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I opened my mouth to speak but was thrown off by the sudden attitude. My fight-or-flight reflex kicked in and I quickly sized the man up. Dark skinned with salt-and-pepper hair and black eyes. A hard face, worn and sporting a scar from his left cheek to eyebrow, just missing his eye. I guessed him to be in his forties but it was hard to tell.

  He wore a flowing white shirt with puffy sleeves and a flared collar. His black leather pants were tight enough to make me sympathetically uncomfortable. The vest he sported was brown nubuck, with matching knee-high boots and small-gloves, one of which rested on the hilt of a sheathed rapier. The suede leather accents gave him panache that could only come from...

  "You're shitting me," I said. "A pirate?"

  "Aye," he growled. "And ye'd be wise t' remember it." His brow was scrunched in anger.

  "Look," I started, "I wasn't paying attention. Sorry if I—"

  "Get knocked about fer bein' a mangy bilge rat?"

  I narrowed my eyes. The name above the man's head said [Errol Oates] in gray text. "You're kind of a dick for an NPC, you know that, dude?"

  "Captain Oates or merely cap'n will suffice. Or the Scar of the Six Seas if yer overwhelmed by poetic flair."

  I studied the NPC, wondering about dumb luck. "Wait a minute. Are you a good pirate or a bad pirate?"

  His scarred eyebrow stretched upward. "By the Maelstrom, what's a good pirate?"

  "You know..." I hiked a shoulder. "A free spirit who likes to wear eye patches while sailing."

  "I steal things," he said indignantly.

  "From bad people?"

  "From rich people."

  "An argument could be made there's quite a bit of overlap."

  "Bah!" He marched closer and pounded a finger in my chest. "I know ye, don't I? The Protector of Stronghold." He fingered his hilt.

  I was beginning to think this encounter wasn't a coincidence. "So a bad pirate then. You got a problem with me?"

  "Ye'd hear me grievances, would ya?"

  "Get in line."

  "Tough talk from a dandy lad."

  "I'm done talking. We both know you can't draw that sword in town. What're you gonna do?" I turned away.

  "Don't walk away from me, boy. An' don't be tellin' me what I can and can't do." His sword scraped halfway free from the scabbard.

  I acted in a blink. I summoned the dragonspear to my hand and spun low, taking his legs out from beneath him. Captain Oates tumbled into a heap. I stood over him with my spear in the air and paused, realizing a few things.

  One, whatever friendly fire tweaks the devs had patched in, it hadn't affected my ability to initiate combat in town.

  Two, Errol Oates had nearly drawn his sword within city limits. I hadn't thought that possible from anyone besides me and the city watch.

  And finally, three, a crowd of players on the bustling street watched on.

  "Admit it," spat the captain, returning his half-exposed rapier to its scabbard. "We're all thieves, but ye think t' be better'n us."

  When I realized Errol was never intending to fight, a pit formed in my stomach. What was I doing? Taking advantage of Lucifer's hack just to teach a random punk a random lesson? He may have been a pirate, but he'd likely just lost his home. He was another Shorehome refugee.

  "What's this?" barked a guard.

  A few watchmen stormed past the crowd. Gladius, the head centurion, was among them. He brushed his red cape to the side in case he needed to draw his sword. When he saw me, he relaxed.

  "Talon!" He checked the man on the floor. "What's the meaning of this disturbance?"

  I lowered the spear. "It's nothing. It's—"

  " 'Tis but a clumsy pirate," said Errol, standing and brushing himself off. "In me haste to catch a glimpse o' the legendary dragonspear, I stumbled t' the floor."

  I glanced at him. "Uh, yeah. That's all."

  Gladius sighed. "Good, because we have no need to fight amongst ourselves. There are real threats to the vitality of Stronghold outside the walls." He glared at Errol in warning. "Let's keep them there."

  I nodded and backed away. Errol was wise enough to march the opposite direction. Gladius was a good soldier and didn't want to cause trouble if it wasn't necessary. With the three main players content to walk away, the crowd dispersed.

  My mood wasn't so quick to recover. Despite being in the right at the start of that confrontation, I wondered if I'd crossed the line. I returned the spear to my inventory and ducked into Trafford's store as soon as I could.

  By design, this was a welcome shop. New residents in town would pick up their first supplies here, as well as find guidance and anything else they needed in a welcoming atmosphere. In practice, Trafford was a spiny, disgruntled bastard you had to know to love. The old man was behind the counter ripping a new asshole into an unlucky noob. I leaned on the counter and waited with a grin.

  "And I keep telling ya," he said a bit miffed, "I don't want your stinking animal bones. I'm not running a soup kitchen. If you want good silver you'd best be sticking to actual loot prompts, not scavenged animal parts."

  Trafford shoved a small sack across the table. "That's all you can afford for now. Use it wisely and come back when you actually have something that commands a price."

  The noob meekly thanked him and looked inside the bag.

  "Not in here!" snapped Trafford, wild white hair shaking on his head. "I don't tolerate loiterers and slack-jaws."

  I chuckled as the player abruptly hurried from the shop. "You're a miserable bastard, you know that, Trafford?"

  He grumbled. "That one's a serial killer in the making, I tell ya. Dissecting animal carcasses... It's not right." He studied me up and down. "I see you're back. We could use you in town these days."

  "I keep hearing that, but I don't think I'm good for much more than stirring the pot."

  "The pot needs stirring. That's why everybody likes you."

  "No offense, but what do you care about it? You're an NPC."

  "None taken." Trafford rested forward on both arms expectantly, waiting on my business.

  Now I felt like an asshole. I hadn't meant any disrespect but the comment came out wrong. Trafford had proven himself a valuable ally against the titan. And, like a player, he was sort of leveling up. Upgrading his wares for a select few he'd deemed heroic in the defense of Stronghold. That kind of evolution and agency was impressive for an AI. If any NPC deserved respect, it was him.

  "Hey, Trafford," I started slowly, "can I ask you a question?"

  He shrugged. "Shoot."

  "Are you sentient?"

  "Well, what in the hell do you mean by that?"

  "Like, you understand you're an NPC?"

  "Of course I do."

  "And that this life is a manufactured one. It's not really real."

  "Seems real enough to me. What're you getting at?"

  I sighed. "I don't know. Life, death. Reality, illusion."

  He scowled. "Son, sounds like you've been hitting that philosopher bottle too much. I'm gonna tell Kyle to brew you something proper. Now there's a good boy, grounded on both feet. You could take a lesson from him. Why are ya getting all pensive on me, anyhow?"

  I mulled it over. "These pagan quests, for one."

  "Aha! You found the wild king!"

  "That's just it. I did find him. And he was some dude, not a monster. He spoke with meaning. Cared for his people. He certainly respected his mantle, I can guarantee you that."

  Trafford snorted. "Mantle? Speak some sense, son. Mobs don't wear mantles."

  "Is it... is it possible he's not a monster but an NPC?"

  "NPCs can't wear mantles neither."

  I chewed my lip. "Well, doesn't that bother you? That you could never aspire to that?"

  The shopkeeper laughed some spittle out. "Ya know, I've never much thought about mantles before, but they seem like a cumbersome bother. Too much responsibility, if you know what I mean."

  I frowned. Maybe I was beginning to.

  "So let me see it," he insis
ted. "The crown."

  I pulled it from my bag and handed it over.

  Trafford whistled. "She's a beaut. Can't imagine the wild king liked it much when you stripped it from him."

  "No, he sent a creepy executioner after me."

  "Well, once you destroy this and complete the quest, that should put an end to that insurrection." He handed the crown back.

  Quest Update: Dethrone the Wild King

  Quest Type: Fetch

  Reward: Unknown

  To destroy the crown of the wild king, you must plunge it into the Salt Sea.

  "The Salt Sea? I've never heard of it. How do I get there, Trafford?"

  He scoffed. "How should I know? I look like a sailor to you? But it's east of here somewheres, toward Shorehome."

  "Great," I muttered. "Another long journey."

  "If it were easy, it wouldn't be worth doing. The three of you are high level. If anyone can make that trip, you can."

  I nodded. "You know, with all this recent business, maybe it would be best to get out of Stronghold for a while."

  "And maybe that's exactly why we need you here," he pointed out.

  I studied Trafford intently. One moment he seemed to be urging me to go, the next he was convincing me to stay. What wasn't he telling me? I was about to ask when trumpets sounded from the west gate.

  "Those are alarm horns," I said. "Someone's approaching the city."

  I couldn't imagine what kind of threat would attempt to churn through the stationed crusaders, but I was curious to see it for myself. I headed for the door.

  "Oh, wait," I said, catching myself. "There's just one more thing. You have any idea what a bone pearl is?"

  Trafford's good eye widened. "A bone pearl, eh? Can't say I've ever heard of such a thing."

  "Neither have we. I guess Izzy can research it."

  "You sure it's not just some pretty knickknack for fancy ladies?"

  "I don't know. The item description mentioned it being inert. Kinda threw me off." The trumpets sounded again. I shook off the thought. "I'd better go see what this is all about."

  "Aye. It would be good to show your face around town some. Let the people know you're looking out for them."

  I groaned and left the shop. I'd been hoping just to have a peek, but the trumpets weren't just meant for me. Along with half the people in the city, I made way for the west gate.

  0600 Crusaders of Might and Magic

  I shoved through the crowd, wishing I had Bandit along to do the hard work for me. Gladius stood atop the battlements giving his centurions orders. A full contingent of watchmen stood in rows along both sides of the thoroughfare. They were only partially successful in keeping the road clear.

  Izzy stepped lightly to my side. Luckily, what might've been momentary awkwardness was superseded by the situation.

  "You're here," I said, astute as ever.

  "The horns."

  I nodded. "Where's Kyle?"

  "Playing beer pong solitaire. Where do you think?"

  I should've known. When Kyle decided it was time to sit on his ass, he executed like an Olympian.

  "Forget about him," she said. "We need to get up on that wall and take a look."

  As we started over, the command came down from above. The heavy double gates rocked open as the defenders pulled their chains. We stopped flush with the emptying street as residents cleared a path for the town heroes. That's when I realized the line of guards were a greeting party.

  "Actually," I said, "it looks like we'll have a fine view right where we are."

  The trumpets sounded again. This time they were a welcoming choir, meant to instill confidence and optimism.

  "Jeez. We didn't get a greeting like that."

  Izzy slapped my arm and watched the gate. A troop of boots marched forward. Several men who looked like crusaders entered Stronghold, except they wore white tunics with gold crosses instead of the usual black and white.

  As the block of six men passed, they gave clearance to a single figure of proposed importance. His plate armor was much the same as the others with perhaps an extra flourish here or there. Most notable were the gold cape he wore over half his body and the gold cross that sat atop his full helm like a monument.

  "He's a priest," noted Izzy.

  "And I thought I was the one who pointed out the obvious."

  The name above the special guest read [Bishop Tannen] in gray, revealing him to be an NPC. He was attended by a couple of men, followed by two more blocks of soldiers. Twenty men and the bishop, all in all. Certainly not a force that could threaten the integrity of Stronghold. Some of the crowd applauded. Most spoke amongst themselves in wonder.

  "Grimwart," said Izzy.

  Sure enough, the colonel marched in next followed by his black-clad knights. The crusaders already in town raised their voices in cheer, and the residents followed in kind.

  "The crusaders are joining him," she whispered.

  "He outranks them," I corrected. "He's a bishop from Oakengard."

  "We don't know that," she said quickly.

  I watched her with amusement while trying not to rub it in. Izzy's the lore expert. It's not often I get to teach her a thing or two. Understandable in this case because there was next to no information about Oakengard out there. Izzy was book-smart, but I was speaking from instinct.

  "It's a good assumption," she conceded, "Got any more nuggets of wisdom?"

  "Yeah. I don't like this one bit."

  The throng came to a stop amid reverent bows and clapping. The leading men cleared a space and stood aside, leaving the bishop front and center. He waited, hands resting on his weaponless belt, head lowered. When he finally lifted his gaze to take in the crowd, it went silent.

  A cross was built into the eye slit of his helmet, similar to Grimwart's. Except the knight only had the horizontal hole overlaid with a fancy white cross. The bishop's helmet lacked the decoration and was instead crafted with a long vertical slit through the horizontal one. It mimicked the gold cross atop his helmet in an understated way that revealed a peek at his face. I was surprised to see his eyes were golden.

  We waited for an address, but the man didn't speak. Residents on the other side of the street parted, and a man with thinning white hair yet a boisterous long beard and bushy eyebrows stepped through. His cream-colored robe garnished with a single maroon stripe, as well as the golden twig on his head, announced him as a saint.

  I was familiar with Peter, but he was followed by a short man with black hair styled in a Caesar cut. Golden letters introduced him as [Saint Loras].

  "Huh," I whispered. "I knew other saints existed, but I've never seen them before."

  "Loras is new to me," said Izzy.

  The saints and the bishop greeted each other in hushed tones. The sibilant voices from the crowd made the conversation unintelligible.

  "Is this good or bad?" I asked Izzy.

  "It's... different."

  I wasn't sure I liked different. I equipped my spear and casually pitched it into the ground.

  Within a minute, the saints disappeared back into the crowd. Quite literally. They'd probably blinked back to the Pantheon, or even logged out of Haven to discuss the development with the rest of the dev team. I wasn't sure how all that worked aside from them being able to teleport around.

  Bishop Tannen and the crusaders, however, remained. The cross helm scanned over the crowd until it landed. On me.

  "Ah," he said, grandstanding and nasally. "The vaunted hero of Stronghold."

  We tensed as he approached.

  "He's obviously a villain," I mumbled to Izzy. "Right? I mean, who talks like that?"

  "Shh!"

  The bishop stopped, looking down at us, his attendants lagging behind. Grimwart hurried over. "Your holiness, may I present you with Talon and the Lady Izzy."

  I stood as tall as I could, but I didn't have much to work with.

  "Thank you, Colonel." Golden eyes surveyed me from the recesses of the helmet. "Th
ey tell me you are a great defender of the cause." His eyes lingered on the dragonspear. "That is a holy weapon. Pray tell, Talon, do you consider yourself to be devout?"

  I swallowed. Of all the questions I expected to be asked from this army, it wasn't that. "I... umm..."

  "He killed the cyclops!" shouted a woman from the crowd.

  Cheers were followed by roars. Bishop Tannen straightened at the applause.

  "It is an impressive tale," he said loudly, relaxing his momentary surprise. The bishop paced side to side, now playing to the audience. "I, too, am a famous pagan slayer. For decades I have tortured their kind. Reaped information to destroy them." He stopped and loudly proclaimed, "It is a blessing from the White King that Talon fights for us!"

  The crowd erupted into a frenzy, making the earlier cheers for me seem halfhearted. And, damn, there was something about this man. Haven didn't have a classic charisma score, but Bishop Tannen was doing something to draw people to him. Even I was stirred by his very limited words. Like, maybe I really was a blessing from the White King.

  Wait a minute. Who the heck was the White King?

  Tannen raised a hand and the cheers softened. He spoke above the din. "Fear not, residents of Stronghold. Your city is forever safe as long as heroes still fight for the cause." He turned to the sick and destitute. The newcomers to the city. "And my heart goes out to the men and women who have lost their seaside homes. Know that the crusaders are here for you. My holy order of priests will personally see to the avenging of Shorehome."

  And just like that, I was forgotten amongst the mad cries of the populace. Not that I was an attention whore or anything. To be honest, I was happy to finally slink back into the crowd and pull my own disappearing act.

  Lots of things seemed to be eating me these days. The final notch in my strained belt was the fact that a pompous, power-hungry douchebag like Tannen had shown more sympathy for the Shorehome residents in ten seconds than I thus far had. The hyperactive spectators jostled with exuberance as we wandered away.

  "I know that look," said Izzy. "And I'll tell you right now, there's no need to take this personally."

  "There's nothing to take offense at."

  "Exactly. Which is why you should stop pouting." As we moved farther, the people were still cheering. "I think we should stay out of his way," she suggested.