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Order from Chaos

As he headed for the training grounds on the opposite side of the marketplace, Roark realized just how far out of his depth he was. He had spent so long opposing Marek with the resistance that he’d never stopped to ask himself what would happen if they actually managed to overthrow the despot. Who would rule Traisbin? Would the Rebel Council take power? What laws could be set in place to stop them from abusing power in the same way Marek had?

Roark’s formative years had been spent learning Traisbin’s laws and various forms of governance from his father with the understanding that one day Roark would take over those duties as head of the von Graf family. Except the Tyrant King had assured that such a day would never come by slaughtering every von Graf but one.

Or perhaps two?

Memories of the carnage of Bloedrige Noct intruded upon the bright, cheerful marketplace atmosphere filling the streets. In particular, the troubling things he’d witnessed while performing the Ennus-Merkki ritual for PwnrBwner and Randy, giving them indisputable proof that he was from another dimension. During the ritual, he’d unwittingly caught a glimpse of his little sister Talise deflecting the axe with some unknown magic and being carried away by Marek.

Roark was so consumed with the memory that he almost tripped over Mac. The Young Turtle Dragon let out a disgruntled grumble while Roark threw out his wings instinctively to recover his balance. The motion scared a pair of Shaman Reavers and a Dybuk doing their shopping nearby. They skittered back from the Dungeon Lord in alarm.

“My apologies,” Roark said, nodding at them and slapping Mac on the shell.

The Young Turtle Dragon chirped his forgiveness, then began to trot off toward the training grounds again.

The mobs looked even more dumbfounded that a mighty Dungeon Lord had apologized to them, but before they could respond, Roark hurried after Mac, shaking his head at himself.
To believe what he’d seen in that apparition would be idiocy. Talise had died by the wellhouse with their mother. That vision was more than likely a scheme concocted by the Tyrant King to push Roark into reacting without thinking. Roark may have been a naïve fool about ruling, but he wasn’t going to run into one of Marek’s traps like a chicken with its head torn off.

The familiar clang of metal on metal and the thud of wooden shields rang out as Roark turned the corner.

In many ways, blundering his escape portal and ending up in Hearthworld was a blessing in disguise. He’d been too young before the old world fell to apply much of what his father had taught him, and he had always been an outsider in the resistance. With the Cruel Citadel, he had a chance to learn how to rule on the small scale, while it was just one dungeon—hardly larger than a small town—instead of learning through trial and error when he had the welfare of an entire nation to consider. If he played things smart, he could work out the best strategies for governing a free country now, then take them back to Traisbin when he returned. 

The odds that he would survive another attempt on Marek’s life were almost zero, but perhaps if he passed his findings on to the T’verzet before he went after the Tyrant King…
Well, that was a thought for later. For now, the one thing Roark was certain of was that he couldn’t rule a city alone. Not even a small one. He hadn’t any idea where to start, though. What he needed at the moment was advice, and the person who always seemed to have the best guidance in these matters, in spite of his repeated insistence that he was just a simple weapons trainer, was Griff.

Ahead, a dense crowd had gathered around the training ground. The place had become one of the most popular areas in the Troll Nation, though not necessarily for the reasons Roark would have thought when he created it. 

Over the heads of the crowd, Roark could see the grizzled old arena fighter down in the pit, working with a varied group of Trolls, Nagas, werebeasts, and other allied mobs.

Surrounding the pit on every side was a host of female mobs and NPCs of every race, class, and level. Lately, Griff had become somewhat famous around the Troll Nation. Not only was he the first NPC to toss his lot in with them, but he was also the right hand of the mysterious Dungeon Lord, a battle-tested warrior, and an imposing general of the Cruel Citadel’s troops. He had all the makings of a proper celebrity.

Ahead, Griff raised his short sword and barked an order for a serpent-tailed Naga to slither forward and attack him. The Naga moved with grace and speed, but the grizzled trainer dodged under the snake’s swing like a man half his age, perfectly demonstrating the spinning off-hand combo he’d taught Roark when Roark first began training with him. The mobs in the pit all leaned in closer, intent on the lesson.

And the women and woman-ish creatures surrounding the pit all sighed.

Griff obviously heard them, because he cringed at the sound, but continued training as if he hadn’t noticed.

It seemed that rather than famous for his training and abilities, the old man had become something of a heartthrob.

Roark tried not to laugh, but couldn’t contain the smirk.

The one-eyed old trainer glanced over his shoulder. Several of his admirers perked up visibly, leaning forward to draw attention to what Roark assumed was their race’s most attractive feminine assets. Bloodleech’s puckered circular mouths ringed with needlelike teeth. Swirling tattoos shimmered across pale Djinn flesh while they fluttered long black eyelashes. One of the harpy’s preened golden feathers like an overgrown peacock. 
Griff scowled when he caught sight of Roark’s telling smirk. 

“Break back into your pairs and practice the combo until your Off-Hand Combo climbs a level,” he ordered his trainees. “Once it levels for both you and your partner, you’re dismissed for the day.”

Without waiting to see if they would follow the directions, Griff strode across the pit, his admirers swooning from a distance. Roark pushed through the crowd and hopped the half-dozen feet down to the churned, soft dirt of the pit.

Griff sized Roark up with his one piercing blue eye. “What can I do for you, Griefer?”
With a graceless thud that made them both look to make sure they weren’t being attacked, Mac landed in the dirt beside Roark.

“Have you got a minute to get a drink, Griff?” Roark asked—the pass phrase for I need your advice on dungeon business.

“We love you, Griff!” a craggy, gray-haired NPC screamed down.

A mob hidden in a full set of Shining Steel Armor shouted, “You can train me anytime!”

“Have my eggssss, Griff!” a curvy Naga hissed.

Griff didn’t look up at them, but he blanched visibly, his mood instantly souring.

“I could use a good scotch,” the old trainer grunted. “Just so long as it gets me out of here.” He turned away from the pit, shoulders stooped in resignation. 

As they headed for the exit on the opposite end of the pit a very large, very lacy corset sailed over Roark’s head and landed in the dust in front of Griff. The grizzled arena hand hmphed grumpily and stepped over it as if he hadn’t seen it.

“You’re becoming quite popular with the ladies and… whatever else they are,” Roark observed, trying to hide his amusement. It wasn’t funny. At least, it shouldn’t have been.
Griff sighed. “I’m a simple man, Griefer. A roof over my head, food in my belly, a good stiff drink to set me straight, and a chance to pass on my skills. That’s all I wanted. This nonsense, though…” He shook his head. “Can’t get a damn thing done. Think there’s any way you can ban spectators from coming around the training grounds?”

Roark seriously considered it. “That would only be a temporary solution,” he finally said.
“If it saves my sanity here in the short term, I’ll stand for temporary.”

“Honestly I’m not even certain I can stop allied creatures from visiting certain parts of the marketplace,” Roark said scratching at his chin. “Doing so might violate the compact. I’ll see what I can do, but you may have to suffer through them for now until I can come up with something more permanent.”

Ducking out through the pit tunnels, they headed toward the Troll Nation Inn—recently rebranded by Kaz as Portal to Flavortown in honor of his most beloved idol, Gry Feliri. Roark and Griff moved at a brisk pace to avoid the trainer’s many adoring fans while Mac trundled along slowly behind them. More than a few mobs tracked Griff with inhuman eyes, but Roark’s domineering presence helped to keep them at a respectful distance. Roark was an enigma and many of the visiting mobs and NPCs were intrigued by him, but not smitten in the way they were with Griff. Roark was mysterious and powerful, but he was also dangerous. 

In addition to that, rumors of his involvement with Zyra had begun to spread like wildfire, and no one dared cross her for fear of dying suddenly and painfully. 

When they arrived at Flavortown, the crowd waiting for a table was queued up around the square. Roark, Griff, and Mac slipped around the side, past the trio of meat smokers, the distillery, and the series of enormous aging barrels, then headed in through the staff entrance. The clamor of pots and pans filled the air, accompanied by the sizzle of frying food and the squawk of apprentice cooks as they scuttled about their work. 

“Roark is here!” Kaz crowed, dropping a meat cleaver and what appeared to be half of a Saber Boar onto the roughhewn kitchen table.

The enormous Knight Thursr strode around the sunken fire pit crackling with meats and vegetables and stews and wrapped Roark in a bloody-handed hug. At nearly fifteen feet tall, with blue-black skin, curling horns, and fists bigger than dinner plates, a hug from Kaz was a trial to be endured even without Roark’s natural aversion to displays of affection. Roark winced, his wing bones creaking under the strain. He glanced around for a hand from Griff, but the trainer had busied himself pouring a heavy dose of Kaz’s latest batch of magically aged High Charisma Scotch.

“All right, mate,” Roark said, shoving the Mighty Gourmet off. “Remember how we talked about hugging?”

Kaz started, then looked down at his gore-covered hands.

“Of course!” He grabbed a Fine Linen Cloth and scrubbed them clean, then pounded Roark on the back. “Kaz is so glad to see Roark! And Mac too!” He tore a chunk of raw meat from the saber boar and flicked it to the Young Turtle Dragon. Mac snagged it from the air with an overly long tongue and slurped it down in a gulp, chirping appreciatively. “Roark will never believe the herb Kaz has learned of today,” the Knight said, wiping huge mitts on his apron. “Garlic. Salt is a wonder, yes, but garlic is surely a secondary wonder. Almost as magnificent as beautiful, flavorful salt. The boldness. The versatility!”

“It sounds wonderful, Kaz, but Griff and I—”

Kaz forged on, undeterred by Roark’s interruption. “Guaranteed to add complexity to any dish. Any food dish,” he corrected himself. “Garlic is a wonder, but even it has limitations. Kaz tried briefly to craft a garlic mead, a savory, unique Flavortown experience—against Mai’s advice, but Kaz was too enchanted by the beauty of garlic to listen.” He hung his head. “What hubris has a Troll Gourmet. Garlic mead is not a drink one takes without deep regret and considerations of the choices which brought one to the moment of drinking.”

The Mighty Gourmet shuddered at the memory, his enormous frame shaking like a leaf.
“Kaz would not wish it on his worst enemy,” he said solemnly. “Not even that chef from Chillrend prison.”

“Glad you saw the way the strike was falling on that one,” Griff said, stepping in to keep the Knight from going off on another tangent. He shoved a cup of scotch into Roark’s hand, then gestured with his own. “The Griefer and I are starving. Could you send up one of your apprentices with a bit of stomach-stuffing?”

“Kaz will bring it up himself,” the Mighty Gourmet insisted. “Go up to the Dungeon Lord’s private room. Roark and Griff must prepare themselves for the Flavortown experience of a lifetime!”

Roark nodded. “Thanks, Kaz. I know the inn is busy, but can you have someone take over down here while you stay upstairs with us for a while? I could use some insight into the Troll Nation from her Master Chef.”

“Kaz would do anything for the Troll Nation!” Kaz replied, slamming a huge fist to his chest and staring through the smoke of the crackling fire pit heroically. “It is Kaz’s patriotic duty!”
“Right.” Roark slammed back his drink, then glanced around for the bottle.

Griff held it up and gave it a little shake.

“We’ll be upstairs,” Roark said.

They left the kitchen and squeezed through the throng in the inn’s packed common room. Over the dull roar of conversation, the scraping of utensils on plates, and the clunk of cups on tables, a sound Roark had never heard in the Cruel Citadel caught his ear.
Music. 

A lilting, laughing tune drifted through the common room, making feet tap and heads bob. At Roark and Griff’s side, a pair of Changelings were so affected by the sound that they leapt up onto a long table and started clapping and stomping around in a mad dance.

Roark craned his neck to see around the wide-open hood of a Naga nodding along in time. Since he’d last visited the inn only a day or two ago, the tables and chairs had been shuffled around to leave a small open space near the hearth. A square-jawed young man in tanned leathers cranked the tune out of a beaten and well-used hurdy gurdy. 

“Who is that?” Roark asked. “I didn’t hear Flavortown had hired a bard.”

“Name’s Soileau. Mai hired him on the other day,” Griff said. “Way I heard it, he was quite the draw over in Lucite’s inns and taverns.”

Roark frowned. According to the maps he’d seen, Lucite was halfway across Hearthworld from the Cruel Citdel.

“I didn’t think Mai was comfortable traveling that far from Averi City.”

“She ain’t. The kid came here, if you can believe it,” he replied. “Asking for work. Way I heard tell, he had a spot of trouble in Lucite. He’s on sort of a provisional trial here. Long as he don’t strike up an epidemic of Saint Vitus’s or incite a riot, he’ll get hired on full time.”
As Roark watched, Soileau took a few dancing steps toward the crowd and winked at the closest ring of diners, all female. An Imp Enchantress, girded in a glamour that made her look like a gorgeous dark elf, swooned in her seat, a wiry Reaver clutched her heart, and a fur covered she-wolf grabbed for him. The bard laughed and danced out of their way just in time. They didn’t follow, but they certainly looked as if they wanted to.

Roark smirked. “He might be on the wrong track if he’s trying to avoid riots.”

“Eh, he’s young yet,” Griff said, shrugging.

Just then, the familiar sound of brawling caught their attention—though it was coming from outside rather than in. Someone cutting the line, it sounded like from the disgruntled shouts. Roark caught a flash of armor through the door as the Behemoth and Knight who watched over the queue ran to break up the tussle.

Roark felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease. At least he wouldn’t be expected to put out literal and figurative fires here, too. He and Griff left the common room behind and slipped up the stairs to the private room Kaz always kept empty for them. 

They settled in and refreshed their drinks while Mac shoved his way into the seat behind Roark, grunting contently as he tucked his head beneath a scale covered limb. They didn’t have to wait long before a warm, sharp scent drifted into the room, making Roark’s mouth water. A moment later, Kaz appeared with a platter of food big enough to feed a family of Changelings for a month.

“Roast garlic stew,” Kaz said, pointing out the dish. “Garlic, pepper, and Ice Bear skewers. Saber Boar Bacon sautéed with garlic. Wild Fowl wings with a spicy, garlicy sauce. Lemon and garlic buzzfish with a dash of tarragon. Garlic bread spread with garlic butter.” There was a quick pause while Kaz swiped away a bit of drool with the back of one huge hand. “Blackened garlic chips with a garlic and chili dipping sauce. And last but not least, a wild fowl potpie with mixed vegetables and garlic.”

Roark smiled. Kaz’s enthusiasm for every new ingredient he came across was a good reminder that there was a life outside of running the Cruel Citadel and the Troll Nation.
“There’s too much here for Griff and me to finish by ourselves, Kaz,” he said. “Why don’t you help us eat some of it?”

Kaz looked longingly at the food, then shook his head. “It’s not right for the chef to steal food from the mouths of his customers.”

“But what if your Dungeon Lord ordered you to eat with him?” Roark asked, quirking an eyebrow. “It would be an awful shame if some of this went to waste.”

“Yes, such a terrible shame,” the Mighty Gourmet agreed, still staring at the garlic-laden food. “Kaz supposes the apprentices will be all right for a little while. Mai will be back in the kitchen soon to keep them in line. And Kaz would never refuse an order from the Dungeon Lord.”

With eyes the size of tea saucers, Kaz reached for a wild fowl wing.
“So, what sorta business are we on, Griefer?” Griff asked, fixing Roark with his one-eyed stare. “Should we send for Zyra?”

Roark shook his head. “I don’t want to disturb her while she’s dealing with a new round of apprentices.”

“You mean murdering a new round,” the grizzled trainer chuckled under his breath.
Roark rolled his eyes. The man wasn’t wrong. 

“I’ll bring her in on it later,” Roark said. “The basics of it is that we’re lacking in almost every form of governance. True, we’ve got a charter that says no allies can kill one another on Troll Nation soil, but they seem to be doing everything short of killing one another.”

“And setting things on fire,” Kaz added around a mouthful of potpie. “Kaz saw them setting fire to several buildings in the magic quarter.”

“Exactly,” Roark said. “We’ve got no true laws and no constabulary to enforce laws even if we had them.” He gestured with his newly refilled cup. “We also lack magistrates to try the lawbreakers. The only thing we do seem to have in abundance is chaos.”
“And fire,” Kaz repeated helpfully.

“Everyone’s trying to do their part to keep the Troll Nation running, but things are falling through the cracks that we can’t afford to fail at.” Not to mention, the clean-up always seemed to land squarely on Roark’s shoulders. “I need to be focused on finding a way to defeat Lowen and kill Marek, not running off every five minutes to stop street fights.”

“And put out fires,” Kaz said, licking some garlic sauce from his fingers. 

“We need a better system,” Roark concluded.

Griff chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of skewer meat.

“That’s a tall order,” he said finally, scratching his stubbly chin with the sharpened end of the empty skewer. “A right bucket of fish you got there. Making up laws and finding effective ways to enforce ’em will take time. And to be frank, building legal systems isn’t something I know too terribly much about.”

At this, Roark felt his wings sink a bit, coming to rest against the back of his chair.
“I was hoping you would have an idea.”

“Now, don’t go getting disheartened on me, Griefer.” The old arena hand polished off the last of his skewer. “We’ll think of something.”

Kaz slurped some of the garlicy potpie. “Mai set guards over Flavortown to keep the customers from rioting. She found some Trolls who were hopeless at cooking and serving but wanted to be part of the inn, and she ordered them to escort any troublemakers out of the tavern.” Kaz’s eyebrows climbed toward his bright white Mighty Gourmet’s Toque. “With extreme force, if necessary.”

Griff pointed his skewer at Kaz. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Getting together a group of guards to keep the peace until we set down some rules’ll go a long way. Like you said to me earlier, it ain’t nothing more than a short term fix, but if it keeps you sane in the here and now, Griefer—”

“Then I’ll gladly stand for temporary,” Roark finished for him. “Would you be willing to lead them?”

Griff screwed up his face in disgust. “No, lad, I’m already swamped with the training yard. Could do some recruiting for you, though. You might ask Druz, the first-floor overseer. She might turn out to be a good fit. Good head on her shoulders, that one.”

Roark shook his head. “She’s too low level. This would need to be someone strong enough to neutralize our highest-level visitors. Druz just made level 16 the other day.”

“Grozka the Zealot?” Kaz offered. “Grozka is very scary and strong, and she likes order and hurting people.”

Roark sipped his scotch and considered it. Grozka wasn’t a bad choice.
“I’ll talk to her about it,” he conceded.

“No, boy, I’ll talk to her about it,” Griff said. “Weren’t you just saying how you need to be concentrating on bigger pictures and preparing for that Lowen fella? You can’t do that if you’re running petty errands all the time.”

“Fine,” Roark conceded. Then, realizing he should be glad to have that small measure of extra weight off his shoulders, he added, “Thank you. But we need to make certain we recruit patrol guards as well. And they can’t just be Trolls, or the other dungeons will claim we’re trying to monopolize the ruling of the nation and push them out of power. Best to recruit widely.”

Griff nodded. “I’ll get Grozka on track tonight and start scanning the trainees that come through the pits. Try to recruit anybody with decent potential.”

“Excellent,” Roark said, already feeling a little bit better. There was still a lot to do, but at least they were making progress.


Disappearing Act

Randy Shoemaker kept his head down and beelined for his office, praying that no one would try to talk to him. Worst possible time to have the office directly across from the employee lounge.

Would this be the day he lost his job? No one from Frontflip had contacted him all weekend, even though he could usually be found at his desk, working the hours away. Not so much as a company message.

They had kicked him off the Hearthworld Modder project and taken away his clearance before end of day Friday. Wouldn’t they have fired him then if they were going to? They must realize that he was still around. Right?

Then again, for all the corporate hype about Frontflip Studios being one big family and a place to be creative and chill, it was still a pretty big company. Maybe he was slipping through the cracks?

Randy swallowed, anxious sweat wetting the pits and back of his buttondown shirt. Was a weekend without contact the sort of radio silence that was “too quiet”? Should he expect someone to spring the trap when he stepped into his office and sat down?

Ahead, he heard a pingpong ball tocking and pocking back and forth in what sounded like a raging match. And since this was Monday morning, it was probably Danny, the marketing director. He loved to give someone a pingpong beatdown Monday mornings. Part of his “ritual.” He said it helped him start the week right. Randy flinched. Every hollow clack of the ball felt like it pinged off the back of his neck. His stomach rolled. He shouldn’t have had that second strawberry Poptart, but he’d wanted to be prepared for whatever came today, and they said breakfast was the most important meal of the day.

Just a few more feet to his office door. He could see it up there, waiting for him, like a portal to safety. He was so close. Five feet. His heart slammed against his pocket protector. Three feet away. Seconds from his desk. One foot. 

As his left loafer crossed the threshold, Randy’s shoulders slumped with relief.

“Hey, Rando.” Danny’s smug voice grated against his eardrums like microprocessors across concrete. 

Randy flinched and sloshed hot coffee across his hand and wrist. He gave an undignified yelp of pain, switching his coffee to his dry hand and trying to shake the burn and wetness off. Already little Wet/Dry Vac bots were scurrying to suck up the mess from the industrial carpet.

Danny chuckled. “Mondays, am I right?”

The VP of marketing leaned against the doorjamb of the employee lounge, pingpong paddle resting on his shoulder like a tennis racket. He looked way too content for something as trivial as winning a pingpong game.

Randy stiffened, forgetting about saving his hand. Surely they wouldn’t send Danny to fire him? True, they had kept the smug jerk on the project even after kicking Randy off, but that didn’t mean they would hand over the HR reins to him of all people would they?

“Man, Randalicious, it sucks out loud that they kicked you off the modder sitch.” Danny clucked his tongue a few times as if he sympathized. “But you know what it’s like for guys like you, way down the totem pole. They can always find a new… what are you, like a programmer or something?”

The smallest flame of anger kindled to life in Randy’s belly. Danny knew very well that Randy was a Senior Software Engineer, he was just trying to get a rise out of Randy. Still, it stung Randy’s pride, because he knew he was replaceable. Well, at least that’s what the higher ups thought. The truth was no one in Frontflip could do what Randy could. He was the best they had. The fact remainded, though, that guys like Danny made friends with the CEO and cultivated their popularity with everybody at the studio, while guys like Randy kept their head down and did their work. And even if that work was essential, you simply didn’t feel bad about firing somebody whose face you hardly remembered. 

“Should’ve worked a little harder on making yourself irreplaceable,” Danny said, spinning the pingpong paddle between his hands. “Mike and I—well, Mr. Silva to you. I call him Mike—we were just talking the other day at the range about how half this biz is networking, and you nerd types always overlook that. It’s vital, Randmeister. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll work your way back up in time. If you can learn to play the game, that is. Toodle-loo!”

Danny spun on his heel and disappeared back into the employee lounge. 

“Who wants to take on the champ?” the VP of marketing yelled. “You want a piece of this, Tomihiro? Well, bring it on!”

Out in the hall, Randy dripped coffee from the wrist of his now wet sleeve. A Wet/Dry Vac bot slammed into his loafer, trying to get at the liquid soaked into the carpet beneath.

Randy shook himself out of the haze of anger and frustration and went into his office, shutting the door softly behind him. What was left of his coffee went on the coaster, then he opened the top center drawer of his desk and found the stash of neatly stacked napkins he kept in the back corner, just in case. He dried his skin and dabbed at the wrist of his shirt. What removed coffee stains? He would have to look that up before he left work today.
The upside was they hadn’t sent Danny—or anyone else—to fire him. Yet.

Randy threw away the used napkins and ran his fingertips lovingly across the perfectly straight spines of the books on the shelf above his desk. Rational Database Theory and Applications. Advance Digital and Systems Analysis. Fundamentals of Radiant AIs. Refactoring. Design Patterns: Elements of Reusable Object-Oriented Software. Though he knew each one practically by heart, he kept them close at hand, like a safety blanket. Seeing them lined up in perfect order gave him a sense of peace. Everything in the world could go wrong, but those manuals would still be there, holding true. Anchors of reality.
With his anxiety calmed slightly, Randy sat at his desk and logged in to his station. Even though he’d been kicked off the project, he couldn’t help but poke around just to see if they had made any progress over the weekend.

Turned out, there had been plenty. 

Something big was definitely going on. There were dozens of new folders and pathways, but he couldn’t open them, not now that he was back to regular clearance. It was all locked away from him.

He could crack it, though. He hadn’t been made Senior Software Engineer just for his networking skills—unlike some VPs of marketing he could name. But the second he got into the files, the security crawlers would alert like crazy. Everybody would know, and he would get fired for sure. Maybe even arrested.

Was it prosecutable as corporate espionage if he was spying for an anomaly from another world?

Randy shook his head. He was thinking like a coward again. Hadn’t he just the other day given PwnrBwner a rousing speech about how they could be the heroes for once? Real, honest-to-gosh heroes who saved whole worlds and really helped people. Heroes couldn’t run away just because they were scared that they might lose their jobs. They stood up for what was right, no matter what that might cost them. 

Untold lives, Roark the Griefer’s entire world, depended on Randy being brave. Being a true hero.

“Woo, yeah!” Danny bellowed in the employee lounge. “Suck it, Tomihiro! Who’s got next?”
Sudden inspiration struck.

Randy blinked. No, that would never work.
Except… Except it might. 

Danny still had clearance. If Randy logged in from Danny’s workstation, he could access all the locked files, and no one would bat an eye because Danny was still in Mike’s inner circle.
Getting into Danny’s station would be no problem at all. Randy had been in the marketing VP’s fancy corner office before—company policy prohibited him from locking his door, and the guy kept his password on a sticky note stuck to the top of his desk. Logging in wouldn’t be Mission Impossible 49.

The real test would be getting into Danny’s office without him finding out. Randy was no cool, collected super-spy. Just the thought of trying to sneak in had his stomach roiling again.

He leaned back in his ergonomic desk chair and stared at the manuals on his shelf, forcing himself to breathe through the anxiety. Their spines were still perfectly straight. There was still order in the world.

Randy’s spine straightened, too. He nodded at them. Millions, if not billions, of people from Roark’s world depended on him. He would find a way.

With renewed purpose, Randy grabbed his coffee cup, but the dark roast inside had gone lukewarm while he was clicking around the Hearthworld modder project folders, trying to figure out what to do.

Randy sighed and got up. There was an expensive espresso machine in the employee lounge across the hall, but he never got coffee from there. Too much chance of running into someone who wanted to talk to him.

Instead, he speed-walked down the hall to the elevator lobby the tours passed through. Glass walls showed the visitors a glimpse into the “funventive” world of Frontflip, complete with brightly colored carpeting and walls, devs at treadmill desks, jamming to music, and tossing squishy little stress balls back and forth across the room while they worked. 
Whenever Randy saw the place, he was glad he didn’t have to work in the desk pool anymore. All that pressure to have fun while he worked was too much. It had stressed him out bad enough to give him hives.

The one good thing about it, though, was that there was a coffee dispenser in the elevator lobby, always stocked with the finest organic roasts for the tour-takers. Randy set his mug under the spout and selected a dark roast. The machine gurgled and chattered with itself as it percolated.

The elevator dinged, setting his heart thumping against his pocket protector again. Except it wasn’t time for the morning tour to come through. He glanced over his shoulder to find that the situation was even worse. 

Out of the elevator car stepped Helen Rose, one of the most gorgeous and recognizeable employees at Frontflip. A willowy blonde with a magenta underdye, perfect skin, brilliantly white teeth, and vintage square-framed glasses perched on an unturned nose. She was a game critic and social influencer who’d been offered a job with Frontflip two years ago because of the literal millions of seed followers who hung on her every word about ultra-immersive RPGs like Hearthworld. He’d had a crush on her since he found out she had graduated with degrees in both astrophysics and astronomical geology.

Unfortunately, Randy could never talk to her. Never again, anway. Not after last year’s Christmas party. Randy had tried to strike up a conversation with Helen Rose then about the recent discovery of geological striations below the cloud layer on Saturn, but Tenya had blundered in drunk and vastly misrepresented that time that Randy had accidentally forwarded the confirmation for a prostate exam from his doctor to everyone in Dev. At the time, Randy would’ve given anything to disappear, but since he wasn’t an Arboreal Herald IRL, the best he could do was slink away, face burning and tail between his legs.

In the elevator lobby, Randy wished again that he had his Hearthworld main’s vanishing abilities. Or even just his confidence. It seemed so unfair that he could play a tough, cool hero in a video game, but be so awkward and uncomfortable in his own skin. If he were in Hearthworld,  he would probably make a glib joke that would make Helen Rose laugh, but Randy Shoemaker’s larynx was frozen, his mouth half-open like a total schmuck.

He ducked his head and stared at the jazzy patterns on the carpet. When you couldn’t be cool or disappear, the next best thing was to try not to draw attention. Hopefully, she wouldn’t even notice him.

She hadn’t said anything yet. Maybe it was working. Or maybe she’d forgotten about him. That would be ideal.

With a final gurgle, the last of the coffee Randy ordered drained into his cup.
Grab it and go, he thought, forcing himself into action.

But as he reached for the cup, Helen Rose bumped right into him. Coffee sloshed all over his hand again, and worse, soaked the front of her vintage Flamingoes Never Say Die t-shirt. She gasped and threw up her hands a second too late. Randy’s eyes flew open wide as his mug dropped onto the carpet with a thud, spewing more of the hot brew all over her trendy sneakers.

“Oh my gosh,” Randy said, panicked, “I’m so sorry! I have napkins in my desk, I’ll—”
“What the balls?” Helen Rose spun around, searching the elevator lobby. “Is this some kind of prank?”

“No, I-I’m sorry, so sorry. It’s my fault, clumsy, uh—”

To his surprise, she laughed, showing perfect made-for-livestreaming teeth.
“Orly?” Her eyes locked on the PA system. “Drea? You goobers, are you guys punking me right now?”

Randy stood by confused as she shook her head, still smiling, and swiped at her soaked clothes.

“You dorks owe me a dry shirt,” she said.

With that, she turned around and headed back toward the elevator. She was gone before Randy could explain.

Dumbfounded, he looked down at what was definitely going to be a coffee stain on his sleeve.

Except there was no sleeve. No sleeve and no arm. No body at all.

Randy was invisible. He touched his chest, then picked up his coffee cup. Invisible but not incorporeal.

Just like a level 40 Arboreal Herald.


Apprentice Aggravation

When Roark left Flavortown Tavern, he was exhausted. Although Trolls never needed to sleep, he felt wrung out to his core. No rest was forthcoming, however. The day was nearly done, as he’d learned to judge by the subtle shifting of colors in the enormous forest of bioluminescent mushrooms that towered over the marketplace, and it was approaching the time he and Zyra had agreed to meet with Ick for training. Appropriately, training in the School of Night Magick required it to be actual night all over Hearthworld.

Mac followed along as usual, climbing nearby walls as if he were still the somewhat smaller fat-padded Stone Salamander he’d been when they first met rather than the seven hundred plus pounds of shell, scales, and talons that he was now. 

Much like the mobs of Hearthworld, the Troll Nation Marketplace never slept. Creatures were traveling in from the portal plates in allied dungeons all the time—so many that Roark wondered whether there was a line backed up in their home dungeon. They were easy to spot, loaded down with armor and weapons to sell. The outbound were no harder to find. They walked along as if they’d just rid themselves of a disagreeable load and replaced that with the far more agreeable weight of gold.

Mac studied them curiously, sometimes stopping to watch and scratch his beard as they ambled by.

The silly beast had eaten greedily while at Flavortown, but the extra weight in his belly hadn’t slowed him down. In fact, it seemed to have made him even more frisky than usual. He yipped at a few of the shoppers, then ran ahead, hopping from building to building before coming back to scale a wall at Roark’s side and demanding to be petted.

But even this the Young Turtle Dragon quickly grew tired of. With a low trilling sound that Roark took as a dismissal, Mac camouflaged himself, vanishing from view. At least to the stream of causal passersby. And truthfully, only knowing what to look for helped Roark find the telltale visual distortion scampering up toward the cupola of the Scroll Store. That and a roof tile cracking off and smashing on the packed dirt of the street. It narrowly missed a passing Imp, who recoiled and cast an instinctive Slow spell at the broken shards.
Her eyes locked on Roark a moment later and tripled in size.

“Sorry, Dungeon Lord, sorry!” The Imp dropped to her knees and wrung her hands. “I didn’t mean to throw around no magick in the Marketplace! I wasn’t trying to disturb the peace! The blasted slate only surprised me is all!”

“It’s all right,” he insisted, raising a hand and dismissing her apology with a wave. “Get up. I saw what happened, and I’m not here to condemn you for it. Get up, please.”

She wasn’t listening, however. She kept going on about the tile and pleading for mercy, face pressed into the ground, arms raised in supplication.  

It made Roark sick to watch. This was precisely the trouble with being a one-man judge, jury, and executioner.

With a disgruntled sigh, Roark finally gave up on trying to convince her she wouldn’t be punished and turned the corner toward Zyra’s shop. The cries for mercy chased him down the alley, sending shivers of unease racing along his spine. He tried to put her from mind, focusing instead of all the work he had yet to do. 

Zyra’s alchemy shop was perfectly placed, positioned right next to the herbalist whose chicken-legged hut and garden were located on the very edge of the marketplace. And by design—his, of course—it was also located next door to his smithy.

A great squawking went up at the end of the street. Roark squinted, turning his gaze on the chicken-legged hut just in time to see it buck off a distortion in the shape of a Young Turtle Dragon. Mac hit the dirt with a dusty thud, then regained his feet and cut off through the glowing musical grass, apparently no worse for the fall.

Roark chuckled to himself and headed toward the alchemy shop. No oily black smoke was billowing up from the chimney in the back. A good sign. The last time the chimney had been smoking like that, one of Zyra’s failed apprentices had met his fate in the oven, ostensibly because she’d sensed him lunging to plant a poisoned dagger in her back.

When he stepped inside, there were no low-level mob corpses strewn about the shop floor, waiting for their owners to respawn, either. Another good sign. The shop itself was a dark and rather gloomy place, radiating the toxic energy of a Champion Reaver-turned-Master Alchemist.

A black wrought iron chandelier dangled from the ceiling, spewing green light over the shop’s interior. Bleached white bones and a motley assortment of skeletons adorned the right wall, along with a collection of shrunken heads and twisted antlers. Along the left wall were shelves piled high with potions and poisons in a variety of odd-shaped glassware; beneath were rows of wooden drawers, which held a wide range of alchemic ingredients and potion reagents. 

Everything from the common place Devil’s Tongue, that grew in the shade of the Elderpine trees, to the rare Bunyip Bindweed that could cause death in a matter of moments. Each drawer was carefully labeled in Zyra’s flowing script. At the rear of the shop was a glass fronted case, stocked with various alchemist equipment: mortar and pedestals, flasks and vials, burners and brass retorts.

Roark rounded the shop counter, heading for the door that lead into the laboratory, where Zyra kept her real treasures and did her most delicate work. His ears perked up as glass clinked beyond the door, and something boiled and hissed.

“Damn it all,” Zyra’s muffled voice muttered.

Grimacing, he rapped on the door to the laboratory.

“Zyra, it’s me.” He didn’t plan to wait around for her to let him in, but he’d learned it was best with the paranoid Reaver to announce himself before he strutted in unannounced. She was lightning quick with her blades and prone to stab first and ask questions later.

Inside, he found Zyra rushing from a mortar to a set of bubbling titration pipes, one arm cradling rare and potent ingredients to her flat stomach while the opposite hand clutched a powder-covered pestle. The rest of the lab was in a similar state of in-progress potions, poisons, and brews. He counted four half-ground powders in as many shades and consistencies. A trio of candle flames flickered under round bottom flasks; the contents of one had already boiled away, leaving behind a salty black residue. There were two cutting boards on a worktable, one covered in thinly sliced magenta flower petals, the other covered with pulsing green things that looked like spiral slugs. All of which were slowly crawling away in opposite directions.

So far as Roark could tell, she was doing every menial task an apprentice could have done instead.

Definitely a bad sign.

“Put out the candle under that Metamorphic Salt Filtrate, will you?” Zyra asked without preamble. She tossed down her pestle and snatched a bubbling pot off the hearth. More of its contents splattered and hissed in the fire as she did. Glancing up just long enough to see Roark’s confusion, she added, “It’s the one finished degrading,” before hustling back to her mortar.

Roark snuffed out the indicated candle beneath the flaskful of black residue.
“Where are your apprentices?” he asked.

“Had to fire Og,” Zyra said, furiously grinding away at the yellow powder in her mortar. “Too shifty. He kept watching what I ate and drank, asking me which poisons Septic Brewmasters are immune to.”

“But you had two others,” Roark said. “Did you cook them before I got here?”

“I wouldn’t waste the wood on those fools. I sent them on a fetch quest after the Cordial Cherries of the High Plains or some such nonsense.”

“For a poison?”

The hooded Reaver snorted. “Not unless it’s an imaginary one. There’s no such thing as Cordial Cherries or whatever it was I told them to go find.”

“You gave them a fake quest?” Roark dragged his claws through his shaggy black hair. He floundered for words, but could come up with nothing better than an outraged, “Why?”
Zyra sighed, and Roark thought he could feel her rolling her eyes somewhere in that hood. “If they don’t even realize these ingredients are made up, then they don’t have what it takes to work with poisons of this caliber.”

“But they’re here to learn,” Roark replied, exasperated. “Apprentices aren’t masters, Zyra. You teach them, then they learn to work with the poisons correctly. They get better over time. That is the process.”

Zyra shouldered past him and grabbed the flask of Metamorphic Salt Filtrate. “Not before they poison me by accident—which would be even worse than Og doing it intentionally.” 
Roark shook his head. “You’re being impossible.”

“This class is impossible,” she answered easily, returning to the secondary cutting board. “If an apprentice wants to survive as an Alchemist, then they have to be up to the impossible.”
She sprinkled the Metamorphic Salt Filtrate on the fleeing slug-like things. Immediately, they sublimated into five puffs of emerald smoke. Zyra threw down her pestle and used a nearby bellows to suck up the smoke and deposit it into a small glass jar. 

“I thought we agreed that you need apprentices,” Roark said, idly drumming his claws on a nearby workstation. “With them to do the simple tasks, you’ll be free to work on the more advanced projects you want to. Perfecting that undetectable contact poison. Breeding Frostrime vipers for their venom. Seeing whether your Septic Brewmaster abilities can be combined with Ick’s Night Magick.”

Zyra scraped the magenta petals off the primary cutting board and headed for the bubbling pot on the hearth.

“Right, that. You’ll have to go to training without me tonight, Griefer, I don’t have the—”
“Time,” Roark finished, slipping between her and her target. “Because you fired or sent away all your apprentices.”

Her hood fell back a fraction as she looked up at him, revealing a midnight blue nose and chin and full lips that were just a shade darker.

“If I don’t put these Pickled Haint Orchid Petals in that pot, the antidote won’t turn out,” she said, holding up her fistful of cuttings.

Roark grabbed her hand and held her in place. “Does that really matter?”

She ran her free hand over his jaw in a tender caress, drawing him in closer to her lips. 
“That depends,” she purred. “Would you like an antidote for the Flesh-Eating Contact Poison I just applied to your face?”

In the corner of Roark’s eye, his filigreed Health phial flashed green. He threw up his hands in frustration as a scrap of parchment belatedly filled his vision.

[Potent Flesh-Eating Contact Poison (Ultra-Rare) absorbed!
Effect: Loss of 4HP per second for 60 seconds or until the corresponding Antidote is consumed.
Effect: Disfigurement of affected area and subsequent loss of 13% Charisma until the corresponding Antidote is consumed.]

The skin and muscle over his cheek and jaw sizzled, and melted bits began to drip onto the chest of his leathers. He dismissed the parchment with a thought and turned to find Zyra at the hearth, stirring in the petals into the orange-pink sludge in the pot.

“I honestly don’t even know if it will turn out at all,” she said, “but this is the closest I’ve been to an antidote for this particular blend.”

Roark gritted his serrated teeth. There had to be a solution to this, but he was damned to seven hells if he could figure it out just then. Perhaps if he asked Wurgfozz whether any of the second floor’s new arrivals showed promise for Alchemy, he might find an apprentice or two who Zyra couldn’t fool with silly quests or murder for asking the wrong questions.
In truth, the matter of fulfilling her impossible apprentice demands was starting to seem like a tougher puzzle than getting back to Traisbin.

That stray thought brought with it the usual brooding frustration surrounding Roark’s experimentation with interdimensional portals. Even though he’d finally unlocked a single Level Nine magick spell slot in his Initiate’s Spellbook—the prerequisite for writing an interdimensional portal spell in Hearthworld—all his attempts to open a portal to Traisbin had killed him in spectacular and horrific style. Since his last attempt, he’d managed to creep back up to level 39—his third time at this level. Roark had yet to crack level 40 without being blown to bits with invisible shrapnel or shredded by unseen blades and respawning at level 36. 

It was infuriating to no end. When heroes died, they lost experience and had to return to their corpse to gather up their gear or lose it as well, but somehow they were able to hang onto their hard-earned levels. No so for Trolls.

Even the more powerful Hearthworld mobs had evolution caps well past a Troll’s, meaning that if they did perish, they wouldn’t have to drop back nearly so far. Lowen’s Malaika Herald, for example, could never respawn any lower than level 72. The same for every other Tyrant King lackey in the Vault of the Radiant Shield.

In contrast, Roark’s Jotnar Infernali, the highest Evolutionary Path of all breeds of Troll, reached its level cap at 36.

Roark clenched his jaw. Based on his calculations, he would have been nearly level 50 himself if not for the constant respawns. 

A pair of delicate, midnight-blue hands covered in glowing blue tattoos of power waved before Roark’s eyes.

“Are you still with me, Griefer?” Zyra said. Her hood cocked slightly, and she brought her hand inside to cup her chin. “Interesting. I didn’t think the Flesh-Eating Poison had an effect on awareness.”

“It doesn’t.” Roark shook his head and took out the Clearblood Ring he’d looted from the former Dungeon Lord’s corpse what felt like years ago. 

                                                                                 ╠═╦╬╧╪
Clearblood Ring
Durability: 89/96
Level Requirement: 16
Resists 100% of poison, disease, and blood-based magical attacks.
                                                                                  ╠═╦╬╧╪

It would cleanse his flesh of the poison and protect him against further poison, disease, and blood-based magical attacks.

“Come on,” he said insistently. “We’re going to be late for our training session with Ick.”

“What will he do? Click his mandibles at us?” Zyra plucked the ring out of his fingers.

“I need that in case your Antidote fails,” Roark said, holding his hand out expectantly. “I don’t have time to respawn today.”

“You wouldn’t die even if it did fail,” she said. “Now hold still.”
Instead of giving his Clearblood ring back, she caked some of the orange-pink sludge onto his cheek.

[Flesh-Repairing Contact Antidote (Ultra-Rare) absorbed!
Effect: Counteracts Flesh-Eating Contact Poison (Ultra-Rare).]

The filigreed Health vial in the corner of Roark’s vision stopped flashing green and returned to its usual bloodred color, and he could feel the muscles and skin of his melted face repairing itself. Not a pleasant sensation, but certainly impressive.

“You perfected a Contact Antidote?”

Zyra dropped the ring into his hand. “Feel free to shower me with praise.”

“Fine.” Roark smirked. “You’re brilliant. Now can we please go?"