PA-01. Den Of Thieves, page 3
part #1 of Pantheon Online Series
Constitution - 5 (+30% Development)
Description: You wouldn’t be caught dead in Fight Club, and you’re not exactly an Iron Man triathlete. You’re reasonably fit, but nothing to write home about. Probably just the fortunate result of decent genes and a high metabolism… you should really work out more!
◆ Mental Attributes
Affinity Levels
Charisma - 5 (+30% Development)
Creativity - 2 (+15% Development)
Wisdom - 4 (+25% Development)
Intelligence - 7 (+40% Development)
Description: If there’s a creative bone in your body, it’s probably the coccyx. You take life way too literally. You’re not exactly a meathead, but you never really applied yourself. You could probably learn something, if you didn’t waste so much time with these damn VR games.
Jake shook his head. The deprecating style of this game was going to get a little annoying. Some of its conclusions hit just a little too close to home. And the part about wasting time on games took on a whole new light under the circumstances.
But he might as well make the most of it. This game might be the only chance he had for any semblance of a real life. And the information was actually really useful.
“All right, thank you.”
The stat page vanished.
“Now, Azmar, show me the orcs.”
Jake learned that orc abilities varied by their environment. Woodland orcs were light and agile and skilled hunters. Cave orcs were scavengers and tended to be on the slower side, but they were skilled climbers, possessed uncanny night vision, and had a keen sense of smell. There were similar variations in mountain, desert, and swamp orcs, each fitted with characteristics for greater success in their environment. For example, desert orcs bore a strange carapace that protected them from extreme temperatures, while mountain orcs had thick hides with fur.
There were more variations than in many games, but the ugly creatures all seemed to fit the typical mold. While the idea of becoming some sort of orc raider was intriguing, it did not quite feel right.
Perhaps it had something to do with the girl he’d killed, but even though none of this was real, Jake felt an obligation to choose a more noble creature.
Besides, this game was so realistic, he’d probably smell like sweaty orc ass.
The cherubs could fly, which was really interesting. But their combat skills left much to be desired, and their affinity for study and music was a little off-putting. Jake didn’t have anything against a celestial choirboy scholar, but it wasn’t exactly how he wanted to spend his free time after what he assumed would be a grueling day’s work in Grid Eight.
In the end, he did what most people with Level 2 Creativity skills would do.
[You have selected the race Human. Do you wish to proceed? Yes/No]
“Er...” Azmar’s gravelly voice interrupted him before he could voice his assent. “You probably shouldn’t do that.”
Jake glared at the creature. “Why not?”
“I don’t really give a damn, and your kind never listen to me anyway, but your affinities are not greatly suited for that race.”
“Are you telling me I’m not fit to be human? I am human.”
Azmar shook his head. “You’re currently nothing. And you are fit to be a perfectly average human, but you don’t exactly have the affinities to be a Spartan warrior or whatever it is you have in mind. Your intellect is decent. Strength is okay. Charisma is mediocre. Your Dexterity is your only good attribute, and the human developmental rating is only 30% for that. Do whatever you want. It’s your funeral.”
Jake paused for a moment. The human avatar in Jake’s view had begun cycling through a number of nationalities, and all of them looked badass. These natural affinities were not his favorite part of the game, and if anyone from Virtuality ever asked for feedback, he intended to lay into them.
He sighed. “Fine. Give me the damn elf.”
[You have selected the race Elf. Do you wish to proceed? Yes/No]
“Yes,” Jake said. The human avatar blinked and became a tall and much less muscular man. It cycled between the bright dawn elves and the brooding dusk elves. The elves were categorized by clan rather than nationality, and after some inspection, he made his decision.
[You have selected a dusk elf of Maldan origin. Maldans largely originate from the Isle of Malda in the Arien Sea. They were once a mighty clan, known for orc conquests and explorations. But their organized society reached a sudden end when the Isle of Malda was destroyed in a volcanic eruption. The survivors are a hardy people who wander the realms of Pantheon in search of quests, with the hope of one day rebuilding their society.
Now you must choose: Male/Female]
Jake selected Male, and the avatar settled as a tall Maldan man, with tan skin and dark hair that reached slender shoulders. He looked a little stronger than Jake did in his true body. The man wore hide breeches and a dark cloak.
[Please choose your name. This will be the name you will be called in the realms of Pantheon.]
“Um, just Jake is fine.”
A blaring horn filled his ears.
“What’s wrong?” Jake asked, glancing over at Azmar.
“You are not allowed to use your true name, for security purposes.”
“Why? Not like I couldn’t just tell everyone anyways.”
Azmar glared deeply, drumming the talons of his feet on a rock.
“Whatever, all right… how about Thor?” The Maldan history gave him a little bit of a Viking vibe—elf version, anyway.
But the horn blared again.
[Very original. You’re only the bajillionth person to choose that name. Perhaps in your own world, there is a different connotation for the name Thor. But in Pantheon, most people with that name end up as mediocre bakers or cow feces.]
“Fine, how about… um… Gunnar.”
The avatar hovered toward him and then flashed. He looked down and saw that at last he had arms and legs. And he could move! He took a few steps and marveled at how natural each movement felt.
A basic character sheet appeared in front of him.
Gunnar Ashwood
Servant of Nymoria
Glory: Level 1
Character Traits
Race: Dusk Elf
Clan: Maldan
Character Stats
Health - 50/50
Stamina - 40/40
Mana - 60/60
4
FAST TRAVEL
As his character sheet vanished, so did Azmar’s hideous face, and all the world with it. Gunnar’s stomach lurched as though he had hit the drop on a rollercoaster.
He was floating.
Drifting.
Through an impenetrable blue haze, which seemed to flash past in a blur.
What the hell happened? he wondered. Did I…
“Gods! You haven’t died! You haven’t even started.”
Gunnar nearly leapt out of his skin. “Damn it, Azmar, you’re still here?”
He had hoped to be rid of the creature. The way he could practically sense Gunnar’s thoughts was a bit unsettling. It was convenient when those thoughts prompted a notification from the game, but with Azmar, it was downright grating.
Gunnar could faintly make out the creature’s dark wings beside him.
“I have the profound fortune of guiding you through the basic mechanics of this gods-forsaken game,” Azmar said sarcastically.
“What is this?”
“We’re fast-traveling. Pantheon is the most expansive game to ever be developed. Didn’t you know?”
Despite the sarcasm, the concept of fast-traveling sent a thrill through him. “You mean I can go anywhere in this world?”
Azmar chuckled darkly. “I can. I am an advanced creature with a vast array of skills. You are a peon with no skills to speak of.”
Gunnar gritted his teeth. “Yeah? Well, look who’s forced to guide who through the game, oh mighty Advanced Creature.”
Though the haze was too thick to make out the features of Azmar’s face, Gunnar knew his point had been made. Azmar huffed, then flew on in silence. The only sounds were the soft flapping of Azmar’s wings and Gunnar’s breaths. He was grateful for the silent journey.
He had often found that some of the worst assholes in the world were people in low-level positions who used their tiny amount of authority to ruin everyone’s day.
Perhaps Azmar was just an NPC (non-player character) programmed to be this way, or perhaps he was a fellow prisoner forced to serve in this mentor position. Gunnar didn’t know how it all worked.
But either way, he supposed guiding noobs into the game was probably mundane as hell. At any rate, it seemed Gunnar needed to try to stay on the creature’s good side for now.
“So…” Gunnar said after some time. “Where are we going?”
“Didn’t you read the description of the Maldan clan?”
More like skimmed, but he couldn’t give credence to the creature’s impression of him. “Of course I did!”
“Right, well, your people—the Maldans you read so much about—were displaced by a volcanic eruption. Maldan entry points are scattered across various port cities in the realms of Pantheon. We are traveling to the city of Thailen.”
Gunnar wondered where that was exactly, and at his mental prompt, an intricate map appeared in his vision—giant mountain ranges and vast seas, great plains and stark deserts, mysterious cities and nations—the whole thing embellished with icons of gods and beasts.
Quickly, the map zoomed in, focusing on a small bay near the eastern end of a large sea.
[The city of Thailen lies on the easternmost corner of the Altaean Sea, near the outskirts of the sprawling Reddik Empire. But like most major trade cities in Pantheon, it is truly ruled by the Guilds of Luka, the Elysian god of commerce. As the servant of a lesser deity, it would behoove you to tread cautiously.
Unless, of course, you don’t mind becoming a precious sacrificial dove. Hey! You do you!]
The map vanished, and the surrounding haze began to dissipate as they neared their destination. Gunnar could feel the gravitational pressure of his descent tugging at his gut in a jarring manner.
“Damn, how fast are we—”
He nearly threw up as he lurched straight downward.
Azmar didn’t answer him.
The shadow of his dark wings was gone.
The blue haze of their fast-travel vanished, and Gunnar landed with a jolt in a new realm of Pantheon.
Gunnar stood at the prow of a small sailing vessel, which slowly drifted through a crowded harbor. It was the dead of night. Tendrils of fog hung over the dark water, but Gunnar could make out the pyramidal shapes of sails a short distance away. The long arms of cranes loomed along the shoreline like a row of gallows.
Gunnar was not alone on the deck of the vessel. Though he doubted it was more than thirty feet in length, dozens of people gathered on deck as they neared the shore. Most of them appeared to be Maldan, like himself. Though they all wore dark hoods, so there was no way to tell for sure.
A young man whispered beside him. “What a sight, isn’t it?”
Gunnar paused dumbly before realizing the man was talking to him. He glanced at the city through the fog. A few spires cut through the haze and rose into the night sky in the distance, but the night and the fog and the looming cranes of the loading docks didn’t exactly scream: Welcome to our illustrious city!
Their ship slowly veered toward an empty dock that looked in dire need of repair. “Er, yeah, sure.”
“After so long at sea, I was feeling grateful just to see land again,” the young man said. “But this city… makes you think our people might find a future again. I about lost hope after the eruption.”
“How long have we been at sea?” Gunnar asked. “I… lost track.”
“Nearly a month,” the young man said.
The vessel docked, and after tethering it, the crew set up a gangway, and a long stream of refugees disembarked with barely a sound.
For a moment, Gunnar thought the young man was an NPC about to help him orient to the new setting, but he hurried off and did not respond when Gunnar called after him. The man was quickly lost in the crowd of hooded figures.
Gunnar wondered what he should do, hoping his mental prompt would trigger some sort of guidance, but no notifications arrived.
Where’s the mind reading now? And where the hell is Azmar?
He scanned the gloomy sky for dark wings, but no such luck. A tall and angry-looking sailor approached. “Less yeh plan ter help us unload our cargo, yeh best piss off.”
“Sorry, I was just trying to—”
A pair of sailors hefting a huge crate from belowdecks rumbled past, nearly knocking Gunnar off his feet.
“I don’t care what yer trying ter do,” the angry sailor said. “We got goods ter unload, wenches ter bed, and a fresh shipment ter ferry in the morning. Trust me, yeh don’t want ter slow down a crew at the end of a long voyage. We saved yeh from that gods-damned island. Yeh paid yer passage. Now, our business is done.”
“Alright, alright,” Gunnar said, hands in the air. “I’m going.”
He followed the last refugees off the gangway, drawing his own hood. The Maldans proceeded along the docks and swiftly and silently dispersed into the city. He was about to follow their lead, when a hooded woman approached him.
A handful of people loitered in a small square on the waterfront, lit by a few dim lanterns. Most wore hoods like the woman.
“You just come from the island?” she asked, her voice faded with age. Or else a lot of smoking.
Gunnar nodded. He couldn’t quite see her face in the low light, but she seemed friendly enough. “You?”
“Name’s Sheira. Came on another ship a few weeks before you.”
Before he could respond, a cry rose up down the docks. Torches lit up the night and Gunnar could make out the distinct form of red-cloaked soldiers. Three of them, about fifty yards away, and they were shoving a pair of hooded refugees forward.
“Maldan swine!” shouted one of the guards. “Show us which ship you came on, or I’ll slit your bloody throats right here.”
“Shit,” Sheira muttered. “We’ve gotta run.”
As she spoke, another pair of Red Cloaks appeared around the corner of a street across the square. And one of them pointed right at Gunnar.
“Ey! There’s more over here!”
Red Cloaks dashed across the waterfront.
The old woman grabbed his arm and jerked him toward a narrow alley.
“Come on!”
A notification appeared.
Quest Alert - Safe Arrival
Quest Type: Common
Description: In case you haven’t noticed, you have arrived in Thailen illegally. The Guilds aren’t a bloody charity, and they have not taken kindly to the arrival of so many of you refugees. It’s not their fault about that damn volcano!
Objective: Escape the docks alive.
Reward: You stay alive!
Do you wish to accept? Yes/No
Do I have a choice? Gunnar thought. YES!
5
RED CLOAKS
Gunnar followed the hooded woman into the alley, and they sprinted hard. Though Sheira looked to be in her fifties at least, she was impressively quick and agile.
He was a little embarrassed by how hard he had to push himself to keep up. He could almost hear the game reminding him how badly he needed to work out more. His lungs were already burning.
Damn affinities!
The Red Cloaks were close behind him, shouting and cursing and drawing their sabers.
As they turned another corner in the dingy streets, Gunnar noticed an orange bar in the bottom right corner of his vision, and it had dropped significantly.
A notification flashed.
[Stamina: 55% — You couldn’t sprint forever back home, and you can’t do it here either, Buttercup. Build up the skill Endurance in order to perform strenuous feats for longer durations.]
Gunnar cursed as they turned another corner and hurried past a row of run-down tenements. Sheira turned to him.
“I can’t run like this much longer,” he admitted through heaving breaths.
“Of course.” She pointed down a dark alley behind one of the three-story tenement buildings, where a ladder led to a flat stone roof.
They sprinted over.
“You first,” she said, shoving him toward the bottom rungs.
Back IRL (in real life), Gunnar was a bit nervous about heights, but he couldn’t worry about that now. He latched onto the rungs and began his ascent. About halfway up, he heard a shout from the streets below.
“Damn, the Red Cloaks spotted us,” Sheira said. “Hurry!”
Gunnar climbed as fast as he could make his limbs go. By the time he reached the top, his Stamina meter had dipped below 40%.
A shout rang out, and Gunnar’s heart raced. He looked back over the edge, fearing for the old woman’s safety. One of the Red Cloaks had caught up with her on the ladder. She dangled by her hands from a rung just below Gunnar’s reach. The Red Cloak grabbed for her.
Then, in one of the more impressive maneuvers he had ever seen, Sheira swung her body to the side with the strength and precision of a gymnast, avoiding the attack, then swung her legs back hard in an arc.
Her boots collided with the Red Cloak’s head like a warhammer, and he plummeted to the street below with a sickening thud.
His body did not move.
Sheira swiftly climbed the remaining distance and joined him on the flat roof.
“You let him catch up to you, didn’t you?” Gunnar asked.
The old woman grinned, not even winded. She retrieved a pair of daggers from her belt, handing one to him.
Basic Iron Dagger
Item Class: Common, Light Melee or Range
Quality: Average
Base Damage: 10
Weight: 5
Durability: 7
Enhancements: ??
