realized the object she’d just hidden from him was a book. He took her by the arm and ducked his head until he could whisper in her ear.

“Are you stealing that?” He glanced toward the counter, where an ancient woman with cloth covering hollow-looking eye sockets stood. As if she could see them, her wrinkled face was turned in their direction. “Look at the sigils around her door.” He nodded at the wooden beams surrounding the exit, each one inscribed with dimly lit runes. He couldn’t read all of them—clearly the Mogrifas had attained a much higher level of Cursed than he had yet—but the ones he could read involved things like Sudden Flesh Inversion. “Mogrifa has some sort of nasty curse on it, and I’d wager that it’s to stop thieves crossing the threshold with merchandise.”

Zyra twisted her arm out of his grasp. “I bought the book, if you must know. Though for that inflated joke of a price, I’d have been just as well off risking the respawn.”

Roark couldn’t see her face, but with her suddenly closed-off body language, he hardly needed to. If he asked her about the book now, he would get nowhere. Better to let her tell him when she was ready.

“Did they know anything about Variok?” he asked instead, glancing over her shoulder at the blinded hag.

Zyra straightened up, losing the defensive aura immediately.

“I was actually on my way to find you about that,” she said. “According to the Mogrifas, he crossed the Olm Legion of Order. Something about selling stolen pearls.”

“Olm Legion of Order,” Roark repeated, the words sparking something in his mind that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “Why does that sound so familiar?”

“Because they’re trying to crush the world under their bootheels of law and order?” She shot back, her voice frigid with disapproval. “Because they’re the ones who killed Mai’s husband? Because they’re the most dangerous force in all of Hearthworld, and they destroy anyone who stands in their way?” Zyra shrugged. “Pick your favorite.”

Movement caught Roark’s attention just before a woman in subpar chainmail, carrying an armload of books, stopped beside them.

“You guys talking about Bad_Karma?” She said the name in a breathy, infatuated voice, a giddy grin on her face. “He’s so kickass, right?”

“Bad_Karma?” Zyra asked.

“Uh yeah,” the woman said, rolling her eyes. “Only the number one player on the server.”

“Ah, of course.” Roark nodded. “Bad_Karma. No, actually, we were discussing the Legion of Order. We’re looking for a merchant who might’ve run afoul of them.”

“Oh, I gotcha,” she said. “Yeah, that’s the whole Merchant Loyalty questline. Soon as you start it, they come up missing. It’s no big deal, though. Just a low-to-middie breakout heist.”

“Break out of what?” Roark asked.

“Like, almost always one of the OLO prisons. Here.” The woman opened the door and led them out into the street. Her books disappeared into her Inventory, and she pointed across the marketplace. “So, what you’re gonna do is go check out the Notice Board, see what your guy was wanted for—you have to read the poster or your quest won’t populate—then it’ll show up in your active quests.”

“Thanks,” Roark said, dipping his head in appreciation. 

He and Zyra took their leave of the woman and wound their way between the stalls, following her directions. 

As they walked, Roark’s hackles rose again. Someone was watching him. He was sure of it.

He spun suddenly on his heel, looking around as if he had missed the stall he’d been heading for.

“You felt it, too?” Zyra asked in a low voice. “Someone’s stalking us.”

“Did you see anyone?”

Her hood shook side to side and a flechette appeared in her fingers. 

“Keep walking,” she said, gesturing with her empty hand as if they had come to the conclusion their destination was a little farther on.

Roark fell back into step beside her, the back of his neck prickling. “We get the quest, then we find the others and get back to the Citadel.”

“No argument here.”

On the other side of the crowded market, an assortment of heroes had gathered around a large board hung on the wall of a store. The posters and notices fluttered in the afternoon breeze. The sheer amount of paper, just tacked to the walls was staggering to him. He’d grown use to many of the oddities in Hearthworld, but the quantity of paper wasted here—just thrown so frivolously around—was simply staggering. In Traisbin, parchment was a precious resource, worth its weight in gold, and notorious difficult to come by. But here? Here it was as plentiful as the air in his lungs. Some things, he just never thought he would grow accustomed too. 

Roark was about to step forward when he saw the familiar face of his least favorite High Combat Cleric in the crowd around the notice board.

PwnrBwner_OG’s eyes froze on Roark’s face.

Every muscle in Roark’s body tensed, preparing for the Cleric’s inevitable attack. Maybe this was who had been watching him.

But PwnrBwner just grimaced, shook his head, and snatched a tag off the notice board. Without a word or a second glance, the High Combat Cleric wheeled around and disappeared into the throng.

Roark exhaled a sigh of relief and tried to relax. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered to Zyra.

They shouldered their way through the gathered heroes and began to search the notices.

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MISSED CONNECTION: You, a smokin hot dark elf with some kind of rogue class and curly white hair. Me, a ripped af wrath ronin. Our parties teamed up for a raid on Vault of the Radiant Shield yesterday, but got dead before we could talk. PM me at TmacDog. Send pics that show skin to prove you’re the one.

Roark pulled that one down and wadded it up. It was possible there was another two parties who’d joined up long enough to get killed by Lowen’s people, one of which contained a beautiful midnight-skinned, white-haired assassin who was not Zyra. But he didn’t like the odds.

Immediately, the notice reappeared. Roark scowled.

“Here it is,” Zyra said, looking up from her end of the board.

Roark started guiltily and shoved the notice into his Inventory, unable to bring himself to toss away something he’d grown up regarding as so inherently valuable as parchment, before joining her. 

Zyra pointed out a wanted poster. The face sketched onto it was a perfect rendering of the elven merchant. Same wide grin, same high brow, same pointed ears and slicked back hair. Below was his name and a posted reward of 5,000 gold pieces for his capture.

But as Zyra moved to take the poster, an olm in gold and silver armor, so polished that it had to be ceremonial, shouldered her aside and began clearing notices, Variok’s included.

“Excuse me,” Roark said. “We were planning to bring him in for the bounty.”

The soldier glanced down at the wanted poster, then shook his oblong salamander head.

“You’re too late,” the olm said. “This criminal has already been collared and sent to the most secure Legion prison this side of hell. Now, if you wouldn’t mind backing up so I can finish clearing these irrelevant notices?”

Roark nodded and took a step back, Zyra following suit. As they did, a page crammed with text appeared before Roark’s eyes.

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Prison Break!

Variok the Elvish Merchant has been collared by the Olm Legion of Order and incarcerated in Chillend, a prison of icy death located in the dark heart of Frostrime. Infiltrate Chillend and free Variok.

Objective: Break Variok out of Chillend and return him alive to the mainland.

Reward: Variok’s loyalty, 5,000 Experience, 1,000 gold

Failure: Fail to break Variok out of Chillend

Or let Variok die before returning him to the mainland

Penalty: Lose Variok’s loyalty, 10% increase to all purchase prices when buying from Variok, 10% decrease in all sales prices when selling to Variok

Restrictions: None

Accept quest? Yes / No

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Roark accepted at once. The page disappeared, leaving him staring into the shadowy depths of Zyra’s hood.

The shaggy hairs along the back of his neck prickled as if they wanted to stand on end. It was all Roark could do to stop himself from hunching up his shoulders against the unseen eyes.

“Let’s find Kaz, Griff, and Mai and get the bloody hells out of here,” he said.