Viridian Gate Online: Doom Forge (Chapters 7 - 8)

SEVEN: 

Quest Alert!

Twenty minutes later, just shy of noon, Abby and I sat at a little circular table in a tavern-turned pizza parlor, called Frank’s Old World Pizza. Instead of the typical wooden floorboards, the floors here were black-and-white checkered marble, imported from Ankara. The tables were all finely made and covered with checkered table clothes that looked out of place with the rest of the quasi-medieval surroundings. Still, the owners had tried. Against one wall was a painted mural of a Tuscany country side. And splashed against the back wall, plastered on in bold letters: Frank’s Old World Pizza, Est. 2042. And below that, The Best New York Inspired Pizza in Edlgard! 

A bard sung quietly on a raised stage in the corner while servers bustled around the room, carrying huge metal pans overflowing with pizza or tankards of golden ale. 

A steaming pie sat between Abby and I. Or at least what remained of it. It wasn’t actually a pizza, of course—V.G.O. classified it as a type of ‘meat pie’—but it was pretty close. The crust thin. The marinara the right amount of sweet and savory. The cheese thick and gooey. There was even something that could’ve passed for oregano called Blackpatch Clover. This was a pepperoni pizza. The meat was actually smoked swamp croc. Almost couldn’t tell the difference, though. And though soda still wasn’t a thing, the pitcher of ale served well enough. 

Frank, the shop owner, worked behind the bar along with his son, Frank Jr., both darker-skinned Wodes with thick beards. One labored over the bulky woodfire stove while the other hurled a bit of dough in the air, spinning it like some giant Frisbee, before catching it with practiced hands. 

Frank was a New Yorker to his core. He’d been in the pizza business for thirty-five years, as had his dad before him, as would his son after him. 

The guy wasn’t about to let something as trivial as the end of the world close down the family business. He’d found the ingredients to make pizza, had found some backers to finance his shop—Abby may have played a role in that, which meant the Crimson Alliance was a part owner—and almost overnight, Frank had a booming business. The Locals still weren’t completely on board, but the Travelers couldn’t get enough. As for me … Well, I had an inkling we’d be seeing our first pizza franchise before too long, reminding me that the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. 

Not that I minded. I couldn’t wait until someone got their act together and started making nachos and Mountain Dew. Then I’d be set. 

Abby leaned forward and took another bite, this from her third slice. “Know what I love the most about V.G.O.?” She said around a mouthful of cheese and sauce. 

“Let me guess. Not being dead?” I said with a wink. 

She rolled her eyes. “Haha, ass. Yes, not being dead is pretty great. But what I was gonna say, is that I can eat anything I want and never have to worry about hitting the gym again.”

I shrugged, nodded, and took another bite of my own slice. “Solid point.” Having a digital body wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, but it certainly had a few perks. 

I grabbed my mug and took a long pull, washing down a mouthful of za, then stifled a burp with one fist. I eyed the last few bites on my plate. Seeing pizza go to waste was a high crime, but I couldn’t take another bite without exploding or at the very least popping the button on my trousers. Reluctantly, I pushed my plate away and grabbed a linen napkin, wiping my fingers and face in turn. 

“So, what’s the plan for the rest of the day?” Abby asked as she followed suit, scooting her plate, completely clean, toward the table’s center. She raised a hand, signaling our waitress that we were ready for the check. Unlike most places in Eldgard, Frank had insisted this was a “classy joint.” You paid after the meal, like was good and proper. 

I rubbed at my jaw for a second, then frowned. “I can’t stop thinking about the Doom Forge Relic. This is big. I can feel it. This could be the edge we need, assuming I can find the final piece and figure out what to do with them. Since we’re on good terms with Osmark at the moment, I’m thinking of swinging by the Grand Archives in Alaunhylles.”

Her face darkened into a thunderhead, jaw clenched. “Well if you see the Grand Lore Maester, please kindly punch him in the face for me.” She’d crossed swords with the folks in the Archives once before, and apparently she still wasn’t entirely over whatever had happened there. Not that she had actually filled me in on the specifics. And Otto was equally tight-lipped about the experience. Somethings were better left buried, it seemed. 

“Got it. One punch to the face.” I paused, drumming my fingers on the table. “Though first I should probably swing by New Viridia and see if I can’t find out what in the hell is going on with Osmark. I haven’t been able to get ahold of him since the raid and he missed the brief this morning. He never misses the brief.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Osmark,” purred our waitress, who now sounded slightly British. 

“Excuse me?” I glanced up, genuinely baffled. I did a double take. Our waitress was now the Overmind of Order, Sophia. She wore the same garb as the other serving women: dark woolen dresses, dark corsets, low-cut lace up tops, white aprons wrapped around the waist. But there was no mistaking the face poking up from the server’s outfit. Her dark-skin was flawless, her teeth immaculately, impossibly white, her eyes a soft amber—beautiful, but completely unnatural. What’s more, the entire world was frozen, statue still. 

“Oh. No,” Abby said, glancing around. “No way is this gonna end well.”

“Don’t be so gloomy, child.” 

“Oh. So you’re here to bring us good news, then?” she shot back. 

“Well no. No I’m not,” Sophia replied with a dazzling smile, completely at odds with her words. She conjured a chair at the edge of the table, then primly sat, rearranging the ruffles of her woolen gown. “Rather terrible news, actually.” 

“Called it,” Abby grumbled, folding her arms and shooting daggers at the Overmind from her eyes. Abby was a team player, no doubt, but she liked being manipulated by the Overminds even less than I did. 

“My, but you humans are so clever,” Sophia said absently, reaching forward to grab a bit of pizza still on the tray. “Wherever you go, you find a way to conform the world to your image. An impressive feat. Too bad you so often expend your efforts on such minor things.” She hefted the pizza, then took a bite. “Though tasty things, I will admit.”

“First, let’s clear the air. Pizza is not trivial,” I said. “This is humanity at its finest. Now, Osmark. You said we shouldn’t worry about Osmark. Why?” I asked, knowing she would derail the conversation and fail to answer my questions if I didn’t hold her feet to the fire. 

She waved my concern away with a flick of one wrist. “He’s indisposed, along with his compatriots, Sandra and Jay. Carrera has been busy since you took down the Lich Priest. But there’s that saying about old dogs and new tricks. Predictably, he’s launched a fresh invasion, though this time against my dearest sister, Enyo. Osmark is fulfilling his duties as the Champion of Chaos and defending the Shattered Realm. Assuming he survives, everything will be fine.” 

“We should help him, right?” Abby chipped in, stealing looks between Sophia and me. “I mean there’s no way we could’ve taken out the Lich Priest without him, so we owe him the same favor.” 

“Osmark will be fine, child—” 

“I’m not a child,” Abby interrupted fiercely. “I’m a grown-ass woman. Overmind or not, I won’t be disrespected.” 

“Feisty,” Sophia said, voice rich with approval. “I can appreciate that in small measures. Very well, Abby. As to Osmark’s plight. Well.” She folded her hands primly. “Its rather complicated, I’m afraid. Could he use your aid? Yes, almost certainly. Carrera has taken a hand in the war against my sister, and he has grown.” She paused. Frowned. “Extremely powerful with Thanatos’s assistance,” she finished. “The real problem, however, is that Thanatos is not dumb and has learned a valuable lesson from your time in my Realm. The combined might of two Champions is significant. And he knows it. So, Thanatos has arranged to split our forces.

“He’s dispatched his other agent, the Traveler Peng Jun, to assemble the Doom Forged Weapon. Thanatos, though rather predictable, is a great believer in diversification. Peng has been working tirelessly over the last two weeks to assemble the pieces. And while you were busy raiding Glome Corrie, he was tracking down the final piece of the weapon—which he has acquired, by the way. That is why he wasn’t present at his stronghold. Now all three pieces are in play and the race for the Doom Forge itself will begin in earnest.”

“But we have two of the three pieces,” I said, brow furrowed as I thought. “So if we can just keep Peng from getting his hands on these last two pieces we should be okay.”

“You are a bright man, Jack, but sometimes you think so reactively. Thanatos—and by extension Peng and Carrera—will not stop until he has all the pieces. You’ll notice that a number of new Vogthar controlled dungeons have popped up around Yunnam. You’re unpredictable. Hard to pin down. And since you’ve kept your fragment of the Doom Forged weapon on your person, he hasn’t had an opportunity to rob you yet. But if he attacks your stronghold, it will force you to go to ground. And when that happens, he plans to relieve you of the items. 

“But if we play proactively, we can make Peng to dance to our tune. You see, the Vogthar do not yet have the strength of arms to truly threaten Yunnam. I can offer you the Doom Forge Quest Chain now, which will force a confrontation between you and Peng, but it will also give you a chance to get the last piece of the weapon while throwing Thanatos’s plans into chaos. Besides, we need to assemble all three items as well. Thanatos is going to continue his assault on the Overmind Realms until he eventually grinds us into dust. But this weapon is our chance to level the playing field. If you can get the pieces, find the Doom Forge, and get the mad godling Khalkeús to assemble the weapon we might have a chance.” 

“Wow, that’s a lot to unpack.” I held a hand as though to physical stop her onslaught of words. “I don’t even know where to start with this. The Vogthar are planning to attack and we’re just now hearing about it? And also, can we stop for a minute and talk about the mad godling Khalkeús? Because in my experience, mad godlings tend to be trouble.” 

“You know well my power is limited. I can only interfere so much.” 

“Do we have any other choice?” Abby asked. 

“You always have a choice, Firebrand. That is why we use you Travelers as our agents. Because you can do whatever you’d like. But if you hope to defeat Thanatos, then no. I’ve been working with some of the other Overminds, and we have come to an accord that this is the best possible path forward and the only real way of defeating Thanatos long-term, due to the nature of the Doom-Forged Weapon.”

“Awesome,” I muttered, absently fidgeting with my napkin. “It sounds like we have choices but not any real options. So I guess that means we’re in.” 

“Excellent.” She beamed and clapped her hands together. “Now this is where things get tricky, and why we have to hurry. The Doom Forge is buried in the heart of Stone Reach, but getting in will be a challenge because the Svartalfar are suspicious toward outsiders—at least as bad as the Murk Elves. Very few foreigners gain access to the capital. And to complicate matters further, no one knows where inside of Stone Reach the Doom Forge actually is. Lost to legend and all that.”

“Wait. But you have to know,” Abby said, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “You’re responsible for Quests. How could you not know?”

“Well obviously I know,” she said, exasperated, “but we Overminds have rules, Abby. When Osmark wanted to gift his supporters faction seals, he couldn’t break the rules, so he bent them by utilizing the Quest system to get them what they needed. We Overminds, for all our vaulted power, are not so different. Not even we can truly cheat the system. And this event in particular is nearly immutable because I didn’t personally create this scenario. It is a preprogramed world event quest from before this world ever went live.”

“Wait a minute,” Abby said raising a hand in objection. “A preprogramed world event? Why would there be an event where the reward is a weapon capable of killing a god? Why would a quest like that even be generated?”

“Well, kill is a bit melodramatic. That’s just semantics, however, which we can discuss after you’ve assembled the weapon. As to why it was created. Well. We Overminds foresaw that at some point there would likely be a problem within the system itself. Realizing this, we needed a way to self-regulate and fix such issues from within the game while it was operating, without crashing everything. So we—all of the Overminds working in concert—created a backdoor. A nuclear option of sorts, usable in the case of serious malfunction or in the event that one of us went rogue. But we couldn’t well trust any single Overmind with that power, since, in theory, it was a safeguard against all of us. So, instead we built the tool into the Quest System. 

“A system that requires player interaction. We also made the Quest insanely difficult, and nearly impossible to unlock—a safe guard to ensure that some player wouldn’t randomly stumble upon the ultimate weapon. I’m afraid you’ll have to play on Death-head mode. Seventy-two hour window. No deaths. One chance to get it right. And due to the nature of the Quest, Overmind interference and assistance is strictly limited. But … bending the rules is not breaking them. And, as the Overmind of Order—and subsequently Quest related generation—it does fall within my purview to give you a small hint.” 

She waved her hand and a prompt appeared before me. 

                                                  Quest Alert: The Doom Forge

Buried deep in the heart of Stone Reach—the ancient   capital of the Svartalfar—is a   forbidden temple, housing a powerful, slumbering godling, Khalkeús. This godling is a master smith and inside the   temple is a powerful shrine, known as the Doom Forge. If awakened and   presented with the Doom-Forged Relics, Khalkeús will create a weapon of unimaginable power, capable of slaying even a   god … The temple and the Doom Forge within, have been lost to legend.   But rumor has it there is a secret priestly order of Dwarves, called the Acolytes   of the Shield and Hammer, who may know something about the Temple …

Quest Class: Ultra-Rare, Secret

Quest Difficulty: Death-Head

Success: Gain access to Stone   Reach, find the mysterious Temple of the Doom Forge, and convince Khalkeús to   reforge the Doom-Forged Relics into a powerful weapon. 

Failure: This is a Death-Head Quest; if you die at   any point before completing the objective, you automatically fail and the   quest chain will forever be closed to you! Moreover, the Doom-Forged Relics   will automatically be removed from your inventory and scattered back   throughout Eldgard. 

Reward: Doom Forged Weapon; 75,000 EXP. 

Accept:   Yes/No?

Sweat broke out across my forehead and my stomach dropped a little more as I read and reread the prompt. A Death-Head Quest. Another one. Death-Head quests were V.G.O.’s version of Hardcore mode—even a single death and it was game over. They were ultra-rare and the last time I’d unlocked one, I’d united the entire Storme Marsh Nation, but only after defeating an impossibly large and deadly ancient dragon. If this was on par with that, I could only imagine what kind of trouble we were in. 

Despite the tight-bellied fear, however, I also felt the faintest twinge of excitement. Yeah this was going to be hard, but if I could pull this quest off it would be a game changer. I closed my eyes, breathing deeply—inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale—then accepted and closed the screen with a thought. A constricting pressure, like an industrial-sized sheet of Saran Wrap being looped around my whole body, immediately settled over me. That would be the first of the Death-Head Debuffs, slowly crushing me under its wait. Every day a new debilitating debuff would be added until I simply died. 

I opened my eyes and quickly called up my Current Effects:

                                                         Current Debuffs 

Death-Head Mode: You’ve temporarily   activated Death-Head Mode! Time until the Diseased   debuff takes effect: 23 hours 59 minutes 35 seconds. 

“Perfect,” Sophia said as I dismissed the box. “Now as I’m sure you read, the Acolytes of the Shield and Hammer are the key. They’re a Dwarven sect and their headquarters are in Stone Reach. But getting those dusty old fossils to tell you anything as an outsider will be next to impossible. They’ve been guarding the secrets of the Doom Forge for a millennia. They’ll never talk. But here is where I can help.” She paused, and smiled, radiating smug satisfaction. “Let me introduce you to Carl.”

She extended a hand and miniature 3D model appeared above her outstretched palm. A stocky man with a gnarly beard wearing what looked like a rumpled potato-sack slowly rotated in the air. 

“Carl is a Traveler, and he was an initiate with Acolytes of the Shield and Hammer. I say was, because poor unfortunate Carl is a terrible Cleric. Carl was dismissed from the Order for incompetence, and now he’s biding his time in this little garrison trading town outside of Stone Reach called Cliffburgh. You’ll likely find him at an Inn called the Smoked Pig, and he might well be your ticket into the capital. But be forewarned, chances are good that Thanatos knows about Carl as well, so it will only be a matter of time before Peng tracks him down. If I were you, I’d move quickly. And to that end, I have one final present.”

A one-off port scroll appeared in her hand as the model of Carl disappeared with a flash. I accepted with a tight-lipped smile. 

“A word of caution before we part.” She paused, turning pensive. “I will be out of touch for a bit. Helping my sister in the Shattered Realm. If you need aid … Well, you won’t have it. There is no safety net this time. You are thoroughly on your own, and if Peng succeeds, we are doomed.” Her smile returned, though her eyes were distant and hazy. “Now enjoy the rest of your meal and good luck.” She shot us a wink and just like that she was gone. Time resumed its normal flow, the chair Sophia had been sitting in was gone, and the waitress was back to her normal self, check in hand.

While Abby paid, I shot off a message to Cutter, Amara, Forge, and Ari, telling them to meet us at the Yunnam training ground. Then we scrambled out of Frank’s like the devil was hot on our heels.
 

EIGHT: 

Cliffburgh

My world teetered and spun as I stepped through a shimmering opalescent portal and onto a wide cobblestone square in front of a looming marble archway. Beyond lay the Dwarven trading town of Cliffburgh. An enormous stone dwarf, wielding an oversized battle-axe, perched at the top of the arch, staring down at passerbys with hard, judgmental eyes. A low stone wall, eight feet high, snaked away from the entryway in both directions, but it was a wall more for show than actual defense. 

One concentrated push from someone serious about taking the town would overwhelm their defenses in a matter of moments. 

I scooted over to one side, making sure I wasn’t in the way of anyone else coming through, then hunched over, hands planted on my knees as I waited for the traveling sickness to pass. The one-off port scrolls were the smoothest way to get around, but even they kicked like a mule to the teeth. As the wooziness finally dissipated, I right myself and took a quick scan of the countryside around me. Mostly rolling foothills covered in sparse, yellowing grass—occasionally dotted with thin patches of white from the last snowfall—and pockets of evergreens. Exactly like what I expected to find in a barren northern land, run by grouchy Dwarves. 

The most spectacular sight, however, was the enormous mountain far beyond the city, reaching toward the sky like shard of gleaming white bone. That had to be the legendary mountain, Svartalfheim, which housed the Dwarven Capital Stone Reach. The peak was at least a hundred miles away and it still blocked out a big chunk of the horizon.

“Holy crap,” Abby said, stepping out from the portal beside me. She hardly looked like herself at all. She’d ditched her normal bright red sorcerer’s dress, Wildfire, in exchange for a plain brown sack. Ugly as sin, but also a great disguise. I’d likewise stowed my best gear in my inventory—warhammer included—trading it for some drab leathers and newb starter gear. Being foreigners would draw enough attention all on its own, and we didn’t want anyone poking into our business more than absolutely necessary. 

“That’s one big-ass mountain,” she said after a moment, hands planted on hips, gaze trained on the skyline. 

“Right?” I replied. The jagged peaks surrounding Rowanheath were impressive, but they didn’t hold a candle to Svartalfheim. This was clearly the Everest of Eldgard: snowy, domineering, and impossibly tall. 

The others stumbled out behind us, each staggering on uncertain feet for a beat. 

Like Abby, they were barely recognizable since they’d also stashed their note-worthy gear, opting for low-level items that wouldn’t standout in a crowd of one. The portal snapped shut with an audible pop, and just like that we were stranded in the snowy reaches of the far north. I shivered as the chill of the northern air settled over me like a wet blanket. Back in Rowanheath the sharp bite of early fall was starting to invade the days, but it felt like full-on winter had long since moved in around these parts. 

“It is so cold,” Amara said, rubbing her arms frantically, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. “Even worse than Glome Corrie.” 

Winter never visited the Storme Marshes, so I could only imagine what this was like for her. 

“I’m sure we could find a warm blanket to wrap you up in,” Cutter offered with a patronizing grin. “Maybe a mug of that Western Brew or some hot apple cider. Then you can go snuggle up by a fire, my delicate little flower.” 

Her glower was sharp enough to cut diamonds. “I am no flower,” she growled, promptly dropping her hands to her sides while suppressing her obvious urge to shiver. “And if I were a flower it would be the Corpse Bloom of the Deep Swamp that eats unwary, loud-mouthed fools. But again. Not. A. Flower. I was merely noting the difference.”

Cutter cackled like a loon. 

“No Amara’s right, it is cold,” Abby offered, folding her arms across her chest. “We should get moving and find the Smoked Pig before I freeze to death.” Considering Abby was a Firebrand, it was possible the cold also affected her more than it might others.

We made our way toward the gate. “Remember, everyone,” I said over one shoulder, “low profile. Chances are Peng is around here somewhere, or will be shortly, so we don’t want him to know we’re here. Not if we can help it. Keep your Anonymous Buff on whenever we’re out and about.” Thanks to our Faction Ability Dignitary, everyone could cast Anonymous, allowing us to pass unnoticed even in hostile faction territory while temporarily hiding our player tags from inquiring eyes. Since the Dwarves leaned neutral, we’d be fine so long as we didn’t stir the pot too much. “And Ari, stay out of sight, yeah?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” came the Pixy’s sugary voice, though she was nowhere to be seen. Pixies were masters of illusion magic and she could stay out of view almost indefinitely if she needed to. “Though I feel more than a little insulted. My people are proud folk. We don’t much approve of being forced into the shadows, Grim Jack.”  

“Sorry,” I replied with a shrug. “But a pixy from the Realm of Order is super note-worthy no matter where you go. Might as well walk around holding up a sign saying, ‘Crimson Alliance, please attack us.’”

“Oh, it makes sense,” she shot back, “but that in no way lessens the insult. Don’t worry, though, we pixies have long memories and a wicked sense of humor. I’ll find a way to make us even. Eventually.” I could hear the mischievous smile in her voice. 

When we got to the arch, I expected to have to do a little quick talking to get past the guards … Except there were no guards, which came as something of a mild shock. Why have the walls at all if they didn’t even bother with Guards at the entrance? I shrugged and kept right on trekking. 

We’d only made it another handful or feet, however, when I caught the ring of steel on steel, voices raised, and the sounds of battle. 

“Ah, yes. That sounds about bloody right,” Cutter remarked, drawing his twin daggers. 

Forge grinned, pulling the enormous axe from his back. The rest of his armor might’ve been plain as cardboard, but that axe burned with magic like a million watt-blub. “Sounds like some fun for the baddest sumabitch in Bell County.”

“Low profile,” I whispered as we rounded a corner. “Low profile!”

“Not our first rodeo, Jack,” Forge said, taking point, and picking up the pace.

Straight ahead was a scene of shocking chaos. A town square with a small fountain at its center. A statue of a portly Dwarven woman stood at the center of the fountain, a hammer raised to the sky in defiance with one hand, while a flagon of mead was clutched in the other. Frothy water burbled out of the maiden’s cup, filling the pool below. Uniformed Dwarven guards filled the square, their gold and black tabards, emblazoned with a mountain and an anvil, marked them out. And smashing against them like a battering ram were several platoons of Vogthar.

The Dwarves fought in squads of five, mostly wielding axes or long-handled halberds, though several carried a pair of enormous shields on each arm—the tankiest tanks I’d ever seen. Chainmail clad priests chanted from behind. The courtyard was hemmed in by two story stone buildings with slate-tiled roofs, capped by intricately-carved gables. All vaguely Viking-inspired. Poking out of the windows were Dwarven archers, each carrying heavy cross-bows with elaborate cranks. A few even had repeaters to rival Osmark’s tech. 

The city guards looked neat, orderly, well-trained, and professional. These men and women knew their business and knew it well, but the Vogthar had come loaded for bear. 

True, most of the Hoard were the standard gray-skinned foot troops, but there were also a double fistful of pale blue invaders—probably spawned from a Dungeon with a Frost alignment—a full squad of heavy-armored [Eloyte Knights], a pair of robe-clad casters, and a handful of hulking wolf-like [Vogthar Frost Hounds]. The hounds were nearly the size of a lion but built from hard-packed snow and studded with chunks of razor-sharp blue ice. The Frost Hounds weren’t common in the south, but I’d run across them a couple times while preparing for the invasion of Glome Corrie and they were absolutely awful to tangle with. Dealt out debuffs like they were going out of style. 

Bodies lay scattered across the ground—both Dwarves and Vogthar alike—but it was clear the Vogthar were capturing ground and would soon overtake the pocket of resistance. 

Unless of course, some intrepid adventures came along and evened the odds. 

Forge turned, glancing at me over one heavy pauldron. “We kicking ass and taking names or what, Hoss?” 

I sighed and threw my hands up into the air. “So much for low profile. Total pipe dream anyway.” I nodded my head. “Yeah, do your thing. But no familiars, nothing that might give us away if you can help it.” 

“Hells yeah!” Forge barked with a grin. “Time to get some. You ready for this pint-sized?” 

“Let’s rage,” Ari growled in reply, sounding excited at the prospect, though still cloaked from view with her powerful spells. 

Heavy footfalls pounded the air as Forge charged, issuing a ferocious war cry just before slamming into the back ranks of the Vogthar troops. His axe screamed as he hacked through leather armor, severing a lanky pale arm with a single blow. One of the Vogthar mages wheeled around, a chant exploding from its lipless mouth as it thrust a gaunt, claw-tipped hand forward. Despite the thick cobblestones lining the square, skeletal hands erupted from the ground, closing around one of Forge’s ankles like a clamp. Another shot up, latching onto his other ankle. 

The second priest barked out an order in some unknown tongue—the constants harsh, the vowels guttural and hard on the ears. The Vogthar force split at once, one group, composed of the more common foot soldiers, continued their assault against the guards, while the other group spun and beelined toward us. The first mage raised its hands high, fingers flickering through a complex series of movements as fog bellowed out from its palms. That fog quickly spread like the plague, filling the town square with churning silver. The chant took on a new cadence, rising in intensity and fervor as shapes formed in the mist—an arm here, a glimpse of a gleaning skull there. 

Definitely some sort of summoner or warlock. Probably the Vogthar equivalent of a Necromancer or Spirit-Caller. 

“Head’s down, eyes shut!” Abby yelled, thrusting her staff straight up into the air, the fat ruby on top flaring with brilliant life. I followed her order without hesitation, curling my head into my chest and closing my eyes. A moment later, terrible heat washed over me carried by a blazing hot wind; even through my eyelids I could see the brilliant flash of orange and gold light, as bright as the noon-day sun. When I blinked my eyes open a few seconds later whatever attack she had unleashed was gone, and so was the silver fog—burned away in a single wave of heat and fire.

Her Raging Inferno Blast if I had to guess. 

She’d cut the Warlock’s spell off before it could take shape, but unfortunately the heavily armored Eloyte Knights and the formidable Frost Hounds had closed on us with lightning speed. 

Several converged on Forge, who was still pinned down by the skeletal hands gripping his ankles. The tank roared in defiance and lashed out with his axe. The weapon blazed red as it turned away striking blades and clattered on night-dark shields. Forge was a heavy hitter, but surprisingly, the armored Vogthar didn’t fold like a bad hand of cards. They fought on completely undeterred, their thick armor and even thicker shields deflecting his most devastating blows. 

Ari appeared with a flash of neon-pink light as she darted into the fray.  She had a miniature bow strapped to her back, a quiver of blue-crystal arrows hanging at one hip, and a wicked sword in her hand that looked one part pirate scimitar, one part toothpick. The fierce little pixy struck like a surgeon, hacking at vulnerable eyes and chopping at exposed necks. She was a whirlwind of colorful death. Bright and flashy as an underground rave. 

Apparently, she too needed a reminder on the definition of low profile. 

I tore my eyes away from the fighting and pulled free a scythe-bladed khopesh—somewhere between a short sword and a normal dagger. Lawbreaker’s Edge. I’d picked it up in the Realm of Order while tangling with a bunch of underwater Mere-folk called the Ningyo. As a Maa- Tál Shadowmancer, I had a ton of cool class advantages, but using edged weapons wasn’t one of them. But Lawbreaker’s Edge ignored class restrictions, and though it didn’t deal nearly the damage my warhammer did, it might throw off any inquisitive onlookers. My warhammer, was easily one of the most recognizable weapons in the game.  

I thrust out my left hand and unleashed an Umbra Bolt into the face of a blue-skinned Vogthar, blasting away a chunk of rotten meat and a chunk of HP. Another bolt hit the creature square in the belly, and this time its glossy-black eyes went hazy, unfocused. At level 5, not only did Umbra Bolt dish out 225% Spell Strength—for a devastating 513 points of Shadow Damage—but additionally, it had a 20% chance of confusing enemies, causing them to randomly attack other hostile forces.

The confused Vogthar wheeled around and threw itself at one of its companions, driving an ebony axe into the side of a unprotected Vogthar skull. Critical Hit! 

Elsewhere, Cutter appeared in a puff of smoke and drove a blade into an ice hound’s neck, dropping the creature though not killing it.

“Jack,” Abby hollered, conjuring a halo of light around herself. “I’ll take out the regular Vogthar and the Hounds—you focus on the Knights. Them and the casters.” 

Without waiting for an answer, she stormed forward, wreathed in fire, spewing a steady stream of liquid gold from one hand while she clutched her staff in the other. Everywhere that beam of molten light touched, flesh bubbled and smoldered, inky wisps of foul-smelling smoke drifting upward. Her supernatural flame sheered through HP like a hot knife, which made total sense. Aside from Holy Damage, what would hurt ice-based Vogthar more than generous heaps of preternatural fire? 

I triggered Night Armor, surrounding myself with a second skin of shadow power, then cast Shadow Forge and one of my new Champion of Order Abilities, Scales of Harmony, which gave me and my team a passive advantage when fighting against any creatures that strayed from the path of neutrality. We all got a bonus when duking it out against creatures with a dark or light alignment, and an even heftier attack bonuses against creatures of a holy or evil nature like the Vogthar. It also allowed me to level up my Champion of Order skills with every kill. 

Casting my array of passive spells took less than a heartbeat, but a heartbeat was a long time in the heat of battle.

An obsidian two-handed long sword flashed through the air, ready to cleave me in two, but the Knight wielding the blade was glacier-slow. I sidestepped the attack, twirled my sickle-bladed khopesh in a vicious arc, and slammed the weapon into the Knight’s unprotected skull as I triggered Champion Strike and Black Caress, siphoning off a portion of the Knight’s Health. Despite the fact that I was using a bladed weapon, the creature’s head exploded like an over-ripe melon from the sheer force of the strike, chunks of bone and splashes of gore spraying out as the corpse dropped.

I didn’t have time to dwell on the carnage, though. I was already moving onto the next opponent. Slashing and hacking my way through two more blue-skinned Vogthar, then turning my blade on a Knight with its back to me—quickly removing one leg below the knee, before finishing the creature with a brilliant javelin of Umbra Flame at pointblank range.  

I spun, briefly considered unleashing Night Cyclone, which would make short work of most of these attackers, then dismissed the idea. Unleashing a giant shadow cyclone was the next best thing to conjuring Devil in the middle of the plaza and that simply wouldn’t do. There were less than a handful of Shadowmancers that had reached a high-enough level to use an attack like that, which meant it would be a red flag to anyone watching. Besides, we didn’t need it. Between the Dwarven guards on one side and us on the other, the Vogthar were on their last legs. 

Off to my right, Cutter darted forward, decapitating a Vogthar shock-troop in twilight-gray leathers while Amara slashed and jabbed with a conjured spear. Dead ahead, Abby charbroiled a Frost Hound, leaving nothing but ash in her wake. The skeletal hands spell had finally dissipated, and Forge and Ari were now going toe to toe with the last of the Knights and the Vogthar Spellcasters, who were surrounded by eerie green light. Everything else was well in hand, but those spell casters could still cause us trouble unless I put them down. Hard. 

I grinned, thrust Lawbreaker’s Edge forward, and called forth Umbra Bog. A patch of cobblestone, thirty feet in diameter gave way to a bog of inky black tendrils. Curling fingers of shadow writhed in an instant, wrapping around legs and arms, temporarily rooting the last of the Knights and the casters in place. Giving Forge and Ari an instant leg up. The Pixy unleashed a blast of prismatic light while Forge charged, shouldering one of the Knights in the teeth, then swinging for the fences with his axe. 

While the mages struggled to free themselves from the clinging tentacles of shadow, I slipped into the Shadowverse with a thought and an effort of will. The world screeched to a crawl, color fading. I took a few deep breaths, relishing the momentary break in the conflict, and surveyed the field. 

The Dwarven guards had finished off the last of the regular Vogthar foot soldiers and were advancing on the remaining Knights while their ranged support rained down precise arrow-fire from above. Cutter and Amara were working in tandem now, fighting back to back, while Abby was frozen mid-stride, her staff thrust straight out, a bud of flame blooming on the end. She’d burned the Frost Hounds out of existence—none remained—and the blue-skinned Vogthar were likewise gone. 

The Eloyte Knights had been decimated, and Forge was seconds away from burying his axe in the neck of one of the two Spell Casters. 

The other spellcaster, however, had managed to slip away from the heat of the battle and was casting what looked like an AoE spell. Its face was frozen in a snarl, a chant clearly on its lips, a ball of noxious jade energy forming between empty palms. Yep. That was gonna be a hard no. I slipped up behind the spell-slinger, raised my khopesh, activated Stealth, then stepped back from the Shadowverse. Color exploded into the world, accompanied by the sounds of battle and the guttural chanting from the unholy caster in front of me. 

I triggered my Champion’s Strike ability as the blow landed. 

Critical Hit! The spellcaster’s head tumbled away, thudding to the ground with a wet splat as its HP bar hit zero in an instant. The green energy in its hands fizzled harmlessly; its knees buckled and down it went, dead in a heap of limbs and glowing green fluid. 

I wheeled left searching for new enemies, but the square was quiet, the last of invading Vogthar dead.