“I have again spotted the strange man peering out at me through the trees. He obviously has no desire to be seen, but I fear my suspicions are correct and he is the same man I witnessed stabbing a young Seeker in the back beneath the shadows of an alley deep in Baneridge. What business does he have here? I must keep my guard up.”

from the private journals of J.P. Cornish.

I understood why Sluck had referred to the smithy as “the pale man.” He was an absolute brute of a fellow, with long hair and a beard as white as snow, and skin not much darker. His muscles were taught and massive amidst the glow from the forge that sweated beside him. In one hand he held a worn smith’s hammer—the other hand was gone.

In its place, was a strange mechanism made from two shafts of metal, some kind of gears and a claw-like set of pincers at its end. They were slid into two holes on a long piece of hot steel that he was working.

“Alastor Cook, eh?” he replied, nodding slowly. He looked away and brought the hammer down another few times. It looked like he was working on a sword of some kind, but it was a long way from completion. “Quite a man…quite a man…”

“You can say that again,” I smirked. The image of Alastor’s frail body lying in the bath of wine would be forever imprinted in my mind. “But, yeah…he said the plague was over and you could come back to town.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s what he said.”

The smith hammered a few more blows, then turned his back to me. He wore a thick leather apron with no shirt underneath. “And what did Sluck tell you about me?”

His question caught me off guard. My conversation with Sluck had been so clandestine and strange that I just assumed he didn’t know anything about the decaying hunchback.

“He—he told me to beware the pale man,” I admitted. Although his back was to me, I thought the smith was smiling. With a great stabbing motion, he thrust the glowing slab of steel into a bath of water. An explosion of steam enveloped him, for a moment obscuring him from sight.

“Did he now…?” the man said, his voice quiet and deep. “Is that all?”

The steam shifted and dispersed, and the smith reappeared. This time he was facing me, and the piece of glowing metal he’d been working on was looking more and more like a weapon. His expression was unreadable.

“No,” I replied. “He said I should kill you.”

“Mmmm.”

“That you had a Mortal Slab and that it was very valuable.”

The man’s lips twisted into a knowing smile and he nodded. “Well, he’s not lying there! But, can I assume, that by you telling me this, you’re not here to fight me?”

“You can,” I nodded. “I’m here to bring you back to town. Alastor says you can upgrade weapons, and there are more of us back at the Weeping Hills who could use your skills.”

“Quite a selfless act,” the man remarked, setting the steel aside. “That Mortal Slab could set you far ahead of the pack.”

“It could,” I agreed. “But…I dunno. Things have changed in this world. People will need you.”

I thought I saw a hint of approval in the smith’s eyes, but it was gone quickly. He strode across the cavern workshop and snatched a tall mug from a wooden work bench. Resting his strange “hand” on the wall, he gulped down whatever was inside in one long gulp. Wiping his lips, he looked back at me.

“You need new garb,” he remarked. “What’s that pithy shit you’re wearing now?”

I smiled and shook my head. “Just starter gear. God awful, I know.”

He took a step forward then stopped, his eyes on my cloak. “You’ve met Rathborne.”

“You know Rathborne?” I asked with interest.

The smith chuckled. “Hardly a soul in Duskmourne doesn’t know that old killer. Most feared Seeker I’ve ever known—and he gave you his cloak…”

His voice trailed off as he stared at me, stroking his beard as though sizing me up. “Just so happens I’ve got somethin’ in my trunk might just please ya.”

“Sounds like what you say to someone before springing a trap on them,” I chuckled.

“No trap,” he replied, kicking the lock on a sturdy wooden trunk wrapped with bands of iron. The lid sprung open and he reached inside. He removed something: a tunic made of dark leather with double brass buttons, a pair of high-ankle leather boots and a pair of dark blue cloth pants. He handed them to make, and as I took them, I heard the happy sound of items entering my inventory.

“Oh, don’t forget these,” he smiled, passing me a pair of gloves, which appeared to be made of strands of wrapped leather.

I opened my inventory and inspected what he’d given me.

Young Seeker’s Tunic

Armor: 220 Fire: 180 Frost: 180 Electric: 180 Acid: 180 Frenzy: 180

I equipped it quickly, watching as my Basic Cloth Shirt replaced its icon in my inventory.

Young Seeker’s Pants

Armor: 210 Fire: 160 Frost: 160 Electric: 160 Acid: 160 Frenzy: 160

On went the pants, replacing my Basic Wool Trousers. The cloth felt like wool and ballooned out ever so slightly above the knee, making them quite easy to move in.

Young Seeker’s Boots

Armor: 190 Fire: 150 Frost: 150 Electric: 150 Acid: 150 Frenzy: 150

The boots came high up on the ankle, stopping just below the knee, and felt rugged but light. There was something regal about them too, like they were something a nobleman might wear. Last on the list was the gloves.

Young Seeker’s Gloves

Armor: 120 Fire: 90 Frost: 90 Electric: 90 Acid: 90 Frenzy: 90

“How do I look?” I asked the smithy, raising my arms and eyebrows.

“Well you ain’t ready for a dinner party,” he replied. “Lest of course you’re there to kill someone.”

“Well, good,” I smiled. “I don’t see myself at any dinner parties any time soon. Thank you—by the way—what’s your name?”

“Wilhelm,” the smithy replied. “Wilhelm Crimfog. Technical junior, but who wants to be called junior, eh?”

It occurred to me that I could have just inspected him, but the game was so immersive, and its NPCs so real, that I hadn’t had the thought until after speaking to him. Introducing myself normally simply felt like the right thing to do.

“Nice to meet you,” I told him—and meant it.

“Don’t waste that now,” he warned me, pointing his metal arm at my newly acquired garb. “Plenty a Seeker would care to have it.”

“Why don’t I escort you back to town?” I asked him. “See how those Flesh Starved Dogs like me now?”

“Escort?” Wilhelm scoffed. “What do I look like to you, son? A washwoman?”

“I didn’t mean it like that—”

“I can find my own way back to the Hills,” he replied, scooping another glass full of water, or wine, from a swollen wooden barrel. “Besides, I gotta pack all this shit up. What I could use though, is a mule and a wagon.”

“Okay…” I replied. “Where do I get one of those?”

“There’s a sick little camp just North of here on the other side of the hill,” he replied, gesturing up behind him. “Few groups of them crazy villagers took the town’s only surviving mule and a cart when they fled from the plague. Didn’t work out for ‘em of course. How’s about you go get it back for me? Can you handle that, boy?”

Now this must be a quest! I thought with excitement. I nodded and raised my axe. “Sure can.”

Wilhelm nodded and I saw a tiny flash in the top corner of my vision. “Appreciate that, boy. I’ll get all this packed up for the trip back.”

Enormous golden letters burst into existence in front of me.

NEW TASK!

Grinning, I opened my character sheet to find a new tab entitled, “Tasks.” I selected it with two fingers to find a single task listed.

A Cart for Wilhelm—Wilhelm needs a cart and a mule to get his smithing supplies back to the Weeping Hills. According to him, there’s a pack of villages to the North with just the thing. Find the mule and the cart and return to Wilhelm.

No indication of what the reward was…

Smiling, I closed my character sheet. Wilhelm was already stacking bars of raw metal and tools onto one of his workbenches. I shouldered my axe and gave him a mock salute.

“Back in no time,” I told him. I thought I saw him throw me a thumbs up as I stepped out of the cave, but maybe I was just imagining things.