Adventure

After getting down to my last few coins in ale money, I was ejected from the tavern for trying to pay my drinks bill with an Amulet of Testimony. Forgetting I even had such a trinket, it came back to me that I was supposed to go to Harvest and hire a boat. Since I was out of the tavern and it looked like rain, I decided to travel on.

Harvest is a lovely town and I admire their fashion sense when it comes to the color yellow. I strolled down the boulevards admiring all the sunflowers, banners and other adornments that gives Harvest an easygoing feeling. I steered clear of the creepy child encampment where the little nippers set fires and throw rocks due to the lack of adult supervision.

My goal was to find a ferryman to take me across the big waters, so thinking logically, I headed for the docks. Alas, he was not there. Next, I tried the tavern as all seafaring men ultimately need an ale to slake the thirst of a long days toil. Alas, he was not there either.

I then looked in the market, the reagent shop, the armory and tried to pull information out of the town crier. All proved fruitless.

Fruit would have been a good choice, but alas, I spent the entire day looking for this miscreant and didn’t buy supplies before the market closed. I tried to buy ale with my dashing good looks, hopes, promises and dreams, but returned to the curb with nothing for my trouble but some lettuce and I’m quite sure it was meant as a taunt, not a gesture of kindness. If they continued their jibes with some tomato and a dash of bacon, all would have been well.

And thus I sat, contemplating my next move and waiting for the sun to rise. If he was a Ferryman of any respect, I would stand guard by his boat and nab him when he came to check for fares.

He threw me off the scent by coming out early to fish. It was mere coincidence that I asked if he knew of any ferryman in the vicinity and he mentioned he was in a position to ferry me to my destination. He was even in admiration of my yellow cloak and said he was ready to journey on when I was.

But we had a breakdown in our communication. Through multiple prompts, gestures and even hand signals, I tried to convey I was ready for the journey and the sooner we set off the better. I had my sailing leggings, the yellow cloak and the amulet. I even had some spare lettuce I was willing to share. We could feed the ducks, it would be glorious!

Yet, no matter how many times he said he was waiting around for me, he wouldn’t relinquish the rod and reel, hop into his rickety boat and cast off.

Defeated, dejected and disillusioned, I assailed the Ferryman with lettuce, tossed him into the sea, thrashed him with his fishing rod and liberated his row boat.

I felt somewhat guilty over leading him on a low speed pursuit over the waves wherein he nearly downed before turning back. But the quest must go on!

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

Deadlines kept me out of Release 41, so I was anxious to get back into Release 42 and continue my routine of keeping the Thugs and Bandits in check, controlling the zombie infestation and letting the Elves know I have my eye on them.

But alas, the joyfullness was short lived. As I confronted the evildoers in Serpent Spine Foothills, I realized they attack with the same vim and vigor, and they’re just as astute at sneaking behind to stab me in the back, yet their weapon, if they’re even carrying one, has gone from the Halberd or Axe to the low ranked Spiked Club.

Fair enough, perhaps these are Thugs in Training, but the same was true of the other foes I faced. After knocking them head first into the dirt and withstanding their paralyzing attack, I used to take great relish in relieving them of their weapons, which I could then sell for ale money or perhaps salvage for my own metal working needs. That sadly is no longer the case.

It seems another avenue of earning potential has been pinched off. I’m beginning to wonder how an adventurer is supposed to make enough coin to afford rent, weapons, armor and furniture. Most people expect a little gold for the goods they sell. Some are willing to work for wishes and dreams, but not many.

Let us not forget that rent for a Village property is 1000 gold per day. As it stands, over 100 thugs will have to be crushed by the Sword of Smiting in order to get the paltry 10 gold they might be carrying. At the current respawn rate, that’s more than an hour of mindless grinding and waiting. For a game that wasn’t supposed to have a lot of grinding, I seem to be finding all of it.

I was under the impression there were adventures to be had and enemies to quell, which has traditionally resulted in gold and loot worthy of being of sold. I’m not entirely sure how the masses are supposed to afford goods and services when there is no coin for the effort.

So clearly I am misguided and seek enlightenment on how visiting the Oracle became the highest paying job in the realm.

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

In a move of senseless bravado and overzealous ego, I found myself in the midst of the crossfire of the Crag Foothills. I knew it would be a dangerous venture, but I was looking for fortune and glory in the form of the shiny stones I’d heard so many people talk about. What I got was a face full of fire and a back full of arrows.

I didn’t realize the path leading to the mines would be riddled with the undead as well as rampaging bears and wolves. It was a cacophony of evil doers and before I realized my mistake, they were using my head to beat out the rhythm of their nefarious deeds.

I was quickly overwhelmed and ended up face down in the dirt wishing I had never left the safety and confines of my hot tub. I was suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous skeletons when I felt the cold darkness of sleep blanketing me.

Then amidst the chaos I saw a figure. He moved with savage grace under the rhythm of the light, his bow singing out a melody of devastation and destruction. The day rang with the cries of the fallen, and there I lay, weeping in the dirt with the belief my time is this realm had drawn to a close.

There was silence. An eerie, cold silence with the sound of the trees in the wind. It had been a losing battle, but was suddenly over.

As I looked up, I saw a foreboding figure of bone. He loomed large and seemed to be waiting. I turned my gaze to see my combatants lay scattered and broken on the path.

I arose and took in the full nature of his countenance. I felt a chill run through me. Realizing who stood before me, I began to panic.

"No, no, no!" I exclaimed. "Don’t take me away! I’m not ready! I need more time! I still have things to do, places to see, ale to drink! Can we make a deal like I read about in all those ridiculous tomes?"
"Of what do you speak?" he replied in a distant, echoey voice.
"Are you He?" I asked nervously.
"He, who?" he replied.
"Him," I said.
"Him, who?" he repeated.
"Have you come to take me away?" I asked, trying a different tact, but still riddled with panic.
"Take you where?" he questioned.
"The Afterlife," I replied.
"Afterlife?" he asked.

He was clearly weaving a web of confusion and then began a hypnotic dance which I assumed was meant to lull me into a dream state for our journey into the afterlife. But when I felt neither lulled nor journey bound, I felt the need to inquire into the situation.

"Now look here. I don’t mean to be rude, but if I’ve died and you’re here to whisk me away to the  Afterlife, would it be possible to dispense with the dancing and get on with the negotiating?"
"Negotiating?" he asked.
"Yes, negotiating. I’m not ready to be dead yet, and am willing to offer up something personal and meaningful to bide my time here in this realm wherein you accept the deal and come to collect me at a later date. Egad man, don’t you read? This is how these things work!"
"I’m not sure I follow you," he replied as he continued his dance.
"Aren’t you Death?" I asked directly.
"Death?"
"Yes, Death. The Death. The chap that comes along when things have gone horribly awry and the spark of life gets covered in shite." I began to feel something was amiss about this exchange.
"Nay," he said.
"Then who are you?" I asked. "And more importantly, am I dead?"
"I am he who dances on graves," he replied with a bow. "And you have taken some ruinous blows to the head and perhaps have more arrows sticking out of you than one man should reasonably withstand, but I dare say, you are still alive. However, I recommend you seek some tincture before those wounds turn caustic and you expire in a drainage gully."

"So, you aren’t Death and you aren’t here to take me to the Afterlife?" I asked feeling my tether to the situation was beginning to unfurl.
"Nay. I was merely passing through and saw the undead here causing grievous harm to your person and thought I would offer some aid. You were holding your own, until you weren’t, and they started tossing you around like a hot sausage."
"So, not Death?" I confirmed.
"Nay," he replied.
"No Afterlife?" I inquired.
"Not today,"  he countered.
"Then, I thank you for your kindness," I said, the pain of the arrows of misfortune making their presence known.

But there was no reply. The figure of bone was already bounding down the path heading deeper into the foothills. Within moments I heard the cry of battle. The sound of the skeletons crumpling to the ground fell into the distance and I hobbled my way to a healer.

 

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No Death, No! I have so  much to live for! I know who you can take though! I have a list! Let me get it!

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

It’s the usual story. You’re walking along, minding your own business, looking at the stars, enjoying a mug of ale, when all of a sudden you get thrown through a Lunar Rift. And there you are, lying face down in the dirt, the supple flesh of a pumpkin staring back at you, and somehow, the nagging feeling this isn’t the first time this sort of thing has happened. It was a painful landing and to make matters worse, the ale mug didn’t survive the trip. Now what are you supposed to do?

Fear not my weary friend, help is at hand. And rest assured, this is New Britannia, you can’t cast Immolation without hitting a tavern, so that ale mug shant be empty for long.

As you get your bearings, it’s best to try and help the local citizenry. You could go rushing off into the first forest or thicket you find, but to be honest, it’s not going to end well. There are Thugs, and Skeletons and Bears, oh my!

It’s time to take a moment and plan. Some of these citizens are displaced travelers like yourself, while others are looking for someone to get a job done. Completing these tasks should establish you as a virtuous soul and perhaps quell the fear that many feel towards Outlanders. Most of these will allow you nto their good graces without risking life and limb.

Soltown:

Japeth in the tavern needs some help getting a poem to his lady love
Bentley is looking for the key he left on his desk at home in East Perennial Trail
Geof wants and Iron Blade that can also be found in East Perennial Trail
Ashton wants a book of recipes he left behind in Solace Bridge
Raymond is looking for the hammer he left behind in Solace Bridge
Emily is looking for Quincy’s blade and the note he left for her in Solace Bridge
Jeanne needs help finding her daughter’s necklace that went missing in the Soltown cemetery
Edvald from Solace Bridge has a report that should be given to Stanley, the guard
Stanley, near the refugee camp could use a courier to Ardoris

Owl’s Head:

Ask Myra about her brother and visit the Clink in the upper market
Talk to Morton in the tavern and fetch his ledger from Kingsport
Visit the guards in the upper market and help out Winslow with some Healing Herbs from Kingsport
Thomas Strongbeard might need some help with his shipments of ale. Anton in Kingsport might be the right man to talk to

Braemar:

Chat with Bodan behind the tavern in Braemar about wolves that plague South Valeway. He could also use some help with a lost acquaintance of his in Owl’s Nest
Bridget could use some help in finding her lost husband Veimor. Seems he may have disappeared in West Ravenswood
Innkeeper Flynn is having trouble keeping his taps stocked too. Anton should be busy if you get this sorted out.

And now my friends, I hand you over to Quests of the Avatar, because everyone needs a bit of help in their way.

As for me? Well, I have some unfinished business in Soltown in regards to a fire-lighting miscreant that would do harm to those poor refugees.

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

Since falling head first through the Lunar Rift and smashing that pumpkin patch, I have been trying to help out the citizens of the realm. While on the island of the Hidden Vale, I managed to help Morton with his Ledger, checked on Myron in the Clink – who refused my help, got that poor chap Winslow in the guard house back on his feet by fetching some healing herbs, brought some peace to Bodan in Braemar and took care of that nasty wolf problem he was talking about and even pointed Kelly of Owl’s Nest in a new direction and perhaps she will leave that rapscallion band of Red Sash Bandits. Being the only maiden in those caves, I fear for her propriety.

With those victories under my belt, I felt it best to bring some comfort to the refugees in Soltown. The guard clued me in to their plight and so far, I have done a bit of all right. Since they left Solace Bridge in such haste, I began my searches within those ruins.

I got Fighting Raymond his blasted hammer back, without much thanks I confess. I had to search all over that burned out wreck of building before finding it. It couldn’t be next to the anvil, oh no, that would have been too easy. It has to be on the opposite side doesn’t it! I managed to find Quincy’s belongings safely tucked away in a chest at the foot of his bed. At least, I assume it was his bed. There was no one to ask about such matters. I found a Suspicious Character lurking about the Soltown cemetery and when questioned on his doings, I was summarily ignored. His rifling over the grave stones gave me pause and since Jeanne was looking for a lost necklace, he seemed like a prime candidate for the misdeed. Geof is now all set up with his Iron Blade, although if he plans to use it to fight evil, he will in fact have to leave the town at some point.

In Soltown itself, I listened to the tavern banter and offered my services to Bentley and brought back a mysterious key from his less than savory domicile in the swamp of the East Perennial Trail. I think that chap is up to a bit of no good to be honest.

One soul beyond saving was Japeth. When I found him out in the back alley getting sick all over the side of the tavern, he told me his sad story of unrequited love. I volunteered to take his poem to his intended, but in the end it was not a success. However, I don’t get the sense Emily is the right lass for him as she has definite airs above her station. She can talk all she wants about her grand vision of the future while she swings that broom.

I even helped Ashton retrieve his long lost recipe book, but after sneaking a peek at the contents, I regret my decision. I think his relations may have changed on him.

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Is there a particular reason we are meeting out here on these rocks away from town? Did I interrupt you in mid fish?
Wait a moment, are you doing naughty things to the water supply?

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Good heavens, Japeth! This will never do my friend. This is not the sweet song of seduction in anyone’s book.

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Oh my dear fellow, you may not have seen any dangerous animals, but they certainly saw you.
Oh well, back to the task at hand. I’m sure there’s an Iron Blade out here somewhere.

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

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