More Than a Game Read online

  Here we go.

  The first thing the program asked was if I wanted to select a name. I could either pick one from the list or think up a new one myself, though I was too lazy for the latter.

  I knew finding a good name was important. It’s something I needed to be smart about. And what was funny was that, while you could take all the time you needed for the game, when you were born, you had no choice but to accept what you were given. Sometimes, as in my case, that left you with a less than ideal moniker. I have no idea if it was alcohol, atmospheric pressure, shock and happiness that I was born, or what, but my father named me Harriton. He named me and never gave it a second thought; I was the one who had to live with it. All through school, college, and especially the army, I was just happy when people called me Harry (which means ugly enforcer in Russian). The alternatives were much worse.

  I entered the first letter of my real name, and the program pulled up a list of prepared usernames. One, in particular, caught my eye: Hagen. There was something about it that I liked, and as someone who tends to trust his intuition, I decided to go with it. Much better than my real name, anyway.

  Race: human. I had decided that back when I was a young gamer before anyone had ever heard of Fayroll. Elves were too watery, dwarves were ugly, and halflings had hairy legs. And forget about orcs, trolls, and goblins—they were just evil. I mean, sure, lots of people enjoyed playing them, and that’s fine; some people like lollipops and others prefer pickles. But I stuck with humans, seeing as how that’s what I was most used to.

  And that was pretty much it. Fayroll was different from the games I’d played since you picked your class and specialization after the tutorial—a starting location without aggressive monsters, where players can’t kill each other. This area was called Noobland (some developers have a sense of humor).

  Now, I had to decide who I wanted to be by choosing an instructor and getting a class quest from him. For instance, if I wanted to be a mage, I had to find the mage instructor and get a quest. If I wanted to be a thief, I would have gotten my assignment, and head off to steal something, grab a drink, and land in prison. Want to be a hero? Go for it!

  Attribute points were assigned more or less how they always were: players distributed them themselves with each new level. One important difference was that Fayroll didn’t have any multiclasses; everyone picked a specialization for themselves, and that was it. That specialization would be the only one you’d work on. No archetypes like mage/thieves or warrior/clerics.

  I agreed to let the program base my physical appearance on my actual appearance and decided not to read all the digital garbage they threw at me. And with that, I was treated to solemnly drawn-out music reminiscent of a drunken bagpipe band. I grunted. On the screen, a message let me know that the character Hagen had been created.

  “Thank God. We’ll start with a prayer,” I said as I lay down in the bathtub/capsule, manipulated what the installers told me to manipulate, and saw a light at the end of a tunnel that led my new character into a whole new world.

  Chapter Two

  A Brave New World

  “Ha! It’s Beloomut!”

  That was my first reaction to the Fayroll world. The light spat me out onto a fairly narrow street lined with stumpy wooden houses that reminded me of Beloomut, a small provincial town where I spent many happy summer vacations as a child. Even the newest buildings there looked exactly like what was on either side of me. For a split second, I could smell the fields of my childhood, the bonfires we lit in the evenings, baked potatoes, and the dust under my bike tires.

  Turning around, I looked at where I had come from. It was a carved arch surrounding a pearly film. The childhood aromas wafting around in my head were quickly blown away when some guy dressed in something markedly exotic tumbled out of the arch, glared at me ferociously, and announced, “Geez, dude, why are you standing in the way like that?”

  And off he ran. I turned to look down at myself and realized I wasn’t dressed any better. Thinking about it now, the word “dressed” doesn’t begin to describe the picturesque rags I wore. Maybe you’ve seen those old kalikas[4] in movies set in Vladimirian Rus? It’s the same thing, only I don’t have a harp. A tattered shirt made out of canvas…or hemp, I have no idea, pants made out of the same thing, and a bag fit for a beggar, with a wooden cup and a few clumps of bread inside. Oh, and the smell—again, fit for a beggar.

  And that brought up an interesting point: the Fayroll press release said players could play as anyone. What about a bum on the street? What skills would they have to develop? “Begging,” “tin-can scavenging,” and “stink,” a passive ability that weakens opponents for five minutes? I’m kidding, of course. Although to be fair, one popular internet portal I read mentioned that beggars made the best RPG players because they were used to poking around all the nooks and crannies they could find in a relentless search for anything people left lying around.

  And that’s exactly what the game was about—picking up the loot you got from monsters, crates, pitchers, and anywhere else some sick developer dreamed up. Ultimately, bums on the street spend their time looking for anything interesting lying around, trying it on, and eventually just keeping the best trash they can find. So what’s the difference between a gamer and a bum? Okay, forget it. None of that matters. We don’t need a beggar; I am a warrior, a powerfully built tank of a man; a pillar of the band; and the hope of orphans, the wretched, and the destitute. A barbarian or a paladin, although it doesn’t look like there are any paladins here.

  So, I started walking down the street.

  “Hey, man, want to join our group? We’re going to take a look around Noobland, do some quests, jump up a few levels.”

  I turned to see a stocky dwarf with a ragged beard and leather clothes that were actually kind of decent. Next to him, was a pair dressed the same as I was.

  “Come on,” said the little guy, whose name, judging by the label above him, was Frori. “We’ll find one more and get going. I know where to find some good quests, so it’ll be great. Then we’ll head over to Aegan.”

  Aegan, Aegan, I mentally paged through the guides I’d read briefly. A-a-ah, Aegan—the city players go to after Noobland. The gate to the big world.

  “Sounds good,” I told the little guy. “Send me the group. Though I should tell you ahead of time that I’m going to be a warrior.”

  “No problem,” he answered. “Be whoever you want. Here’s the group.”

  A window popped up that read:

  Frori is inviting you to join his group.

  Accept?

  Needless to say, I clicked “Accept.”

  You joined a group! Leader: Frori.

  “So, Frori, can we go now, or what?” I asked my new leader.

  “No, we’re going to find one more first,” the dwarf answered as he attentively scanned the players walking and running by. And the stream of players entering the game was still going strong, lending credence to the traffic numbers I hadn’t really believed.

  “All right, cool. Then I’ll be over in that corner looking through the settings.”

  I walked over to a fence in front of a building, crouched down to lean against it, and pulled up the attribute menu.

  Basic attributes:

  Strength: 1

  Intellect: 1

  Agility: 1

  Stamina: 1

  Wisdom: 1

  Well, I thought. Not great. Whatever. I’ll go do some fighting with that dwarf, unlock a few levels, and that will help. He obviously isn’t just trying to help people—there’s something in it for him, too. Every operator has his weak spot, though. You just have to find it.

  While I was there mulling things over and waxing eloquent on the meaning of life, life wasn’t just standing there waiting for me. The same misfits kept marching by like a rag parade, though the rags differed in color, the number of holes they had, and how they were patched. Admin certainly spared no expense when it came to design. Oh, and one of the
tramps had been snagged by our fearless leader Frori. Noticing me watching him, he beckoned me over with his shovel-like hand:

  “Hey, warrior, get over here. The group’s ready, so let’s head off to see Auntie Doris and start our first quest. Some lake goblins are bothering her during the day and keeping her up all night with their noise. And you know Auntie Doris—she’s the kind of woman you respect and appreciate. So let’s go find those goblins their own little corner of hell.”

  “That sounds fine,” I started. “But what are we going to use to kill them? Our bare hands?”

  “Oh, right,” Frori seemed taken aback. “You don’t have anything. No money either. Right? Nobody has anything? Yep, thought so. Okay, let’s do this: I’ll buy you each a club from the NPC in the store over there. He’ll give me a good deal. And in return, you’ll give me all the loot you collect today.”

  And there we have it! A smooth talker, that one. So, that’s how they did business around there. Let’s see: five shmucks, 6-7 hours of fighting to get through 2-3 levels…that was a lot of marketable loot, even if it was cheap. Farm that for a couple weeks by plowing money back into gear that costs next to nothing, and you had your start-up capital. And you even got some experience to boot. Plus, there was no risk whatsoever, and it wasn’t as if we had a choice. If we said no, there was always someone else lining up to take our places. But I wagered, later, right before it was time to leave Noobland, he would say, “Sorry, guys, there’s something I really, really have to go take care of.” And he would go create a new group. If someone he helped along ever made it big, he could even sidle up to them later with a small reminder, “Hey, you don’t remember when I bought you your first club, do you…?”

  And wipe away a tear…

  Two of our groupmates gleefully shouted that they were in, even if the little man was a dwarf, while an elf named Oygolinn (the one Frori recruited last) stood there weighing the decision. Soon, he too acquiesced and nodded. Well, as long as everyone else was down for it, so was I. Life’s more interesting in a group.

  After we all decided to make a go of it together, giving up our loot to the entrepreneuring dwarf in the process, he quickly took us to the local supermarket and bought us the simplest clubs he could find. There was a lot in the store, though it was all kind of plain. On the other hand, I wasn’t expecting anything special at that point.

  Simple Club

  Single-handed weapon

  Damage: 6-10

  Damage type: bludgeoning

  Durability: 80/80

  The dwarf then grandly announced, “And now that you hold in your hands your very first weapon in the Fayroll world, remember this moment and never forget it!” That served only to confirm my suspicion that if any of us ever became a serious player in the game, sooner or later he’d come knocking like the ghost of Christmas past.

  Auntie Doris lived in an adorable little house seven or so minutes’ walk from a beautiful lake. Frori thumped on the carved walnut door and, as we entered, whispered a quick command in our direction, “Wipe your feet. If you track dirt into the house, we’ll never see the quest. She’s a huge clean freak.”

  Inside, the house wasn’t just clean; it was as sterile as an operating room. Auntie Doris herself turned out to be a little old lady with gray curls, a clean apron, and a white bonnet. She looked exhausted.

  “How are things?” asked Frori. “How are you feeling, Auntie Doris?”

  “Ah, what a polite dwarf! Not great,” replied Auntie Doris sadly. “I can barely sleep with all the noise and uproar every night.”

  Frori jabbed me in the side and hissed, “Ask why. I already did this quest, so they won’t give it to me.”

  Of course, you did. I imagine this isn’t your first time here either…

  “Where’s the noise coming from, ma’am?” I joined the conversation. “Who won’t let you sleep?”

  “It’s those lake goblins,” the old lady threw her hands in the air. “Who knows where those cursed beasts came from, but now they live in my little lake. Every night, they’re off rabble-rousing so loudly that I can’t go to sleep. They tap on the windows, they make faces, one even climbed up onto the roof recently and ran around up there until the rest joined him. And then they dragged some old trough up and slid down it screaming, ‘It’s a bobsled, baby, yeah!’ What’s a bobsled? Probably some kind of goblin curse. It’s awful. I barely have any shingles left on the roof!”

  The old lady began to weep silently, wiping away her tears with a snow-white handkerchief she pulled out of her sleeve.

  “Okay, Auntie Doris, what if we go scare those goblin monsters so badly they never again come anywhere near your house?” I suggested.

  “Oh, you dears, please do help,” the sweet old lady looked at me hopefully. “I don’t know how I could thank you, though. I don’t have anything to give!”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I smiled. “We’re pioneers out to help people, so we don’t ask for anything in return.”

  You have a new quest offer: Rein in some Hooligans.

  Task: Kill 10 lake goblins, so the rest leave the lake near Auntie Doris’ house.

  Reward:

  200 experience

  3 pieces of cheesecake from Auntie Doris

  3 apples from Auntie Doris’ orchard

  Accept?

  Once everyone had gotten the quest, we once again assured the old lady that the goblins were about to meet their maker and left.

  “There are other quests here, but they suck,” observed Frori. “Go here, go there. Deliver a letter, fill a barrel of water, make a spit handle. Nothing you need a club for, and certainly nothing that will get a good shot of adrenaline running through your veins. Beating up goblins, though—much better. Experience and some fun at the same time!”

  “And the loot isn’t bad,” I said, taking his thought to its logical conclusion.

  By the time we finished chatting, we had gotten to the edge of the lake infested with antsy goblins. A few other players scurried around the shore waving weapons.

  “Listen up!” Frori waved his stubby shovel of a hand. “This is the lake with the goblins. We’ll lure them over here one by one and take them down together.”

  “Why one by one?” asked Oygolinn. “Why don’t we just get a group up here and be done with it?”

  “That won’t work,” Frori disagreed. “They only come up out of the lake one at a time, first of all, and once they do, they’re a lot for you to handle. You’re still just Level 1, and they’re Level 3. We have to gang up on them, so we’ll need a kill queue.”

  “Well, isn’t that a nice way of putting it,” I said to myself. “A kill queue. That would be a great title for a detective story.”

  “Hey, guys!” yelled Frori to the other players who, like us, were anxious to kill some of the watery interlopers. “Who’s last in line for the goblins?”

  “I am,” answered an elf with the proud and hard-to-pronounce name of Euardenalil. “Wait, the five of you are all going to kill just one of them?”

  “Yup,” answered Frori. “Though not just one. There are five of us, and we want to take out five of the goblins one by one. Fair’s fair. Then we’ll get back in line to complete the rest of the challenge.”

  “Ha! Fair!” a dwarf named Forin was outraged. He had arrived after us looking for goblin blood. “And how long do the rest of us have to wait while you five have your fun?”

  “No longer than it will take you to kill one of them,” Frori said. “We’re sitting here yammering on and on, and that moron over there still isn’t done.”

  The whole time we’d been talking, a human named Zubiloff had been trying unsuccessfully to finish off one of Auntie Doris’ whiskered and toothy antagonists. Zubiloff wielded a knotty stick that he used to occasionally run up to the goblin and take off some of his hit points. The goblin, in turn, spun like a whirligig, grimaced, and tried to sink his needle-sharp teeth into Zubiloff. A couple times, he landed a bite.

  “Anyon
e want to bet on the winner?” grunted Oygolinn.

  Frori looked at him thoughtfully, coins glinting in his eyes. Our enterprising dwarf seemed to have taken what I thought was Oygolinn’s joke seriously. Oygolinn was equally thoughtful as he watched the ongoing battle, explaining that there were three types of goblins: lake, forest, and mountain.

  Lake goblins posed the least danger to players. They were the least aggressive, so they’d stick to harmless tricks like throwing dirt at you and spitting on your back as long as you left them alone. They ate leaves, snails, and anything else found in a lake, and they only lived in settled bodies of water. Shiny things were irresistible to them, and that’s exactly how we planned to lure them over to where we were.

  Forest goblins were different. They were much more dangerous and evil, especially in groups, and they were even insatiable cannibals. Humans and dwarves taste equally good to them. Some people said they’d eat anything they could get their hands on—even rocks. They lived in the woods, and you could find them everywhere in Fayroll.

  Mountain goblins were the rarest and smartest of all. They preferred to stay away from humans, though they loved sending avalanches of rocks or snow down on anyone they saw walking anywhere near a slope.

  “How do you know so much?” I asked Oygolinn with respect in my voice.

  “I read through a lot of forums before I joined the game,” was his dignified reply. “You need to understand the game if you want to get anywhere.”

  Just then, Zubiloff made one last valiant lunge, hacked at the goblin, and landed a fatal blow. The goblin squealed, twitched a few times, and gave up the ghost. His body splayed over the grass.

  “Let’s go, ear boy, cast away.” Frori pointed Euardenalil toward a fishing pole lying on the shore. A large coin was tied to it. “Come on, you’re holding up the line.”

  “And next it’s your turn,” said Frori, glancing at us. “Remember that we’re not using the last strike rule, so experience is distributed evenly between us no matter who gets the kill. I’ll rile up the goblins, so they only attack me. I have a higher level and more combat experience, so the rest of you need to wait for me and then jump in with everything you’ve got. With five clubs, we’ll crack them like nuts. And remember, I get the loot we collect from them.