Viridian Gate Online: Darkling Siege (The Viridian Gate Archives Book 7) Page 26
“Well,” Abby offered slowly, “the thing is, Jack and I weren’t actually thinking of having you go to Morsheim to help with the refugees. We were thinking of having the Vogthar...” She trailed off, shifting on uncertain feet. Understandable, since we were about to ask for a very large favor. “Well, we were thinking of bringing them here.” She swept a hand around the woods. “To you.”
He nearly choked at the words.
“I’m sorry. You want to bring them here,” he said incredulously, more statement than question. “To my woods.” He pointed at the leaf-covered ground around us. “Right here? Outside my dungeon?”
“Yes,” I replied, straight-faced.
“I, too, was hesitant,” Zendu said, inching forward. “Our people have heard about the mighty Gravemonger and Spider Queen, so when Jack proposed this as a solution, I feared for the safety of my people.” He paused, lipless mouth stretching tight. “But the truth is, we have nowhere else to turn. Our own cities are not safe, and the Legionnaires grow more eager for blood every day. Morsheim is a brutal place, and if my fellow Lorekeepers aid you in your cause, it is possible Thanatos will seek retribution against the most vulnerable among us. For what little it is worth,” he said, dipping his head into a deep bow, “we will serve you however we are able and would be forever in your debt.”
“Excuse us for just one moment,” Jo-Dan said, wrapping a bony wing around my shoulder and drawing me off to the side, where we wouldn’t be overheard.
“Jack...” he said in exasperation, voice pitched for my ears. “You can’t seriously expect me to say yes. They’re Vogthar. They’re monsters.”
“Like you?” I asked.
“Dude, that’s a low blow and you know it.” He sounded hurt.
“It’s not a low blow,” I pressed. “You’re the only one that understands. You know what it’s like to be rejected. For everyone to look down on you or view you with suspicion. That’s what these Vogs are going through. I’m telling you, Jo, they aren’t bad. They aren’t even dangerous. They want peace just as much as we do. They want to raise their kids and not have to be constantly looking over their shoulders. My hope is that someday they might even be able to find a place in larger Eldgard society. But until that happens, they need someplace safe to call home.”
“I don’t like this,” Lowyth protested, edging into our conversation. “Ever since we made our compact, troublesome fly, I have found myself betraying my nature far too often. I am a predator. Not a babysitter. And the great Joseph the Gravemonger is no different. Isn’t that so?”
Jo-Dan glanced down and fiddled with his scythe, eventually dismissing the weapon back to his inventory. “No, Low,” he finally said with a long sigh, shaking his head and taking her hands in his. “Jack’s right. These things have nowhere else to go. And who else is going to look out for them, huh? We need to take care of our own, Low. We take care of monsters, and if Jack vouches for them, then I’m on board.”
“This is a terrible idea,” the Spider Queen replied, unamused.
“My dungeon, my land, my choice.” Jo turned and stalked away from us, stopping directly in front of Zendu. He extended a pale hand. “Lorekeeper, welcome to the Catacombs of the Forsaken. Name’s Joseph the Gravemonger, but my friends call me Jo-Dan, which is what you can call me. I don’t quite know where to start, but Jack has done more for me than anyone else ever has. He believed in me and trusted me when no one else would. If you and yours need a place to stay, then welcome. I gotta admit, I’m not sure I’ll be able to accommodate ten thousand Vogthar. Not without some serious leveling up.”
“It’s not ten thousand,” Abby said. “More like three thousand. Ish. And you won’t have to house them in your dungeon.”
I pulled up my interface and fired off the pre-written message I’d already drafted. A few seconds later, portals began springing open, and out flooded a host of dark-skinned Dokkalfar and stout Dwarves decked out in engineer’s gear. Craftsmen and Murk Elf clansmen that had stayed behind to hold down the fort here in Eldgard. A small army of helping hands.
“I had to cash in a few favors,” I said, “but meet your work crew. They’re going to help us build a village not far from your dungeon entrance. Hope you’re up for some company because you’re about to have the first Thar settlement a stone’s throw from your front door. Right here is going to be the sight of Haven.”
“Wait, you mean I won’t be alone anymore?” Jo said, his voice soft. Unsure.
“Hope that’s okay,” Abby said, placing a comforting hand on his forearm.
“Okay? Are you kidding me! Do you have any idea how awful it is to be alone out here?” He sounded giddy. “Well, what the hell are we waiting for, huh? Let’s get to work!” He extended his arm, and in a flash, an oversized shovel appeared. “I’ll get the troops cracking, and we’ll get this place ready for guests in no time flat.” He gave a hoot and a fist pump as he turned on a heel and headed toward his crypt, already barking orders to the directionless undead Knights.
Low just watched him go, but there was a ghost of a smile painted across her bloodred lips. She looked happy for him. “What have I become?” she muttered under her breath as she stalked off after the Gravemonger.
“What about us?” Abby asked, facing me. “Back to the front lines or...”
“Actually,” I said, retrieving an axe from my inventory, “I was thinking maybe we could stay and lend a hand. The siege engines still have days left, so I thought we could take a little break. Maybe spend some time together. Talk?”
“But we have a war to run, Jack,” she protested weakly. “Shouldn’t we be responsible?”
“They’ll manage for a few days without us, Abs. Besides, I’m tired of doing the right thing for everyone but us.” I leaned forward and pecked her on the lips. “Now, are you gonna help or what? We have a whole village to build.”
For a second, her face was an unreadable mask, and then—like quicksilver—something broke and a brilliant smile erupted. “I would love to, you knucklehead, though I’m totally gonna kick your ass in wood chopping.” She snatched the axe from my hand and took off for the tree line, cackling like crazy. “Gonna clear twice as many trees as you!” she shouted over her shoulder.
I retrieved another axe from my inventory and gave it a little twirl. “That sounds like a bet. Game on, Firebrand.”
Building Haven
ABBY AND I WORKED LIKE dogs for most of the day, leveling sections of forest floor, hauling water-smooth creek rocks, smashing boulders, clearing leaf piles, and lashing logs together with strands of silvery spider silk. Everyone worked, including the mobs, which was an interesting sight: monstrous Corpse Hounds hauling timber, Revenant Knights using their bloodstained axes to fell trees, scuttling spiders working at the direction of Dokkalfar tribesman, creating makeshift pulleys or using their inhuman strength to help lift palisade walls into place. I even summoned my Void Terrors from time to time, using them as manual labor instead of instruments of destruction.
Devil was supremely grumpy at the prospect of work that didn’t involve fighting, killing, or eating, but he minded anyway, burning down sections of forest with gouts of Umbra Fire and lifting logs into place with his oversized jaws like a living crane of scale and shadow.
The Dwarven architects did far less grunt work than almost anyone else, but they were busy with a different kind of work:
Drafting plans for huts and communal spaces.
Creating blueprints for sustainable gardens, parks, and roadways.
Inspecting buildings as they were started and finished, ensuring they were up to some unspoken Dwarven code that only they seemed to know.
It was exhausting work, certainly as hard as slogging through a battle, but it was also clean work. The aches and pains I earned were from honest labor, honestly done, and building something tangible instead of simply tearing everything down was deeply satisfying. All the more so because I was doing it with Abby. Laughing, joking, talking like old days. There wa
s still simmering tension left over from the way I’d been acting since our time down with Khalkeús, but this was still better than we’d been in ages. It felt like real life. Well, not real, real life—we were still building a forest village with the aid of literal monsters—but it felt more normal than anything had in a long time.
It was a glimpse of what could be if we set things right in Morsheim.
Plus, I even managed to level up a few of my more mundane skills that rarely got any love since I spent most of my time gallivanting all over Eldgard and the Divine Realms, completing epic quests and slaying deities instead of chipping away at rocks or chopping down trees.
<<<>>>
Gathering Profession: Mining
Mining allows the player to gather a wide array of raw minerals from ore veins scattered all around Eldgard and West Viridia. Mining is one of the five Gathering Professions—Mining, Foraging, Logging, Hunting, Farming—which any class and race can access. Gathering Professions allow players to accumulate resources, which can then be used by crafters to manufacture a huge variety of items, ranging from potions to armor and weapons.
There are eight primary Crafting Professions: Cooking, Enchanting, Alchemy, Tailoring and Leatherwork, Engineering, Merchant-Craft, Blacksmithing, and Lapidary (Jeweler). 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 3 (Adept)
Cost: N/A
Effect 1: Extract 7% more material from all ore veins.
Effect 2: Extracting material requires 9% less effort, reducing overall Stamina drain while actively mining and cutting the time necessary to exhaust a vein.
Effect 3: Randomly spawn a gem (diamond, ruby, sapphire, emerald, jade, turquoise, lapis lazuli, pearl, beryl, topaz, opal, moonstone, sunstone, bloodstone) while mining. Spawn Chance = (.003 x Luck)
<<<>>>
Gathering Profession: Logging
Logging allows the player to gather a wide array of raw materials from the various forests, groves, and marshes blanketing the landscape of Eldgard and West Viridia. Logging is one of the five Gathering Professions—Mining, Foraging, Logging, Hunting, Farming—which any class and race can access. Gathering Professions allow players to accumulate resources, which can then be used by crafters to manufacture a huge variety of items, ranging from potions to armor and weapons.
Gathering Ability Type/Level: Passive/Level 1 (Initiate)
Cost: N/A
Effect 1: Extract 5% more construction material from all felled trees.
Effect 2: Extracting material requires 8% less effort, reducing overall Stamina drain while actively logging resources.
Effect 3: Randomly spawn rare crafting ingredients (king’s root, spoolwood, starseed, ironheart, sakku coriander, petrified wood, icewart, ashvein, flamesprigs, thorn-timber, dragonbark, diamond leaf, okleaper, wolfsbane) while logging. Spawn Chance = (.001 x Luck)
<<<>>>
By the end of the first day, the building site had been completely cleared, earthen berms were erected, the palisade wall was staked into place, and most of the roadways were laid out. We’d also spent a fair amount of time setting the foundation for the first building that would go up when we resumed work in the morning. That had been a learning experience, and one that left me with tender muscles and a wickedly sore back. First, our Dwarven engineers had carefully staked out the plumb lines, squaring off the building’s foundation. Then we’d spent hours and hours churning up the tough topsoil with pickaxes, before eventually clearing out the rubble with steel-headed shovels, then backfilling the pit with quarter-inch river gravel, hauled up from a nearby stream by the wheelbarrow full. We used the spiderkin to maneuver the huge chunks of foundation stone into place, carefully fitting the slabs of granite together, then using a pasty white mortar to fill in the cracks and crevices, cementing it altogether. It wasn’t terribly technical, but it was time and labor intensive.
When the sun finally set and I had a belly full of food, Abby and I retired under a thick pile of blankets, the winking stars shining down on us, reassuring in their familiarity. It felt almost like a second chance—an opportunity to make things right between us. We snuggled together, her head on my chest, her fingers trailing over my bare skin. Unlike the last time I’d slept beneath the pale gaze of starlight, this time I had no trouble falling asleep. I was out mere minutes after my head touched the goose-down pillow.
I wasn’t sure if it was being back in Eldgard, a hard day of backbreaking labor, or some leftover mojo from the magenta pools in the Temple of Forgotten Waters, but that night I dreamt.
I closed my eyes to Eldgard and opened them a moment later to a graveyard.
This wasn’t one of those manufactured horror movie graveyards, though, the kind of place where ghouls and zombies dragged themselves from the earth. This was a place I’d visited on a number of occasions IRL. Fort Logan National Cemetery, just outside of Denver. My grandparents on my father’s side were both buried there. Grandpa Dwayne’s funeral had been the first I’d ever attended. I’d been nine at the time, and only a handful of months later, Grandma passed, sending me back for my second funeral. It was no wonder this place had left an indelible mark carved into my soul—though why I was here, now, I couldn’t hazard a guess at.
I spun slowly, drinking in the quiet serenity of it all.
Behind me was a placid pond, where a small flock of geese floated contentedly. Streaks of pink and purple light from the rapidly setting sun skipped across the surface of the water like a stone. To the west loomed the Rockies: jagged, saw-toothed peaks that could rival anything in Eldgard. Leafy elms poked up from vibrant grass, their leaves painted in alarming shades of red and orange. The centerpiece, as with all graveyards, was not the pristine nature or the quiet solitude, but the rows and rows and rows of precisely spaced marble headstones. They popped up from the earth like the blunt white teeth of some slumbering giant.
A low creeping ground fog began to emerge, washing around my ankles and licking at the gravestones stretching out before me.
In the way of dreams, a lone shape resolved in the mist. The vague humanoid shape became more defined with every passing second—arms and legs peeled away from the torso, and facial features emerged. I creased my brow, trying to figure out just what I was looking at. A wave of shock rippled through me as my dad stepped out from the curling tendrils of mist, his jeans torn, his shirt burned and actively smoldering. His skin was twisted like molten wax, and what remained of his face was so badly burned that only his brown eyes, nearly black, really stood out, like chips of coal in the bottom of a firepit.
“Do you know what it feels like to burn, Jackie?” he said, his voice hoarse. Raw and pained. “It hurts, Son. It hurts a helluva lot more than I thought it would.” He extended his arms wide. “Why don’t you come here and give your old man a hug? See what it feels like for yourself.”
I didn’t move, giving the specter his distance.
“Come on, Jackie,” the ghost of my father barked, eyes turning a nasty shade of crimson as he spoke. “It’s the least you could do. It’s your fault I’m dead. Me and your mom, both. If you would’ve pushed a little harder, been a little more insistent, then maybe we would’ve listened. We were only in Charleston. Osmark had one of those upload facilities in Atlanta. Not even a five-hour drive. We could’ve made it in an afternoon. Why didn’t you push us harder?” he asked, his eyes losing their vicious hue, turning a forlorn shade of blue. “I miss you, Jackie. Your mom does, too. And it’s your fault we’re not there.” He fell quiet, arms extended. “Well don’t just stand there. Answer me, Son,” he thundered, body vibrating with rage and hurt.
His words should’ve cut deeper—a surgeon’s scalpel carving thro
ugh skin and muscle, all the way down to my heart—but some logical part of my brain knew this was wrong.
All wrong.
The accusations rang hollow in my ears. Thing was, my dad never blamed anyone. Ever. Certainly not when it came to a choice he’d made. My dad was far from a perfect man—he drank too much, worked more than was healthy, and was gone as often as he was home thanks to the Corps—but there were two unwavering, intertwined truths at the core of his being: One, the only way to get better was to know yourself and seek self-improvement. Two, the only way to truly know yourself was unflinching accountability and personal responsibility. If he made a choice, by God, he owned that choice for better or worse.
Always. Forever. And with no exceptions.
I was sad my parents weren’t in Eldgard, and sometimes I did blame myself... maybe if I’d done more, it would’ve changed things. That had nibbled at my thoughts more than once, but my dad would never blame me.
“No,” I said, shaking my head at the phantom. “You’re not him. I don’t know who or what you are, but you’re not my dad.” I raised my hands out in front of me. “I reject this.”
The apparition stopped midstride, frozen, his melted face screwed up in puzzlement. Thin fissures began to spread across his skin, running down his body like cracks in a porcelain doll, a soft white light bleeding out until I couldn’t see the ghostly figure at all and had to shield my eyes from the intensity of the glow.
A dull roar filled my ears, but once the noise passed, the ghostly horror show was nowhere to be found and my actual father remained. Or at least my father as I liked to remember him. Tall and thin, skin tan, his high and tight haircut—a staple he never got rid of—lightly sprinkled with gray. This was dad from my high school days and now, as then, he held an old-fashioned in a crystal low-ball glass. Always old-fashioneds with him. A triple shot of Jack, a splash of club soda, a dab of bitters, a slice of orange.