Ch2 - Gone Digging (Patreon)

Everybody knows that alcohol always tastes better after an impressive accomplishment. If your team wins, the beer tastes better - it’s a proven fact. And the semi-bitter pilsner I was enjoying surely fit the bill. I pointedly avoided looking at Kiff and tried my best not to look too smug - not sure I succeeded entirely though.

I had my feet comfortably slung up on one of the smaller tables while I was idly browsing through my quest list. There was plenty of stuff still to do in the village, and I had no doubt I’d be able to find new quests once I ran out, but for the moment I just wanted something easy I could get started on. Preferably something that didn’t demand too much talking or cajoling - it felt like I’d already spent half the day doing just that. Hmm - that left me with just three quests. My Chronicler skill still wasn’t high enough for Chertog to spill the beans on that intriguing underground door, and with that, I was left with the choice between either graves or snakes.

[Darn Kids

Whole bodies are disappearing from the local graveyard. The gravedigger suspects shenanigans from the local kids. Figure out the cause and put an end to it.

Reward: Unknown item. 250 experience points. +200 reputation with Grant’s Crossing.]

[Why is it Always…

Naevys Fenmarel has observed that a number of Razortailed Vipers have been spreading near the Moonsong Cave. Slay 10 vipers.

Reward: 5 silver. Unknown item.

For an improved reward, bring back a clutch of viper eggs.]

While I did look forward to letting loose and roasting a bunch of vipers, there was no way I’d start on that without my trusty meat shield - which meant that it was time to go visit Chertog again. Also, given that it was one of the very earliest quests I’d received, it was probably about time I got started. I just hoped it wasn’t, as I suspected, tied to the undead.

When I made it to the cemetery, Chertog was nowhere to be seen. I went to knock on his front door, and was met by a beautifully crafted sign, stating: "Be back soon to put the fun in funeral. For urgent matters, please form a line. People are dying to get in." I had to hand it to Chertog. The ability to give me tics even while he wasn't around - it was impressive. Since there was no obvious note showing when he'd be back, I decided to start sniffing around the place myself and see whether I could figure out something on my own.

I started by taking a tour of the cemetery. It was fairly obvious to me, that whoever had raised the wooden palisade around Grant's Crossing back in the day, had either failed to take the eventual necessity of a cemetery into account, or they'd decided that they didn't want it to be part of the village proper. As a result the graveyard itself was enclosed within a smaller, rectangular wooden fence which you entered through a gate in the heavy wooden palisade surrounding the village. The grounds were exceedingly well-kept. The grass was freshly mown and kept at a uniform level, and the orderly rows of graves were framed by plants and the occasional flower bed, kept in properly subdued colors. The only hint at discrimination lay in the grave markers, where the materials, quality and degree of maintenance varied wildly. An all-granite tombstone sporting the image of a small child was placed right next to a plot that held only a simple wooden board for a marker. In general, however, the grounds were both orderly and quickly surveyed - apart from Chertog’s shed, the plants and the neat rows of graves, there really wasn’t that much to focus the attention on.

The average brain stores an overwhelming abundance of random knowledge that’s rarely used. The distance from Earth to the Moon is roughly 400,000 km. The average age of a person from Niger is 15. The cheat code for walking through walls in the original Doom is IDSPISPOPD. It was impressive that we could even remember our own names, with the stupid amount of unnecessary facts we carried around at all times, really. Another such nugget of information I hadn’t had any use for up until now was how, following a burial, the human body on average took about ten years to decompose enough for the next person to be buried on top. With that in mind, I could conclude that the total number of deceased persons since the erection of the cemetery was probably around a hundred and sixty. Given that the village had only existed for about twenty years, that didn’t exactly bode well for a long and peaceful life. Then again, that wasn’t exactly a surprise with the surrounding wilderness being what it was, and I made a mental effort to focus on the matter at hand. Of course, that assumed that the developers had actually gone for this insane amount of realism instead of going, say, “Hey Hal. You want four or five rows of graves?”

Shortly, I was able to locate two graves that definitely didn’t look like they’d been excavated with the loving fastidiousness of a meticulous dwarf. It was more like they’d exploded and spewed earth everywhere, and the smell from within indicated that whatever had been down there hadn’t reached the skeleton stage yet.

This would be the place where your average supernatural investigator would take a glance at the scene, and say something like: “Oh, this wasn’t a matter of someone stealing a corpse - as you can clearly see from the placement of the earth, someone escaped from within.” Then, needless to say, he’d know the common behavioral tendencies of a freshly spawned undead and be able to deduce where said undead would shamble, and…well, rant aside, I was no investigator, supernatural or otherwise. This one time it wasn’t needed though. I couldn’t tell exactly whether it was Darya’s educative skills at work or if it was just that obvious, but I spotted what looked like scuff marks leading from the grave towards the southern part of the wooden fence, closest to the forest. A couple of minutes of prodding and pulling finally brought me to a section of the fence where it turned out that two boards had been pried loose at the bottom which allowed them to swing open at the slightest touch. Near the ground, I could see other marks - scratches, perhaps. It’d take someone more well-versed in tracking to decipher what from. I wasn’t entirely sure, but I believed that I could detect faint hints of something reeking and foul from the boards themselves.

With what little I knew, and without discussing the matter with Chertog, I wouldn’t know when the last corpse had disappeared, but I felt convinced that it hadn’t exactly been the night before, or the stench would’ve been even more overwhelming. As I was standing there, considering my next actions, I saw a figure enter the cemetery and walk slowly to one of the graves. I decided to mosey on - I’d look like quite the weirdo if I stayed where I was, and it did seem like I’d found what little I’d be able to find at the moment. I walked slowly towards the exit, but before I left, I was able to identify the person visiting the cemetery as none other than Grant Callahan.

The Harbour Master had a solemn look on his face, and I decided not to bother him straight away. Instead I got comfortably seated under a tree just outside the cemetery gate. I whiled away the time running through some old exercises my old teacher had insisted were an absolute necessity in order to continually maintain and extend my manual dexterity. While I personally believed that they didn’t improve anything beyond a certain point, I’d performed them often enough in my formative years, that I would often find myself performing difficult chromatic scales over and over whenever I was left with nothing to do but wait. The good part about this was that the scales tended to help me alleviate boredom and pass the time faster.

To be sure, I was zoning out hard enough that I almost failed to notice Mr. Callahan leaving the cemetery. I got up quickly and coughed politely to catch his attention.

“Ah. Archangelo. How may I help you?” It still seemed weird to me – almost wrong at a fundamental level, that an orc was as civilized and well dressed as the Harbor Master. Today he wore a simple getup with white woolen pants and shirt and a trim in silver thread on the front - regular clothes, yet manufactured with a quality that managed to make him stand out from the average villager.

“I was hoping you’d be willing to spare a moment. I wanted to learn some more about the founding of Grant’s Crossing and...well, I was surprised that there was no official telling to be found. Now, I’ve talked with Mallard and Gillem, and I would love to have you and Autoria tell your version as well. I was thinking, with all the latest struggles, it wouldn’t hurt to remind people what you’ve already achieved.”

His approval came in the form of a pat on the back that almost bowled me over: “Excellent idea. That sounds like thirsty work though. Let us go see if Gillem has some of that brilliant Hakanson Stout left.”

I winced. That was one of the most expensive beers Gillem had in stock, and somehow I got the expression that Grant wasn’t the type to settle for just one. Two minutes later, my preconceptions were confirmed, as he’d polished off the first mug and a half while he was “arranging his thoughts”.

Putting down the second mug with a satisfied sigh, he began: “Before I begin my version of the story, I am inclined to tell you a fact about the life of orcs on the world of Neyrus before the Separation .

“We used to be a tribal force. Were you aware of that? We had spread all over the continent, including most of what we today know as the Lost Isles. Fairly territorial, wildly competitive, uncivilized and constantly at war with whomever might be inclined to look at us wrong. Today, with only the continent of Aeion remaining, we are but a shadow of the same. We still hold our share of territory, but the power lies undisputedly with the Cabal and the Rothian Republic. I must admit, this is not entirely a bad development – they excel at keeping the peace and quelling needless bloodshed between nations and territories.

“For us orcs, however, this peace comes at a cost. I cannot tell you the exact number, but about every third orc on the entire continent is an addict. Alcohol, mushrooms, Slither, Khanta, we have no preferences. Even fewer orcs will live to see old age, as we tend to either succumb to bad lifestyles, or get mixed up in moronic violent altercations. I am not telling you this to make you feel sorry for us – Girelle help us, it is our own fault for not adapting better to our new situation. No, I am telling you, so you can understand two things: First, at 43 years of age, I am already way past the average life span of an orc. And second, back then, I was aware that I needed to do something in order to end up as something other than just another addict.

“I had already experienced a stroke of luck in that regard by becoming a caravan guard. Not only did the regular action and hard work keep me off the streets, but the regular action from fighting monsters and bandits and competing guards trying to inch in on our routes alleviated the boredom some. The downtime though - the downtime was the tough part. The guard work paid well enough for me to buy whatever I wanted - drugs, alcohol, company for the night - and with each time I felt like it took just a little more to stave off the boredom.

“When Mallard and I first got the idea to found a village here, for me it was not only a bid for profits - it was an attempt to get away from all the temptations, to find something interesting and near enough to my heart to be worth fighting for and keep fighting for.”

He seemed lost in thoughts for some moments after that, and I surreptiously signaled Jeb to bring us another round. When he came around with another stout for Mr. Callahan and me, he snapped out of it and gave Jeb a courteous smile, showing off an impressive set of teeth and I noticed that one of the lower fangs was studded with something that looked like a diamond. Damn - even his teeth had class.

Mr. Callahan gathered himself and continued: “Sorry. Lots of old memories returning. That was the last time I was in contact with the outside world except through Autoria’s communications - I hope you’ll pardon an old fighter for getting nostalgic at times. At the time though - once we had made the decision and started working towards the expedition. I did not have much time for either nostalgia or goodbyes. You have seen Mallard and Autoria, and if I tell you that Cassandra was about the same size as Autoria, you will not be surprised that I quickly realized who would do the heavy lifting on the expedition. Now, I am not complaining at all - I never did mind hard work. I did have to learn a lot within a very limited time span, however. The intricacies involved in the necessary initial constructions, for instance, were quite overwhelming. Sure, building a raft is easy. Constructing a landing site that would survive the spring flood of the Jagged Rush and be hardy enough to stand against possible sabotage and attacks? Not that easy. Fortunately, I mostly had to work with the muscle memory - making sure that I obtained the necessary skills and would be able to to shape and construct the intermediary materials and erect the buildings. Autoria handled everything else, meaning I never had to worry about the numbers or quantities. Heh - I make it sound so boring, when it was anything but - we had no time to get bored - and before we knew it we had arrived at the Crossing.”

At that thought, his eyes lit up from within, and suddenly his civil manners seemed more a costume than anything else.

“That time.” He practically breathed the words, as if savoring them. “There’s no way to properly convene those weeks, but I will make an attempt. The first couple of days were relatively peaceful with few, random attacks - at a guess, the tribes and monsters nearby had not reckoned on us staying. From the fifth night, however, they were on to us. The following week blurs together in my mind, but that first day still remains relatively clear. Autoria woke us from our slumber, when one of her sentinel spells took off and moments later I was backhanding a kobold who tried to slit my throat in my sleep. When I sat up, they were everywhere, and I grabbed my axe and waded out into the middle of it. Heh - Greck has told me that on that night, I entered their local stories. The Tower, they call me, apparently. Heh - well, many tried to knock down The Tower during that night, but in the end the sun rose, and we were left hurt and hurting, but alive. You would think we had earned us some reprieve and could use the day to recuperate, but no. They merely retreated to the wilderness or the river and started sniping from the shadows. That entire day we spent dodging hurried shots from the forest, erecting whatever barricades we could and preparing a modicum of security to build on for the coming days and nights. Cassandra traded shots with whomever came too close, Autoria sent her summoned minions hunting while she hid as well as she could and Gillem was there with his mace whenever they tried to break through, and healed us whenever we got hurt and poisoned, which seemed to be a constant threat with those pit-spawned lizards.”

I gulped. “That sounds horrible. I’m amazed any of you made it.”

He looked at me and threw his head back, roaring with laughter. When he’d finally recovered enough to continue, his fangs were bared, and voice raw. “I loved every minute of it. Those moments, I lived through the ultimate dream of every orc warrior out there and I excelled. I threw back my enemies, fought for every inch of Grant’s Crossing and earned myself a name. People outside this forest will not have heard of me, but here? Here, I am a legend.” He wiped a tear of mirth from one eye. “The others will talk about how it was one long, living nightmare, but they just fail to understand. Emerging through the crucible the way we did, taking it all for ourselves? It means we have forever proved ourselves worthy in the eyes of Tarral, our Lord of Honor.”

Mr. Callahan calmed down a bit after that. “I still believe that the first night was the turning point - the others will disagree. Yes, we fought and toiled constantly for almost a month before we were finally secure enough to send out the couriers, but that night we made an impact large enough for all nearby to take heed and understand that a new power had come to the forest.”

I tried to find some words to respond to his story, but failed, and opted to remain silent.

After almost a minute of silence, he continued, much quieter. “I still dream of that night, sometimes. That constant blurred line between fury, blood lust, and the need to protect my friends - heh.” He shook his head. “The years have been good to me though - not without loss, but I have much to be thankful for. And after those days, the fury has become easier to contain.” Then he lapsed back into a thoughtful silence.

I cleared my throat. “I know I’m new here, Mr. Callahan - but it’s not hard to tell that the village is lucky for having a guardian like you. Thank you for the recount.”

“Hah - no, thank you. Thinking back to those days has helped remove some of the darker thoughts that always pop up, when I visit my wife’s grave marker. And the Hakanson brew helped as well. I believe I had better get back to the books now, though. Do remember to come see the Council in a few days and receive your reward - you have very much earned it.”

I watched him departing, practically salivating with the thought of my coming quest reward. What would it be? Magic rings? Or maybe some rare spell scrolls - Autoria was a sage, so that might be a possibility. With a conscious effort, I got back to the present, checked that the quest had updated, which it had, and paid my tab. With a bleeding heart, I counted out my few remaining silver pieces - good thing that I didn’t really have any expenses.

I’d only just had that thought, when somebody yelled “Archie” and I could see somebody in the forefront of the tavern waving to get my attention. I almost couldn’t see him from behind another person’s back, but from the furry arm and the way the person was bouncing around, a solid guess would be Millerd, the ratling I’d played Fingers with some time back. Moving to see what was what, I strolled over to his table, and could see I’d been right in my assumptions.

Millerd sat there with a huge grin, patting the chair next to him. Next to him sat the half-elf, Aurora, and a male dwarf I didn’t know. “Hey Archie. Revan had to go back to his carving and we’re down a person. Care to join in for a round of Fingers?”

Hesitating, I hovered over the chair. “Why have I got the feeling that this is going to be expensive for me?”

He laughed out loud. “Because it is. Now sit down already.”

I laughed along with him, and introduced myself to the dwarf, Gerhard. Millerd was probably right, but I did enjoy the game and wanted to improve. “All right Millerd. One thing though: What with everything that’s been going on lately, I have to admit that I’m still a bit fuzzy on the rules. Do you all mind going over them once more before we get started?”

Gerhard shrugged neutrally, but Millerd practically jumped out of his seat. “I don’t mind, if you don’t, guys, really. Do you mind if I take the time to spin a proper yarn? Tell him how it’s supposed to be told?”

Aurora laughed at his eagerness, and got up from her chair. “I guess it’s my turn to buy the next round anyway - maybe take a little nap. I know how you love to hear yourself talk.” She blew Millerd a kiss and walked away.

Millerd picked up a six-sided die and tossed it after her, reveling in her outcry. “All right. Fingers. Game goes way back to the Separation itself - back when everything was falling apart, things were a little rougher around the edges and rules weren’t quite as universal as they are now. Before Fingers, people used to just play regular Hold ‘em poker - which you do know, if I remember correctly? Good. Of course, they still do play regular poker, but Fingers has become the popular choice in most places.”

He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “So, up around the Terradian Reaches, the Split-ear Orc tribe had been warring with the local dwarfs for about half a year after Separation, and things were turning pretty ugly. The orcs were killing off any captured dwarfs they didn’t torture for information or fun, and the dwarfs for their part placed all their prisoners inside an old prison, Umom Räm. Seems more compassionate, right? Except, the chief warden had a sadistic streak a mile long, and used the power granted to him to entertain himself however he saw fit. Fistfights, live target practice with the inmates as targets, even full gladiatorial battles - seems death was a kinder fate than ending up in the old Umom Räm.”

Millerd took a good quaff of his beer before continuing. “Now, the way I’ve heard it told, they were running out of able-bodied prisoners, which naturally annoyed the chief warden to no end, and he encouraged the other wardens to come up with an alternative entertainment that didn’t need the victim - or player - to be physically fit. The end result: A large tournament, where all prisoners could compete with the possibility to win great prizes - good food, better clothes, and for the ultimate winner: Freedom. Needless to say, nobody turned down the possibility - it was a peaceful card game, right?

Picture the situation. Twenty dwarf wardens educate twenty times their number of orcs at swordpoint.” He distorted his voice to sound like that of a dwarf: “Listen, you scum. The reason why it’s called Fingers: Instead of all the regular checking, raising, posturing and bluffing in poker, you show your intentions by revealing from one to four fingers. Even you bastards should be able to count that high. You all get fifty copper coins each - when you lose them all, you’re out.

One finger: means checking. Nothing new here.

Two fingers: Raising. Always by a fixed amount. From one copper to two to three and so forth.

Three fingers: That’s a gamble. Putting your faith in Marren. Roll a die, and raise the bet by that much, from one to six.

Four fingers: All-in. Betting it all on one game.

And here’s the kicker: You get two chances to bet for each hand of cards, and only the ones who bet highest continue playing. If two of you check, and the final three gamble, only the three advance to the last round of betting. First round of betting is after you’ve received your two cards and the first three cards - the flop - have been revealed on the table. Then the turn and river cards are revealed on the table, and the second round of betting is on.

If you don’t get it, you have ten minutes to have someone less boneheaded explain it to you, and then we’re off!”

Gerhard thumped Millerd in the back of the head. “You know I hate it when you do that - you don’t even sound like a dwarf.”

Millerd didn’t look the least bit sorry, but continued with a grin. “Yeah, well, it gets the point across. When we play, we all place our right hand under these covers which are connected by a leather string to the dealers hand. We then choose our bets, and the covers are withdrawn, revealing our bets. Just like back in the prison.” He grimaced. “Not entirely though. The chief warden had a little house rule. If you lost, they’d chop off one of your fingers. Pretty grisly, I know, but it does make the name stick, right?”

Aurora rejoined us at the table. “Looks like I came back at a good moment. Is he done telling war stories?” Millerd sputtered in complaint, but she continued. “In case you wonder, yes, the story is true. The embellishment that Millerd usually adds, having the chief warden be found dead with his own fingers stuffed down his throat, decidedly is not.”

I butted in. “Yes, I believe I got it all - and I do appreciate the story Millerd. Do you have any house rules here I should know of?”

She shook her head, causing her brown hair to cover part of her face. None. We start with twenty-five coppers each, and that’s the maximum you can lose in one game. We’re none of us rich.”

I tried to keep from staring at her, as she made a rough ponytail of her hair. Damn - she wasn’t your perfect super model, but she was the kind of person who was completely oblivious as to how attractive she was. I cleared my throat and said. “I’m good to go - I really need to start earning back what I’ve lost from you guys.”

Famous last words. An hour and a half later, we broke off because Aurora still had to pick a bunch of mushrooms for the day, and I’d consider it my luck, because I was down to four silver pieces. I’d gone all-in once and lost, and really had a problem judging Aurora’s hands from her bets. It wasn’t all bad though - I’d held my own in a good bunch of hands, won one all-in and gained a massive +3 to gambling.