Fey followed the system map to the place designated for rogue training. Unlike the warrior trainers’ area, there was no clearing in the trees to mark the spot. If anything, the shadows here were darker than the rest of the forest, as if to encourage people to move along.

There were no visible trainers, either. Fey was expecting this, so she (almost) did not jump when a voice out of nowhere said, “What brings you here, warrior?”

Fey answered. “I wish to join the rogue class so that I might start on the path of an assassin.”

“Oh?” The voice sounded mildly intrigued. It had a whispery quality that disguised gender and location, seeming to come from the rustling of the trees in all directions.

A figure coalesced out of the shadows, as mysterious as its voice. A mottled, gray mask covered its face above the mouth and a matching cloak disguised the contours of its body. An aura of shadow made its features even harder to make out.

“And what makes you think you can be an assassin?” the voice continued, still appearing to come from all directions. The figure’s lips did not move.

Fey kept her body language calm and confident even as goosebumps rose on the back of her neck. “It seemed like a good fit,” she answered. “The indirect battle suits me best.”

“Ah, but the way of the rogue is not always so indirect,” the voice countered.

A cold, metal wire slid lightly across Fey’s throat. She jumped back, but of course, nothing was really there.

“What say you to that?” the voice asked tauntingly. The figure had not yet moved.

Fey summoned all of her self-discipline to stifle her creeped-out reaction and answered normally. “If it were always indirect, it would be predictable.”

The figure smiled. “Quite right.” It removed its mask and flipped the cloak behind its shoulders; at the same time, the shadows lightened to a more natural level.

Only when the camouflage dropped did the game system notify Fey that this was R’shelle, rogue trainer. Fey was surprised to see that the NPC was slightly shorter than her; apparently, the shadow cloak had made R’shelle look taller and more menacing.

“All right,” said R’shelle, “I’ll let you give it a shot, but I won’t take it easy on you. After all, you had the bad taste to join the warrior class first.”

Though it was technically possible to join every class and learn every profession in Fantasia, in practice, it was nigh impossible. (Really, “nigh”? You couldn’t have just used ‘almost’? What century are we in? *smacked by author-goddess for impertinence*) The trainers preferred to see loyalty to their own class and made joining each successive one more difficult, both in terms of being convinced to allow a player to attempt the quest and the actual quest requirements. If Fey had not answered to R’shelle’s liking, the rogue trainer would never have even appeared.

“I look forward to the challenge,” Fey said politely, though of course she would have preferred an easy quest (*lazy*).

“We’ll see,” said R’shelle with a (n evil) gleam in her eye. “The regular quest is to successfully sneak attack 10 monsters and then defeat them. For you… Let’s make it kill 100 monsters before they notice where you are. Oh, and of course, the monsters have to be your level or higher.”

I think I can, I think I can[i]. “I will do my best,” said Fey, none of her (severe) misgivings apparent in her tone or posture.

“We’ll see.” R’shelle sounded confident in something, and that something was not Fey’s success. Without of a word of goodbye, the NPC disappeared back into the shadows.

Fey sighed and started walking deeper into the forest, where the higher-levelled monsters would be. She was currently at level 32; the monsters at this level were considerably faster and more intelligent than newbie monsters, and she was not looking forward to trying to sneak up on them.

The way Fey saw it, there were two ways to kill a monster to satisfy the quest requirements: one, stay hidden and inflict damaging status effects from afar; two, sneak up to it and deal fatal damage on the first strike. She had skills and abilities that might help her with both methods, but she was not confident that they dealt enough damage to be fatal before a monster noticed her presence.

Fey sighed again and reversed direction, heading back to the Moonwood. She needed some equipment upgrades.

Fey’s first destination was the weapon shop(-tree). Sylvannos was busy with another customer, so she wandered over to the throwing weapon display and began to browse.

The variety was somewhat bewildering. Throwing daggers, darts, throwing stars, and flattened rings sharpened on the outside edge (‘Frisbees of doom’) were all displayed in their deadly glory. Fey even saw a boomerang propped against the corner.

Fey had no idea which kind of throwing weapon had optimal physics for dealing damage, or if one kind even had an advantage over another.

Amethyst squeaked up helpfully. (“We already have star-stars.”)

“Good point, Amethyst.” (Pun intended.) Fey dug around in her backpack for the throwing stars her pets had brought her during their underwater (mis)adventures. (See Chapter 42 if you don’t remember.)

Made of a mysterious black material, the five-pointed stars did not resemble any of the throwing stars on display, which all had an even number of points, presumably because it was easier to make them that way.

Hefting her stars experimentally, Fey decided that she liked their weight and shape and could use them as weapons. Just to be sure, she checked their description:

Other than the five base attributes, vitality, strength, dexterity, agility, and intelligence – plus class attributes like mages’ willpower – stats in Fantasia were reflective of performance rather than determinants of performance. The durability of an object was a function of its material and shape, and the stat simply reflected the amount of force or energy it would take to deform or break an object.

In a related fashion, weapons did not have minimum level or attribute requirements and conferred no set ‘attack power’ to weapon strikes. Instead, there were recommended attribute ranges in which the weapon functioned optimally; outside that range on the low side, the weapon would do little more damage than a lower-quality item, and on the high side, the weapon was likely to exceed its durability and break.

Fey’s dexterity was 67 and her strength 95, making the ninja starfish stars ideal throwing weapons for her. This was not just a coincidence (unlike every other convenient thing that’s happened that the author couldn’t think of an explanation for); the level 30 ninja starfish became level 30 weapons with attribute ranges corresponding to those expected of a level 30 player.

“Too bad I can’t buy more of these,” Fey said wistfully to Amethyst, the item description (that she only checked how many days later?) telling her where her pets had obtained them. There were only five stars, and she would have liked to have a set of eight to twelve.

(Amethyst squeaked in sympathy, but was actually happy there were only five stars, as they had once been really scary monsters that had nearly killed her.)

“Can I help you, miss?” Sylvannos had finished with his previous customer and now turned his attention to Fey.

“How would you carry these,” she showed him her stars, “in a way convenient for throwing?”

After carefully examining the unusual weapons, Sylvannos reached into the cupboard under the throwing weapon display and came up with an interesting pouch-box made of hardened leather. The four vertical faces were at right angles to each other, while the bottom was sharply slanted. The top was a soft flap that fastened shut with a hook. Halfway up the box on one side was a slit that spanned the width of the box, a width that exactly matched the circumference of the throwing stars.

“If I may,” said Sylvannos, taking Fey’s stars and dropping them into the pouch. The bottom-most star poked partway out of the side slit, ready to be drawn for throwing. Sylvannos pulled it out, and the next star slid smoothly into place. “It’s designed to hold up to twelve,” he explained.

Fey took the pouch and pulled out a star, watching its successor slide into place. It was quite fun, so she repeated the action. The only thing that saved her from being absorbed in the activity for the next several hours was that she ran out of stars to pull out (*inner two-year-old*).

“Very nice,” she said (while the two-year-old said, “Funfunfunfunfun…”). “I’ll take it.”

Sylvannos attached the pouch-box to its accompanying harness and demonstrated how it was designed to swivel into any orientation. “In case you’re lying flat or hanging upside-down or something.” (“In case”. Get it?)

“Wow, they thought of everything,” said Fey admiringly.

Sylvannos deftly scooped up Fey’s stars and slid them back into the pouch before handing it and its attached harness to Fey. “Will that be all today?”

“Actually. I’d like to see your level 30 punching blades,” said Fey. She had been intending to go to level 40 before upgrading due to their high cost and the fact that she was still within her blades’ recommended strength range, but she needed as much of an edge she could get with the rogue quest. (“An edge”. Warning: you have reached the chapter maximum of 3 lazy, terrible puns.)

“Of course.” Sylvannos went over to the punching blade display. With a whistle, he opened a nook behind the shelves and casually reached in as if living wood parted like water all the time. The punching blades he pulled out were identical in size and shape to Fey’s present weapons.

Fey hefted the new blades experimentally. If she squinted (and exercised her imagination), she could see that the metal was a slightly different shade of silver-grey, and they felt slightly heavier than her current set. She checked the description:

I might as well get them. Thanks to her training not-a-date with Leandriel (*denial*), Fey was even carrying enough money to pay for them.

“The total will be 4500g.”

Before Fey had even properly concluded the transaction, an enraged squeal sounded from outside. Fey unceremoniously dropped the correct coinage on the counter and rushed out to see what had happened to her pets.

(“Bye…” said Sylvannos.)

Outside the tree-shop, Boris and the glooms faced off against an elven player that pointed a drawn longbow at them. Boris’ eyes glowed red as he used Glare to prevent the player from attacking, and the glooms had shaped themselves into a mane of menacing spikes around the boar’s neck. An arrow shaft was embedded in the ground next to Boris’ feet.

With a single glance at the situation, Fey sprinted at the player, putting herself directly in the path of the arrow as she ran.

The player barely avoided loosing his bow in startlement. It might have been better if he had, as Fey proceeded to yank the arrow out of his grasp, snapping it in half with the force of her grip as she threw it to the ground.

The player yelped as the bowstring recoiled with a painful snap. Before he could take offence, he was faced with an angry Fey.

“What the [censored word] do you think you’re doing!?” she yelled. Due to her deeper vocal range and tae kwon do-trained breathing muscles, the sound carried quite the distance through the village, attracting attention despite the background chatter of dozens of players.

“I—”

“Pet!” Fey continued to shout, her voice still perfectly (and angrily) modulated despite the volume. “Pet! Pet! Pet! Pet! Pet! Pet! Pet!” Each repetition corresponded to an actual pet, but this was not obvious to any of the observers (or the guy being yelled at).

Fey glared at the bowman in wrathful silence for another five seconds, just to make sure the fear really set in properly, then stalked off, her steps full of violent energy that made people get out of her way. Boris gave the player one last Glare and followed. One of the glooms (Midnight) made a good approximation of a certain rude hand gesture (where did it even learn what that meant?) as it was carried away.

The bowman’s friend and party member, an elven warrior, nudged him with an elbow. “Told ya you should have left it alone. Iron boars don’t just sit around town for no reason.”

The bowman just nodded, in too much shock from the auditory assault to carry on a conversation. “She’s scary,” was all he could say.

“Yup,” the warrior friend agreed, unbothered because the scariness had not been directed at him. “I wonder where she got the iron boar?”

Fey’s next destination was the accessory shop. Instead of having Boris wait outside, she ushered him into the tree-shop. Its arched doorway was generously wide by human(oid) standards, but Boris had to maneuver himself carefully to avoid brushing its edges.

The appearance of a massive iron boar followed by an elf wearing a coldly furious expression made the shop-keeper blink in surprise, but she recovered quickly. (This game breeds strangeness.) “Welcome! How may I help you?”

The system notice told Fey that this was Treisillia, owner of the accessory shop. “I’d like to get something that makes it clear that he’s,” she indicated Boris, “a pet and not a monster.” Fey quickly shelved her anger for later and treated the NPC politely; after all, Treisillia had not done anything wrong.

“How about a saddle?” Treisillia suggested tentatively.

“Great idea!” Fey embraced the suggestion with enthusiasm, as it was greatly superior to her own vague ideas of a (useless) collar.

Treisillia pulled out her longest tape measure and approached Boris, showing remarkable composure at coming close to his intimidating bulk and sharp tusks. She even failed to startle when the glooms hopped off his back in a shadowy wave.

Fey absent-mindedly shifted her weight to compensate for the glooms who decided to climb her instead, preoccupied with ideas for the saddle. “What’s it going to be made of? Can it double as armour?” she asked.

Treisillia laid her tape along Boris’ spine and measured from shoulder to rump as she answered. “The standard material would be leather made from non-specific animal hide from a level 30 monster. You can, of course, bring in your own material for us to work with or order more expensive leather.” Gesturing at the iron plates covering Boris’ chest, back, and sides, she added, “I wouldn’t think this gentleman needs any additional armour.”

Boris snorted at the “gentleman” appellation. Other than the commentary, he was a model mannequin, staying patiently still while Treisillia looped her tape around various parts of his body.

Fey answered, “Not his back, but he doesn’t have armour everywhere. Could we make something to protect his belly?”

Treisillia paused in the act of looping the tape around Boris’ neck as she considered. “The standard design does not cover the belly, but we could certainly add additional straps for protection. We could also fasten the saddle with metal links, though that will cost more.”

“Let’s do that, then,” Fey agreed. There was a time and place to save money, and this was not it.

“It’ll still be comfortable, right?” Fey asked after she thought about the metal. “I wouldn’t want him to be uncomfortable.” (*mother hen*)

Treisillia draped her tape across Boris’ back, then bent down to collect the ends. “Oh yes. The metal will be wrapped within leather. Our design will ensure your pet can wear it constantly without discomfort.”

“Great.” Fey settled back quietly (and poisoned herself) while Treisillia finished her measurements and sketched out the design of the saddle.

Fey peered at the completed drawing. The saddle seat resembled what she knew of horse saddles, albeit wider to match Boris’ considerable girth. The complex harness holding the saddle seat consisted of straps that secured themselves around each leg and then criss-crossed in a woven pattern to cover his abdomen. It looked like it would be quite a hassle to put on, but once that was accomplished, it would evenly distribute the weight of the saddle and not require tight cinching to remain in place.

“I like it,” Fey approved.

Before she could finalize the order, Amethyst squeaked up helpfully.

“Oh yeah. Could we add a couple of saddlebags?” (Carrying loot is far more important than carrying riders.)

“Certainly.” Treisillia sketched them in.

“Also a saddle pack in the back.” (*more storage*)

After the extra pack was added and Fey selected Grade A steel for the straps, the total came to 7500g. Fey handed over the correct coinage (and reassured herself that this was an investment that would pay for itself. Eventually). With the promise that the saddle would be complete “in three days”, the next night she logged in, Fey left the accessory shop in a much better mood than she entered it. Seeing the advanced hour, she decided to log off and tackle her rogue quest the next night.

◊◊◊

Footnotes:

[i] The motto of The Little Engine That Could, a children's story about an anthropomorphic small train engine that manages to pull a train over a mountain with the power of positive thinking.