Viridian Gate Online: Doom Forge (Chapter 5 - 6)

FIVE: 

Yunnam

It was 9:30—a solid two hours since the morning briefing had begun in earnest—by the time I headed into the hallway outside the Command Room with Abby, Amara, and Cutter in tow. 

“Thank the gods above and below that’s over,” Cutter said with a grin, instantly looking more alert and interested now that the meeting was over. “How in the bloody hell can anyone make a war sound so bloody boring, eh? That’s what I want to know. But that’s all behind us. What’s the plan now? Hopefully it involves drinking, eating, maybe a spot of gambling. We never did have a proper celebration for taking Glome Corrie.” He looked me dead in the face and rested a hand on my shoulder. “We need to celebrate the small things, Jack. And the big things too.”

“I’d love to,” I said, shrugging off his hand, “but I’ve got myself an appointment over at the Crafter’s Hall.”

“Gods, are you still doing that?” He rolled his eyes. “You’re the bloody Jade Lord, you don’t need a craft or a profession. You kill monsters and capture cities. That’s enough in my book, friend. Give over already.”

Amara and Abby shared confused looks, then Abby gave me a sidelong glance. Keeping secrets, Jack? 

I blushed furiously and shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“It is fine,” Amara said, killing the conversation before it could hit peek awkward. “We are busy anyway. Jake is preparing to initiate a few new recruits into the Bastards and he wants us there.” She latched onto Cutter’s elbow with steely fingers and gave a gentle tug. “Come along, Spy Master.” 

Cutter grumbled but followed, offering us a quick wave as they descended the stairs and vanished around the first turn. 

“Crafter’s Hall?” Abby asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Something you want to tell me?” 

“It’s nothing,” I replied scrunching my nose and waving her question away with one hand. 

“Jack …” 

I sighed. Thanks Cutter. “Fine. Look, I’ve sorta taken on an apprenticeship. Kind of.” 

“You thinking about swinging a different kind of hammer for once?” She eyed the warhammer sitting at my hip, a slight smile playing across her lips. She was an excellent blacksmith thanks to her skill with flame—controlling heat and the temperature of the fire was a critical ability, apparently—while I was … lacking. There were few people who could take me in a fair fight—especially since I didn’t believe in fighting fair, not if I could find a cheat instead—but on the crafting side of things I was worse than the lowliest lowby. I’d spent so much time questing that I didn’t even have a proper Profession. 

Something everyone and their brother seemed to have. 

I’d unlocked Mining, true, but aside from swinging a pick axe a little faster and minutely increasing the chance to spawn certain rare stones, that wasn’t a terribly practical skill. At least not for me. 

I sniffed and shrugged. “What if I am? I’ve been learning a thing or two about Runic Ward work. I’m getting pretty good.”

She guffawed, snorted, and rolled her eyes. “Runic Ward work? That so?”

“You sound skeptical.” I made for the stairs.

“Obviously,” she said, following behind me. “That’s a subspecialty profession. In order to unlock one of those, you need to practice, Jack, and you don’t have two spare minutes to rub together. You haven’t even slept in the same city for more than two days running. The only profession you’re likely to unlock in the near future is either Professional Meeting Attendee or Dragon Slayer.” 

“Which is why, I need to get over to the Crafter’s Hall.” 

She caught up to me and slipped her hand into mine, our fingers entwining. “And you told Cutter, but not me?” This accusation was quiet, more earnest. Her playful tone gone.

“I didn’t tell him,” I finally admitted. “I was trying to keep anyone from finding out. Its kind of embarrassing. But he’s our Spy Master. He found out in about two seconds and started making fun of me. ‘The great Jade Lord,’” I said, trying to effect Cutter’s cockney accent, “‘bent over a table with an apron on, scratching runes into metal, and taking orders from some grouchy old woman.’” I shrugged. “After that, I thought it was probably best to just keep it to myself.” 

She gave my hand a squeeze. “Don’t listen to him. I’m proud of you for trying something new. Come on, I’ll walk you over. I could use some hours at the forge anyway, then maybe we can grab lunch together. Sound like a plan?” 

“Totally,” I said, squeezing her hand in return. Letting the simple gesture say what I couldn’t. 

Instead of trekking down the gajillion steps that lead to the bottom of the tower we ported directly down to the Keep’s looming entryway. Faction leaders inside the Keep could teleport anywhere inside the building in an eyeblink, but outside of the Keep proper, we had to hoof it just like everyone else. Behind us, Dark Shard rose up into the sky like a behemoth of rounded edges, flowing curves, elegant spires, and artfully carved stonework depicting fantastical beasts and epic battles. 

It always vaguely reminded me of some grand Buddhist temple from a bygone era. 

Abby and I headed down the steps—worn smooth by age, elements, and the passing of countless feet—and into the colossal courtyard nestled inside the inner walls. Those walls stood tall and proud, the stones gleaming and clean, its many towers, manned by keen-eyed Rangers, were defiant. They practically begged for an invader to try and attack, though they wouldn’t have much luck; not with the formidable array of Arcane Shadow Cannons facing outward. 

Once upon a time—and not so long ago, really—Dark Shard had been in absolute ruins, but things had changed a lot since then. Dark Shard itself was now a small, thriving city in its own right, housing a couple thousand people. And those people were everywhere. Walking, talking, working, most moving with purposeful strides in these early morning hours. The grounds themselves were well kept; the vines, trees, and jungle flowers trimmed back and beaten into beautiful submission by an army of professional gardeners and plant-based Druids. 

We were headed over to Yunnam proper, so we cut through a row of stone buildings and made for the port pad, located in the outer courtyard. Those buildings had been leather shanty tents not so long ago, but not anymore. Nope. Dark Shard no longer resembled a rundown refuge city, but something sleek and beautiful and amazing. We skirted around the outside of the main barracks: a boxy, three-story building with terraces jutting from each floor. The place looked pretty empty, but that was expected at 9:30 in the morning.

Most of the Alliance members were out training, crafting, running missions, or—if they were night crew—catching a few winks of shuteye while they could. 

The port pad lay on the other side of the barracks. 

We’d upgraded that since the founding, allowing parties of people to travel all at once; an absolute must considering the overflow of humanity. Now it was a raised stone platform, ten by ten feet, with an elaborate golden circle inlaid into the surface. A Dawn Elf acolyte, wearing brown cleric robes and a near-permanent scowl, sat on a wooden stool eyeing the metal circle and the roped-off waiting line, currently devoid of people. He looked bored out of his mind, which probably wasn’t far from the truth. The port pads, necessary and convenient for Darkshard residents, still required a magic user to oversee them. 

A dull duty, but someone had to do it.

Abby and I made our way up the steps, and the acolyte rose, eyes distant and hazy. I’m not sure he even recognized us, which was a rarity these days. Probably lost in some daydream about slaying dragons. That or drinking a tankard of ale when his shift ended. 

The pad engaged with a blinding flash, and in a wink Abby and I were on an identical metal ring down in the center of Yunnam, not far from the chief’s towering, moss-covered tree. 

The Murk Elf city had also grown dramatically over the past few months, nearly quadrupling in size thanks to the steady influx of Alliance members. And it wasn’t just the number of people, but the city itself that had undergone drastic changes. There were still lots of spindly Dokkalfar homes, raised up on their dark wooden struts, giving the homes a strangely arachnoid appearance. But there were also plenty of Wode, Risi, and even Dawn Elf buildings thrown into the mix. Traditional structures of brick and stone, showing off gracefully arched ceramic roofs.

We wandered past one towering building of particular interest. 

It was a stately structure with walls of gleaming white marble topped by a blue-capped dome in the Imperial style. The Yunnam School of Excellence. 

A lush, grassy lawn boarder the building’s front and a playground of wood and steel had been set up—built by Vlad and some of the other crafters in the city. Children ran and squealed, some little more than toddlers, others in their early to mid-teens. Many were NPCs, but others were Travelers. Kids who’d successfully made the transition. I grinned as a Murk elf girl slapped a Risi boy of twelve or thirteen on the back of the head, only to sprint away, laughing wildly as the Risi boy glared after her. 

The play yard was presided over by the watchful eyes of several fiercely protective Dread Hounds—each two hundred pounds of black fur, yellowed fangs, and hellfire eyes—and Mrs. Claire. A short Dawn Elf woman with golden skin and corn silk hair pulled back in a sharp ponytail. She was a Warlock by trade and responsible for the Dread Hounds. She wore a gray dress and subconsciously rested a single hand on her distended belly. My heart beat a little faster when I saw her. She was a Player, but unique. The first Traveler in V.G.O. to get pregnant. 

No one was sure what would happen with her or what the baby would be like, but she was still a sign of hope. That maybe this place really could be a home. And the kids, likewise, were a beacon of joy. Not only had they survived Asteria and the transition, but they were growing. No one—not even Osmark—had been sure what was going to happen with them, but they seemed to be changing. Maturing. Though admittedly they were maturing at a rather disbursing rate, which was still some cause for concern. 

Abby hooked her elbow through mine as we headed into the sprawling market place chock-full of vendors from every race, hawking their wares from beneath colorful awnings propped up on wooden struts. Meat pies, blades, skill training, ingredients, and just about everything else. My mind wandered as we walked. We’d never really talked about starting a family, since it hadn’t seemed possible, but now? Well Claire changed things. We’d wait to see how things turned out with the pregnancy before really talking about it, but it was a conversation we’d have to have eventually. 

We wandered past a squat Svartalfar man with an impressive beard, slow roasting skewers of sizzling meat over a bed of coals. The aroma of char, grease, and meat tickled the inside of my nostrils and my stomach let out a furious roar of protest. I want this and I want it now. 

Abby just grinned, slipped her arm from mine, then fished out a handful of silvers. True, a meal like this would cost a few coppers at most, but it was good to let the people in the Alliance know that we were more than happy to be generous with what we had. The Dwarf handed over the spits with a nod and a few mumbled words of gratitude. We ate our mid-morning snack as we wove through the marketplace, keeping our hoods up so we wouldn’t be stopped by a gaggle of Alliance members.

After a time, we found ourselves outside a rectangular, two-story structure with a high stone foundation on the far side of Yunnam. There were a variety of outdoor work spaces, a large stable—mostly used for shipping—and a pair of circular towers flanked the main building. But the real magic happened inside, carefully guided by Vlad’s steady hand. At last we’d come to the Crafter’s Hall.
 

SIX: 

Scrivener

We made for the set of dirt-covered wooden steps, leading up to the heavy double doors, glimmering with wards. I hadn’t seen the wards in action yet—honestly, I hoped I never would, since the city would have to be under siege for that—but Vlad assured me the runes and sigils, when activated, would alchemically transform the wood into nearly indestructible stone. I shouldered my way into the main hall, Abby following behind me. Heat and noise washed over me in a wave, making it nearly impossible to talk. The scent of smoke and sweat hung heavy in the air, punctuated by the occasional whiff of sulfur, just like rotten eggs.

The workshop was a flurry of activity, just like it always was, no matter the time of day. 

The clang of steel on steel echoed through the hall, mingling with the roar of furnaces, and the chatter of crafter’s busy at work. Masters barked orders at their apprentices, and apprentices, in turn, muttered under their breath as they scurried around in their leather aprons. I surveyed the room, searching for any friendly faces. Forge spent a fair amount of time in here when he wasn’t out on patrol or training with the Malleus Libertas and Vlad practically lived here. The guy was a work-acholic and slept in his lab more often than the Officer Quarters assigned to him in the Dark Shard Keep. 

There were plenty of folks milling about, but no sign of those two.

“Okay, I’m gonna get my smithy on,” Abby said, gesturing toward the wing housing the forge and foundry—all red brick and black swamp rock, outfitted with everything a potential smith could ever want or need. There were metal-topped workstations, great steel-ribbed barrels brimming with water, bulky stone grinding wheels, pitted iron anvils, and tools of every shape and size hanging from the walls: steel tongs, heavy hammers, grooved swages, vises, rasps, and files in all styles and flavors.

“I’ll shoot you a message in”—she seesawed her head for a moment—“let’s say two hours, then we can head over to Nicks and grab a pie.” 

“Yeah, sounds good,” I called out, cupping my mouth to be heard over the blare of falling hammers. 

She gave me a brilliant smile, then turned and beelined for an open anvil near the smelter. 

I made my way further back into the Crafter’s Hall. The inside of the building was as hot as an oven on the surface of the sun and before I knew it, great trails of sweat rolled down my forehead and back. Reluctantly, I threw my hood back, revealing both my face and the crown of the Jade Lord, which sat on my head like a road flare, altering everyone in a twenty-mile radius of exactly who I was. Frantic apprentices and masters alike all shied away from me, nearly tripping over themselves to clear a path as they offered me cordial nods and overly polite greetings.

I sighed and smiled back, trying not to do anything to terrify them. Such was the life of a Faction Leader. And not just any Faction Leader, but a living legend.

At the far end of the main hall and off to the left sat a spiral staircase, which lead to one of the four main towers; each a specialty area, kept separate from the rest of the hall. Alchemy and Potions in one, Experimental Engineering in another, Glasswork and Jewelcraft in a third. Each tower was sequestered behind runic scripts carefully worked into the floor boards, walls, struts, and stairs. And with good reasons. 

Many of the spells and weapons the Alchemists and Engineers tinkered with day and night were volatile at best. And some of the their most powerful experiments could level the building and kill everyone inside. Instantly, I thought back to the time Vlad had nearly killed the both of us with his Alchemic grenades. Plumes of gray gas washing through his lab, choking the life from the air itself. Thankfully, the runic scripts kept the deadlier items sealed away safely behind magical barriers. If there was an accident, it would only wipe out a single wing, leaving everyone else relatively unscathed. 

The stairs I took lead to the fourth tower—the Enchanter’s Workshop. 

I trudged my way up, going round and round, scanning the runes worked into each stone step, trying to decipher their meaning. I didn’t rate as a Runic Crafter Apprentice yet, but even I could recognize a handful of the containment wards. Here, an angry slash, bisected by a jagged line and an oblong circle; a protection against fire-based attacks and damage. There, what looked like a spiral with a set of horns sprouting from the top and a pair of angular dots flanking the right side. Urandu—a binding construct to temporarily stop summoned creatures from passing. 

There were over two-hundred runic sigils, which could be combined in a number of different ways to achieve an almost unlimited number of different results—though many of those results were categorically terrible. Everything from accidentally setting the Scribe on fire to unleashing a Vortex that damaged only friendly party members. 

A descending master Enchanter his arms overflowing with blueprints, scrolls, and blank parchment, nearly slammed into me on his way down. He was a lanky Murk Elf with stringy white hair and a narrow-pinched face. He opened his mouth, ready to tear into me like a Drill Instructor, when his gaze lighted on my face then flickered to the crown at my brow. His eyes bulged alarmingly, and he swallowed whatever he’d been about to say, quickly pressing his back up against the wall as though he might be able to disappear if he just stopped moving. 

That’s was dumb, of course, because I wasn’t a T.Rex, but I just kept going, pretending to ignore him. He seemed deeply relieved.

The winding staircase let out into an octagonal room, the walls polished gray stone, the floors cherrywood, every single floorboard covered in runic script. 

Two-dozen people occupied the room. Enchanters and Scriveners—all Apprentices and Journeymen from the insignia markings on their aprons—but they purposely avoided looking at me as though I might have the plague. 

Over in the corner was the woman I’d come to find, and she, at least, wouldn’t ignore me. The Arcane Scrivener sat at a workstation in the corner, her back bent, furiously carving something on her wood-topped table. 

“Well, don’t just stand there all day, youngin’. You’re already leaps and bounds behind the rest of the ‘prentices,” she barked out over one shoulder, not bothering to so much as look up from her work.

Betty Howard was a dour Wode with silver-blond hair pulled back into a tight bun and a too-serious face. Her silken robes—black and boring, though finely made—draped her whip-chord body like a sheet. She looked maybe fifty, but was closer to ninety, or at least she had been before making the transition into VGO. She could’ve chosen the body of a twenty-five-year-old, but no. Not Betty Howard. Excessive she called it. Besides, she had no joint pain here, her arthritis was gone, and she felt twenty-five no matter how she looked. Her words.

A bit eccentric, but also the best Rune Worker in the Alliance. She’d spent most of her days, IRL, as a seamstress and tailor. Rune-work, she insisted to anyone who would give her ear, wasn’t so different from sewing or mending or doing a spot of needlepoint. Just attention to detail and following the right patterns. 

“It doesn’t help that you only pop in for a few hours a week. Never gonna be a proper Rune Worker at that rate. Oughta toss you right out on your ear.” The words were harsh, but I could see the flicker of a grin on her face as she waved toward the three-legged stool at the end of her work station. “I know you’re liable to run off any minute, so I had this set out for you.” She pushed over a sheet of parchment with a circular Runic-binding meticulously painted on. 

I smiled. The very best thing about Betty, however, wasn’t her formidable skill as an Arcane Scrivener. Nope. The best thing was she didn’t seem to have the foggiest clue who I was, or if she did, she didn’t care in the least. Either was fine by me.

I plopped down onto the stool and took a look at the page she’d pushed my way. It came from one of her many work manuals, all drawn by hand. The symbol on the sheet was actually a compound script set, composed of several basic runic bindings, all interwoven into a circle. Below the complicated sigil was a meticulous description of how to inscribe the individual runes and in what order, what it’s potential uses were, and how the script set might interact with other basic runes and common script sets. 

This was an intermediate Protection Ward, which when combined with a single rune inscribed at the center of the circle, could temporarily reduce elemental damage. Or when combined with another set of runes, could be used as a foundation to ward off specific types of elemental and magical creatures. 

“You’ll be needing these,” she said, pulling out a handful of bronze coins, all blank, each the size of a Silver Dollar with a small hole at the top. Basic amulets if I had to guess. She slapped a runic awl down next to the pendants without another word of explanation. “Get busy, lollygagger,” she snapped. She promptly pulled down a set of brass Crafter’s goggles with a set of telescoping lenses, and resumed her work. 

She had a golden amulet the size of a closed fist on the table in front of her. A fat ruby sat in the center. Painstakingly engraved into the metal around the gem were hair-fine runes so small they were hard to even make out. She reached up, casually flipped a blue lens into place, adjusted a series of dials and tiny levers alongside the goggles, then set to work with a fine-pointed awl, a heck of a lot nicer than the loaner she’d given me. She squinted, forehead creasing, and began etching a new line of runic-script into the metal.

She wasn’t altering or enhancing some old artifact—she was creating a new one. A custom piece, no doubt, tailored to order. 

“You won’t get any better watching me, boy.” She never stopped working.

No matter how much everyone else bowed and scraped for me, Betty Howard never would. Not in a million years. I slipped on a pair of the strange goggles—Osmark constantly wore them—flipped down a blue lens, just as Betty had done, and went to work. I read through the instructions on the sheet of parchment once more, then etched the first rune in the script, Sitoa, onto the surface of the token. Blue lines of power flared, augmented by the goggles. I finished the final slash then moved onto the next mark in the circle, Saa, connecting the two with a tiny line.

The line of power spread from the first rune to the second, and the pair of them began to glow and pulse in a strange syncopated rhythm—blue, green, blue, green.

I watched, fascinated, as a fraction of my Spirit drained away in service to powering the Runic Script. The energy for Runes came from one of three places, I’d learned. Most runes used straight Spirit, which was taken directly from the crafter. But some runes required specific types of magic—a flaming sword would require concentrated fire from a Firebrand—and for those, a third-party mage was usually required, unless the caster could meet the requirement themselves. The final type was energy harvested directly from monsters, using a special type of syphon called a charging crystal—not so different from the enormous emerald in the Darkshard Keep control room. 

That whole table, it turned out, was one giant arcane artifact, covered in insanely-complex runes, and powered by the charging crystal which connected directly to Brewald, the Dark Shard Guardian. 

When I added the third of six runes to the set, Rikki, my hand slipped just a hair. One of the angular lines went a millimeter too far and the glowing light morphed from blues and greens to an angry red, the color of an infected wound. My Spirit gauge began to noticeably drop, as though I were casting some overpowered spell. Maybe Plague Burst or Night Cyclone. The bronze coin hummed and rattled across the surface of the table, clattering violently against the wood. I stole a look at Betty who simply scooted over a few inches then tapped her awl against a rune I hadn’t yet learned, scrawled on the leg of her stool. 

Immediately, an opalescent barrier sprung up around her with an audible pop.

Just in time to shelter her from the deafening explosion. The bronze medal flashed in front of me—a blast of brilliant crimson—and searing hot chunks of metallic shrapnel peppered my face, neck, and hands. At my level the explosion hadn’t shaved off more than the tiniest fraction of HP, but the metal shards still burned like fury and most annoying of all a Debuff appeared, floating before me: 

                                                           Debuff Added

Stunned: You have been stunned! Attack   damage -10%; Stamina Regeneration reduced by 15%; movement speed reduced by   25%; duration, 1 minute. 

Betty cast me a sidelong glance from the corner of her eye then cackled as she tapped the rune on her stool leg once more, dismissing the colorful shield around her. “Unregulated Spirit,” she said by way of explanation. “Runic Script work ain’t about speed, it’s about accuracy. Precision.” She reached over and prodded at the War Hammer on my belt with one bony finger. “This work here, boy, it ain’t like swinging around a hammer. It’s threading a needle. And even one little slip up can get y’all blown to hell. Count yourself lucky that script circle was so dang small and worked in bronze.” 

I blinked away the purple after image still staining my vision and the debuff faded with it. 

“Now get yer butt back on the horse and try again. For a real Scrivener, practice makes perfect.” She swept a hand toward the pile of bronze medals. “You got yourself plenty to practice on, I reckon.” She offered me a wink, barely visible through the goggles, then hunched back over, her lips pressed into a tight line as she resumed her work. Her golden medallion had at least fifteen different interlocking runic script circles already, each one of them far more complex than the circle I was working on now. And each was no larger than the size of a dime. 

I grunted and pulled over the next metal token. 

That one erupted up in my face, too—though I made five of the six runes before failing spectacularly. It ate even more of my Spirit and sliced off nearly a sixth of my HP, which was no small thing, proving this was serious business. 

My third run was my first success. The completed medal earned me a noncommittal grunt from Betty and a hundred EXP—a drop in the bucket at my current level. Still, I was only a level one Runic Scrivener, so I only needed a handful of successes to unlock my next Scrivener level. I buckled down, working through the next three medallions without fault. The one after that blew up, though instead of fire it jettisoned a gout of arctic wind into my eyes. 

Snow Blindness for two minutes. 

“Starting to get cocksure,” Betty said in-between bouts of cackling laughter.

When the snow blindness finally subsided, I glanced around the room only to find that every other disciple had retreated. No one wanted to see their elevated leader blowing himself up over and over again—bad for morale. Plus, they probably thought I’d unleash my wrath on them if they laughed at my misfortune. I shook my head and hit it again. This time I was slower. More diligent. More patient. Ensuring each line was meticulously placed. Each dot added just so. Each swooping curve perfect. 

It was simple work, really, but deeply enjoyable. 

True, if I got something wrong, it would literally blow up in my face, but the task was straight forward. Simple. I knew exactly what needed to be done. There was no moral ambiguity here. No grand sweeping decisions that would affect the fate of millions. If I screwed up, I would pay the price tag with a face full of shrapnel, but no one else would suffer or die. Plus, because the work was so exacting, I couldn’t focus on anything else. My mind was fully present. Back in college when school or life became too overwhelming, I’d clean. Do dishes. Sweep the floors. Scrub the toilets. 

Anything to get my mind focused elsewhere. This was a lot like that. 

I’d finished twenty-five of the bronze medallions when a notification pinged in my ear. I set my awl down and swiped a hand across my brow, covered in a sheen of sweat, then pulled up my interface. 

Crafting   Subspecialty: Runic Scrivener

Runic Scrivener is a subspecialty of the Enchanting Profession and allows   you to create powerful runic scripts with a myriad of impressive magical and   mundane abilities. This crafting subspecialty requires an Enchanter’s   Workshop or a Scrivener’s Lab for maximum effectiveness.

There are eight   primary Crafting Professions: Cooking, Enchanting, Alchemy, Tailoring and   Leatherwork, Engineering, Merchant-Craft, Blacksmithing, and Lapidary   (Jeweler), plus hundreds of subspecialties. All Professions, both Gathering   and Crafting, can be unlocked and leveled through practice and use, but any   specialized skills or abilities within a given profession must be unlocked   with Proficiency Points. All specialized profession skills can be upgraded a   total of seven times (Initiate, Novice, Adept, Journeyman, Specialist,   Master, Grandmaster). 

Gathering   Ability Type/Level: Passive / Level 2

Cost:   N/A

Effect   1: Increase effect and duration of Runic Scripts by 5%

Effect   2: All Spirit Costs associated with Rune Work are reduced by 3%.

Effect   3: Can inscribe 1 Compound Runic Script Set per Item. 

After I’d finished looking over the update, I toggled over to my character sheet—checking to see where I was at after the raid on Glome Corrie. Using my Avatar of Order ability had cost me dearly, but the points I’d earn from taking out the horde of Vogthar troops and capturing the city had pushed me back up, closing the gap toward level 50. A level I was ecstatic to reach, since it would allow me to unlock my ultimate Shadowmancer ability, Shadow Lord.

“Not bad,” Betty reluctantly grumbled as I dismissed my interface. She was still hunched over her workbench, eyes glued on the amulet in front of her. I’d never be as good as her, of course. She wasn’t just a normal Crafter. As an Arcane Scrivener she had access to skills and abilities I never would. But if I could accomplish even a fraction of what she could, I’d be more than happy. To have any skill other than hit-thing-in-the-face-with-magic-or-hammer would be nice. 

“Might be, you spent more than three hours a week in here, you might someday make a passable Rune Worker. Might,” she emphasized, the ghost of a smile on her lips. 

A message hit my inbox a second before I responded. This one from Abby. Lunch time.

“Maybe someday,” I said, standing then removing the leather apron she’d loaned me. 

“Keep it. Goggles and awl, too. Maybe you can find some time to practice in between bouts of adventuring. Good luck with whatever fresh hell you’re about, youngin’.” She waved me away with the flick of a hand.