Grand Game 109: A Deadly Harvest (Patreon)

Day Three. Afternoon.

An hour later, stifling incessant yawns, I set off west through the valley. I hadn’t dared to sleep any longer and had forced myself awake despite my body’s protest. It took only a few hours to reach the glade where I had fought the hatchling, and once again, I’d spent the journey training my skills.

Your insight has increased to level 56. Your deception has increased to level 38.

Arriving at the site of my defeat, I studied trampled ground. It was hard to believe that my battle with the hatchling had occurred only two days ago. In that short span of time, I had grown significantly, and if the encounter had to be reenacted, I was sure I would fare better a second time around against the wyvern.

I snorted in amusement. That was my injured pride talking. Leaving off further daydreaming, I searched out the creature’s tracks. The beast’s footprints were easy enough to find. It had fled further west. Following the trail of broken branches, scratched bark, and heavy footprints, I came upon the creature’s corpse suddenly.

In death, the hatchling looked much smaller. The creature lay heaped against the trunk of a large oak tree where I guessed it had made its final stand against the dire wolves.

Strangely enough, the carcass was untouched.

Not stopping to question my good fortune, I hurried to the dead beast’s side while taking pains to avoid any spots off burnt-out vegetation. I suspected that even in death, the wyvern’s venom was still potent.

Crouching down, I placed the alchemy stone on the body and waited. A few seconds later, the stone began to pulse green, and I leaned forward, almost dancing in anticipation of the ingredients it would harvest.

This time, the haul should be—

Crrr…ack!

My head whipped upwards at the sound of breaking boughs and rustling leaves. Danger! my mind screamed. Letting instinct guide me, I leaped backward, abandoning both stone and corpse to flee into the safety of the closest shadows.

A hostile entity has failed to detect you! You are hidden.

Concealed in the shadows, I froze. Something was coming. Something… big.

A moment later, a heavy shape thudded onto the ground, sending fine tremors rippling outwards.

A hostile entity has failed to detect you! Your sneaking has increased to level 49.

Heart in mouth, I gaped at the behemoth before me. It was the wyvern mother.  Over three times larger than her dead hatchling, she was a menacing looking specimen.

And angry. Oh so angry.

Fury sparked in her eyes, and her forked tongue flickered in and out as she scanned the surroundings. The big wyvern did not so much as glance at her dead offspring. She had known the body was there, I realized and must have been lying in wait.

No wonder the hatchlings corpse was untouched.

I swallowed painfully, torn between cursing myself for a fool for coming here, and counting my thanks for escaping the beast.

I’m not out of danger yet, though.

Stretching out her long neck, the serpentine creature sniffed at the air.

Uh-oh. Can she smell me?

Tucking in her wings, the beast took a single step forward—in my direction. Instinct screamed at me again, urging me to flee, to run.

This time I ignored it.

Running would only spell my doom. I was under no illusions: the wyvern mother was not a foe I had any chance of surviving. I kept still, not moving, and not even considering using any of my abilities.

The beast took another step. Again, in my direction.

I gulped and stopped breathing. Less than a dozen feet separated us now.

“I c-can s-s-smell you, human,” came a sibilant hiss.

My eyes widened. Bloody hell! She can talk?

“Jus-s-t like I s-smelt your s-s-scent on my hatchling,” she continued. “It was you-u who killed her. You and thos-s-se wretched dogs.”

My fear ratcheted upwards. The wyvern was  altogether more intelligent than I’d anticipated. Which made her equally more dangerous. Realizing if I did nothing, I was as good as dead, I called upon my psi.

The wyvern mother took another step forward, head snaking back and forth. The gesture reassured me somewhat. She hadn’t sniffed me out entirely yet. But it was only a matter of time before she found me.

Unless I distracted her.

The spell I was readying completed and without hesitation, I cast.

Nine yards north of my position, a voice—my voice—cried out tauntingly, “I killed your spawn, beast and I won’t have any trouble doing the same to you. Best you flee!”

The wyvern mother spun about, and in the blink of an eye she was gone, tearing through the trees in the direction from which my voice had emerged.

I wasted no time in acting myself.

The moment the beast was out of sight, I dashed forward and grabbed the alchemy stone from the pile of desiccated skin.

You have retrieved an alchemy stone. New ingredients acquired: 5 x vials of beast blood, 5 x heaps of ordinary bonedust, 3 x sacs of wyvern venom, 1 x set of wyvern fangs, and 18 x wyvern scales.

With stone in hand, I fled for dear life.

It would not take the wyvern long to figure out she’d been tricked, and by that time, I needed to be long gone.

~~~

After fleeing from the wyvern mother, I hurried north, not slowing to train my skills. My reasons were twofold. One, I did not wish to risk another encounter with the beast, and two, I hoped to reach the Red Rats’ encampment with the night still young.

While I traveled along my treetop highway, I reflected on the encounter with the wyvern mother. The creature had to be beastkin. It was my beast tongue trait that allowed me to understand her. In hindsight I realized the creature had not just been lying in wait for any careless interloper.

She had been waiting there for me specifically.

It implied a frightening level of forethought and planning. If the wyvern was anywhere near as smart as the dire wolves, then none of the vague plans I had conceived to take her down would work.

Still, killing the wyvern mother was not my priority. Escaping the valley was. Banishing the creature from my thoughts—but unable to stop my gaze from turning upwards to worriedly search the sky—I continued north.

Just after nightfall, I reached the northern rim of the valley. According to the information Captain Talon had provided, the Red Rats were located slightly west of the dungeon’s exit portal. Traveling counterclockwise along the foot of the mountain, I slipped quietly between the trees in search of the goblins.

An hour later, I found the Red Rats.

The goblin delegation was in a crater-like hollow. Its sides were boulder-strewn, gently sloping, and free of the forest’s clutches. The treeline ended sharply at the hollow’s edge, making the rim of the crater quite distinctive.

At the base of the hollow, spread out messily across its entire breadth, were the goblins. From my treetop lookout point, I could see the full camp. In stark contrast to the valley’s other two tribes, the Red Rats’ camp contained no fortifications.

None.

Staring down at the sea of campfires, I shook my head in amazement. It almost seemed as if the Red Rats deliberately scorned any defenses. It was a statement, I realized.

A statement of power.

And given the size of the encampment, one that was seemingly well-warranted. The Red Rats easily outnumbered the Howlers. On first impressions, there seemed to be nearly two thousand goblins in the hollow.

This is a tribe that relies on numbers alone, I concluded.

There were no guard patrols nor any walls ringing the camp. The tribe also lacked the rigid discipline displayed by their counterparts in the south. Goblins idly roamed the camp, in ones and twos, and in larger groups, laughing, weaving drunkenly, and generally without purpose.

The Red Rats are aptly named.

Like their rodent namesakes, they were populous and chaotic. Sneaking into the camp would be easy. Although given the number of freely wandering goblins, I doubted I would remain undetected for long. I wasn’t certain what I intended on doing in the camp, but at the very least, I needed to investigate the anomaly I’d spotted.

In the center of the camp, in an area conspicuously empty of tents, was a clump of wrought-iron cages.

The cages, raised up high, dangled on the end of stout wooden poles and were kept that way by the thick iron chains securely fastened to the ground. Ten scruffy-looking and half-starved individuals were inside the enclosures.

The captain’s lost squad.

One after the other, I analyzed the distant captives. All ten were players of similar rank to Cecilia’s squad.

The Tartans’ plight intrigued me. They were clearly prisoners of the Red Rats, but why the goblins would bother imprisoning players was a mystery. Let’s find out, shall we, I thought, dropping down from my treetop hideaway and slipping into the shadows. It was dark enough now that doing so was trivial.

Multiple hostile entities have failed to detect you! You are hidden.

None of the dozen or more goblins within sight range came close to spotting me. Leaving the concealment of the forest’s vegetation, I edged closer to the camp, my gaze fixed on the closest Red Rats.

None showed the slightest interest in watching the surrounding foliage. Their attention was all focused inwards, on their companions and their own revelry.

Timing my movements carefully, I ducked out of the forest and slunk into the camp.

Multiple hostile entities have failed to detect you!

I did not stop moving until I reached my target destination: a goblin tent that after careful observation I believed to be empty. Placing my arms behind my back, I wrapped my hands around the hilts of my blades and rushed into the tent.

It was unoccupied.

Relaxing my grip on my blades, I studied the interior. The tent was filthy. Bits of food were strewn about, and the owner’s rumpled beddings had been left unattended. I grunted in disdain. There didn’t appear to be anything useful in the mess, and I wasn’t about to dig around in it.

Time to move on.

Closing my eyes, I opened my mindsight and probed the surroundings. Six goblins had wandered near and loitered close by. Creeping back to the tent flap, I waited patiently for them to leave.

Five minutes later, they ambled away, and I slipped out of my refuge and into another nearby tent that mindsight also confirmed to be unoccupied.

I nearly gagged at the stench that wafted out.

Like the first tent, the second’s state, left much to be desired. Holding my nose, I rechecked my surroundings. Too many goblins were about. Fighting my impatience, I waited until the coast was clear before dashing out of the tent.

And into another.

For the next thirty minutes, I continued in this manner, leapfrogging from tent to tent and always edging closer towards my goal.

Inevitably, the more deeply I penetrated the camp, the more risks I was forced to take. But both my sneaking skill and abundance of caution served me well, and despite the numerous goblins crawling about, I went unnoticed.

Multiple hostile entities have failed to detect you!

Your sneaking has increased to level 50. Congratulations, Michael, your skill in sneaking has reached rank 5, allowing you to learn tier 2 abilities.

Finally, I found what I was searching for: a tent with a single occupant. The goblin was asleep. From his loud snores and the strong odor of drink permeating the tent, he was likely drunk too.

Slinking closer to my target, I crouched down and inspected him closely.

The target is a level 39 veteran goblin warrior.

The warrior was nearly my own height and dressed in steel armor. A long sword was sheathed at his hip. Disappointingly, he had no helm—that would have made disguising myself easier.

Still, he’ll do.

Drawing spider’s bite slowly, I positioned it beneath the sleeping goblin’s chin. I was poised and ready.

In a spurt of motion, I acted.

Clamping my left hand down on the warrior’s mouth, I drove the tip of my blade under his chin and through the roof of his palate.

You have killed a goblin warrior.

He died instantly, eyelids not even flickering.

I turned the body on its side, taking care not to bloody the goblin’s gear. Working swiftly, I stripped the corpse of its armor and weapons. When I was done, I studied the pile of equipment I’d assembled.

This is a rank 2 banded mail armor. This item requires a minimum Constitution of 8 to equip.

This is a rank 2 longsword. This item requires a minimum Strength of 8 to equip.

The longsword was of no use to me, but the armor would serve my purpose nicely. Unequipping my own leather armor, I dressed myself in the goblin’s smellier and heavier gear.

You have equipped a set of rank 2 goblin banded mail armor. This item set reduces the physical damage you sustain by: 30% and penalizes your Magic and Dexterity by: 60%.

Warning: you do not have the necessary skill, medium armor, to use this item. Armor benefits not received. Penalties in effect. Current modifiers: -12 ranks in Dexterity. Dexterity skills and abilities limited to rank 8.

I grimaced at the Game’s message. The armor was heavy and cumbersome, and fighting in it would be difficult at best. Still, it was not my intent to fight, at least not yet.

I packed my own armor and thief’s cloak in my backpack. Neither would serve my disguise. Spider’s bite, too, went into my pack. The sword was too distinctive, and I would not risk a passing goblin’s attention being captured by the sword’s jeweled hilt and wondering how a lowly goblin warrior had obtained such a weapon.

My other short sword had a plain leather hilt and I fastened it on my hip. To complete the look, I cast facial disguise, using the dead goblin’s face as a template.

I was nearly ready.

Searching the tent, I found a discarded sack and shoved my backpack into it. While it would look odd for a warrior to be carrying a sack, it would have been even stranger for me to have been seen sporting a backpack and I was not about to leave my gear behind. Lastly, I bent down and picked up one of the empty beer jugs lying about.

Now, my costume was complete.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped boldly out of the tent.

You have passed a Perception resistance check! Three hostile entities have failed to pierce your disguise. Your deception has increased to level 39.

The tension eased out of me, as my disguise held up to scrutiny. With my frame slouched, the sack across my left shoulder, and the beer jug in my right hand, I headed deeper into the Red Rat camp.

It was time to visit the prisoners.