Osmark watched the outlaws march north, their backs bowed under the burden of their ill-gotten booty. The dwindling purple of late twilight painted their shadows in long, black strokes across the waves of emerald grass. The towering Wodes and hulking Risi roared with laughter as their captives—ropes and chains scavenged from the caravan wrapped around their ankles and wrists—struggled to keep up with their captors loping strides. He counted eight prisoners total, a mix of elite guards and velvet robed merchants, including the tattooed woman from his wagon.

Osmark turned his intense gaze away from the bloodthirsty mob ahead of him to the burning caravan at his back, giving it another look. He frowned and shook his head in disgust. They’d decapitated the horses and stacked the heads in a pile in the center of the carnage like a grisly monument to their victory. The monstrous wolves had ripped open the horses’ guts and strewn their innards across the road like kittens playing with bloody balls of gory yarn. The few horses that had broken free from their harnesses had bolted a long time ago.

Only a fool would remain behind, and horses were no fools.

Smoke rose in thick, choking clouds from the burning wagons to join the dark gray clouds gathering in the sky overhead. Bodies marked by horrific wounds lay scattered around the wagons like discarded dolls. In the matter of a few minutes, the attackers had transformed the peaceful caravan into burning piles of kindling and scattered meat.

Osmark put the awful scene from mind and took a moment to review his stolen weapons, which were every bit as shoddy as he’d feared.

Heavy Crossbow

Weapon Type: Missile

Class: Uncommon, Engineered

Base Damage: 15

Base Range: 20 yards

The crossbow was a bulky contraption of rough wood, blacked steel, and coarse rope, which had seen better days. The crossbow wasn’t imbued with any magical abilities— not that he expected a find like that so early in the game—but it carried one unique trait that made it worth its weight in gold to Osmark: It wasn’t just a conventional missile weapon. It was engineered.

That classification would earn Osmark hidden affinity points, boosting his chances of gaining the Master Artificer class later on. Most players had no idea those affinity points even existed. Every time he fired the weapon, he would earn more of those precious affinity points, leveling up the skill little by little. And he’d be an excellent shot with it, thanks to his Engineered Weapon Precision skill.

The crude steel dagger with a yellow bone handle was even less impressive than the crossbow, though it held a certain grisly appeal to Osmark. It’s slightly curved black blade bore no ornamentation. It was a tool built to perform one function to the best of its ability.

Risi Gutting Blade

Weapon Type: Dagger

Class: Common, Light

Base Damage: 5

As a light weapon, the gutting blade used Osmark’s Dexterity bonus to determine his odds of landing a blow in combat. Master Artificers needed decent Dexterity to boost their chances of successfully crafting the intricate items that were their stock in trade. Using the gutting blade would earn him affinity points, which his hoped-for trainer would find irresistible. Assuming everything else went according to plan, of course. The weapons were a good start, but Osmark needed a lot more gear before he was ready for the next part of his plan.

Hopefully, the caravan’s wreckage would provide most of what he needed.

Osmark glanced at the sun, now almost below the horizon. He didn’t have much time to lose if he wanted to do this.

“Horan,” he said to the stern and bloodied figure standing next to him, “we need to gather supplies before heading out.”

The NPC grunted as he continuously surveyed the landscape, but he didn’t object to Osmark’s command. “Lead on,” he said with a nod.

Osmark beelined toward the wagon where he’d fought the Risi. It was at the head of the caravan, and would likely have some of what he needed. First, he scampered up onto the driver’s bench and took the belt from the same dead guard who’d provided his crossbow and cinched it around his waist. After hanging the crossbow from the belt’s hook, Osmark slipped the dagger into a sheath dangling from his hip. The worn leather holster was a bit large for the blade, but it would have to do for the moment.

Osmark would worry about finding a proper set of gear during his visit to Tomestide.

There was enough undamaged gear amongst the dead guards to put together a decent suit of leather armor, but that wasn’t what Osmark needed. Master Artificers were scholars as well as tinkerers, which meant he needed light armor, which was more for show than protection. Still, he was nearly penniless at the moment, and the gear would bring some extra change once he got to town, so he gathered everything he could while continuing his search.

What he really needed was a nice set of robes.

What he eventually found was a scratchy woolen dressing gown made from some material that seemed purposefully designed to scrape Osmark’s skin raw. Despite the gown’s irritating construction, it was perfectly suited for the profession he’d chosen.

Neophyte Scholar’s Robes

Armor Type: Medium; Cloth

Class: Rare

Base Defense: 5

Primary Effects:

+5 to Intelligence

+6 to all Academic factions

“What do you think, Horan?” Osmark asked, cocking one eyebrow as he fastened the scavenged belt around his waist then raised his arms to model his new gear.

“I think it’ll show blood right well,” the mercenary said with a wry grin.

Osmark waved off Horan’s smartass comment and headed for the next wagon in line that wasn’t burning. His keen blue eyes scanned the bloody mire of the road for what he needed. “Grab some rope, Horan. As much as you can find. We’re going to need it for what I have in mind.”

“I’m not that kind of mercenary, you know,” Horan said with a gruff snort that made Osmark laugh.

“Who were those bastards anyway?” Robert asked Horan.

The mercenary paused in his assessment of a pair of fur-lined brass greaves he’d lifted from a dead Wode. “They looked like the Wolf’s Fangs. Got some loose ties to the Òrdugh an Garda Anam—the Order of the Soulbound—which is part of the rebel front. In reality, though?” He paused, hooking his thumbs into his belt. “A bunch of brutal monsters is what they are. The whole lot of ’em. They use the war as an excuse to murder and pillage.” He leaned over and spit into the dirt. “They’ve harassed the Empire’s caravans for months now. Nobody’s been able to stop ’em, and now I see why. They appear like ghosts, slaughter the guards and take the rest prisoner, loot the wagons, and then disappear as if they were never here.”

Osmark didn’t hear anything after Horan mentioned the Empire. If the Wolves were stealing from the Empire’s wagons, they were stealing from him. He couldn’t allow that. He might be a nobody right now, but that would change in a matter of days. “They’re hardly ghosts. I can still see them out there, skulking away like a pack of jackals.”

Horan grunted noncommittally. “Aye, but they’re as good as gone. You’d need a fast mount to catch up to them, now.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Osmark said, heading over to another bit of wreckage. He found what he needed among the splintered timbers jumbled up near the edge of the road. He kicked the pile apart to reveal coils of hemp rope. “Grab these. Three of them,” he said, jabbing a finger at the rope. Before the NPC had even finished hoisting the rope over his shoulder, Osmark had moved on in search of the next items on his list. The sun was almost gone now, slowly replaced by a waning silver moon, and he had an exhausting amount of work and travel left to see through before the day ended.

He found some empty canvas rucksacks scattered around another pile of broken crates and grabbed a pair of them. He tossed one to Horan who slipped it over his shoulders without comment. Osmark held the other one like a sack so he could fill it quickly.

“What is it you’re looking for?” Horan asked, genuine curiosity lacing his words.

Preoccupied with dark thoughts, Osmark shook his head. Once he had a plan in mind, it consumed his thoughts. Checklists and blueprints flashed across his mind’s eye. He’d always been this way, ever since he was a child. He knew it wasn’t an endearing trait, but he didn’t care.

Osmark’s laser-hot focus had made everything around him possible. He wasn’t about to start doubting it now.

One of the overturned wagons was loaded down with an assortment of farm tools, and Osmark stopped there as a dark joy filled him with warmth. “This should do,” he said, more to himself than Horan.

He snatched up a pair of short shovels—the wood cracked, the metal pitted—and handed one to Horan. From the same pile of crude tools, he fished out a pair of hatchets, dropping one into his inventory and tossing another one to Horan.

The NPC raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s all this, then? You planning on building yourself a cozy little cabin out here, maybe?”

Osmark grinned, his eyes burning like embers in the last dying light of the sun. “I’m building something, all right. But it’s not a cabin. Now come on.” He jerked his head toward the next wreck in line, and continued his hurried scavenger hunt. By the time he finished, the pair were loaded down with even more supplies.

“Maybe it’s not my place to mention it, but I notice we didn’t grab have any food,” Horan said with a rueful grin. “No wineskins, either. Might be I’m wrong”—he offered a lopsided shrug—“but I’m afraid we may not get far carrying these heavy tools instead of gear that might help us survive.”

“We don’t need food where we’re going,” Osmark said, distracted by the next step of his plan. Before VGO, he’d never bothered to explain what he was doing or why he was doing it to the help. But, here, he still had to prove himself as a competent leader. He might as well start with his sole follower. “I don’t think it’s far, and I’m sure there’ll be plenty for us to eat once we’re finished with our work.”

Osmark left the wagons and headed north; Horan hurried to keep up with him. They walked in silence until the flames and carnage were far behind them. Osmark didn’t look back but kept his eyes locked on the far horizon ahead of them. The bandits had long since vanished from sight, but Osmark had no trouble following the path of crushed grass and churned earth they left in their wake.

Horan cleared his throat. “What exactly are we doing? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Looking for a place to build,” Osmark said, a cryptic grin quirking the corners of his mouth.

The pair said nothing for another half hour. In that time, they’d closed the distance to the bandits, moving from rolling green plains with a spattering of trees to a lightly forested area. The shadowed bulk of the horde was on the horizon, now, so close it hurt. Loaded down with loot and burdened by hobbled prisoners, the Wodes and Risi were slower than Horan and Osmark by a fair margin.

“Not sure if you noticed,” Horan whispered, “but there are a hell of a lot more of them than there are of us. And while you’re a passable marksman, I don’t think you’ll be able to shoot ’em all before they slice us up to feed their wolves.”

Osmark chuckled at the NPC’s nervous words. “I thought you were a soldier, Horan.”

“That I am,” the older man said with a disgruntled sniff, “but I’m not an army.”

They walked in silence until thick tree cover rose up on the horizon, quickly swallowing the marching bandits from view. Horan put a hand on Osmark’s shoulder. “Them’s the Blackwillow Woods, my friend. If that’s where the thugs are headed, then there’ll be more of ’em in that forest than we’ve seen so far.”

Osmark grinned. “You’re saying they’re all hiding in the woods?”

Horan shrugged, nodded. “Likely so.”

“Looks like a good place for me to build, then,” Osmark replied.

His words were cold and determined, like the ring of a warrior’s sword drawn from its sheath. Their savage attack had set his plans back and had delayed his arrival in Tomestide. More importantly, these thieves had dared to attack him, an Imperial citizen, which couldn’t be allowed. The real world was on the brink of annihilation, and VGO was one of the few refuges left for people to survive, to start over. And with millions of grief-stricken people permanently flooding into the server from all over the world, there would need to be a steady hand at the helm of this ship.

His hand. And that meant the Empire needed to be stronger than ever. This new world needed unity—so an example would need to be made here. Open rebellion couldn’t stand. Couldn’t.

“And what is it you’ll be building?” Horan asked, an apprehensive edge creeping into his words

“A tomb,” Osmark replied flatly.

***

The full, edited version of the Artificer is now available on Amazon at: https://www.royalroad.com/amazon/B075R4RDLX

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