In the Shadow of Mountains - a litRPG adventure

I've always believed that there are no consequences in this life.

Tragedies happen ceaselessly, day by day, and the uncaring heavens watch it all. I have committed enough atrocities myself to understand that karma seldom rears her beautiful head, and even when she does, I have found her much more accommodating to me than to my enemies…but then sometimes, every once in a while, something happens that just seems right.

The heavens themselves seem to shift, and as if a cosmic warden descends to earth, one of us will face justice for our many crimes. Occasionally, every now and then, I find myself half convinced that if I just wait long enough, I will live to see the consequences of my actions.

What a glorious day that will be.

Extract from ‘Musings and muse – a journal of my final years’, written by Warlord Galacia in the 2nd age.

*Vera*

As she strode through the bustling city streets, she couldn’t help but marvel at the architecture. The majority of the homes and businesses were chiselled from stone, with wooden scaffolding weaving up the front of stores as if grown, supporting awnings and shelves laden with goods.

Most buildings, beneath their wooden skeletons, showed a chipped finish from where the stone flakes were chiselled away to create the squat, curving structures. Older buildings were almost entirely smooth, weather-beaten into a near-sheen with their glossy red and brown finishes reflecting the light. She traced the recent development of the city through these patterns of weathering, noticing the flurry of new construction that had taken place within the last few decades centred around the higher districts.

As she followed Jorge through twisting streets and the occasional long tunnel, she began to see far fewer new structures, and both the fresh patterned façade of new money and the smooth majesty of old money gave way to unkempt and dreary homes.

There was a drastic reduction in the number of sun-lamps too – ingenious contraptions of twisted wood and shining mirrors, that turned throughout the day to catch the sunlight and redirect it to areas that lacked natural light. When coupled with the natural decrease in sunlight due to a descent through the canyon, the gloom of the lower levels was compounded.

Smooth walls no longer denoted wealth, but neglect. Red no longer stained the city streets in vibrant displays, instead the browns got darker, marked by lichen, moss and damp. Even the stores and businesses catering to the populace showed the change, with trees no longer snaking their way up storefronts in elegant patterns. Actual scaffolding was the norm after the second level, with cut planks contrasting against the grown branches of the upper layers.

Jorge looked back at her, catching her curious gaze and grunting sadly. “Not enough sunlight down here for the Erasehal to grow without support, and the people who live and work this low can’t afford to muster the lifeblood to support them. Outside of communal gardens, you won’t find many of the living trees down here.”

“Shame” She muttered. And then, unable to keep her cynicism in its cage, she added; “always the way though. Every city needs its underbelly.”

He gave her a long look before nodding, “Aye, it is a shame.”

She turned away, thankful he had chosen to ignore her outburst, but desperate to avoid opening up that old argument again here and now. She searched around for something to fill the lull and distract him before it could stew for too much longer. “You said something about a former councillor, so why are we heading so low?”

He turned around and frowned at her, as if to say ‘I know what you’re doing’, but answered her anyway. She rolled her eyes internally – not like she was that subtle anyway. Not then, and certainly not now.

“My contact isn’t actually the councillor, she’s an information broker. Well, she don’t call herself that but ‘communications specialist providing high quality market research to interested parties’ is one hell of a mouthful, and I’ve never much liked the taste of bullshit. Anyhow, she has the location of the Lions’ safehouse and is willing to trade it for a favour.”

He gave her a meaningful glance over his shoulder as he skirted around a fruit vendor that had plonked himself down seemingly at random in the middle of the plaza they strode through. “That’s where you come in.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, trying her best not to grin as she spotted a young child knock over a bowl of apples and scrabble to catch them, only upending the entire table and flinging the little fruit projectiles into the air straight towards the back of his head. Something must have shown on her face though, or else his ever-impressive awareness was truly dialled in, as he swerved at the last moment, avoiding each of the half dozen danger-apples that flew his way. He continued speaking as if nothing had occurred.

“She herself owes a favour to a certain retired member of the High Council. An eccentric lad by all accounts, he lives deep in the third layer and has a great interest in pottery.” He spread his hands wide in a gesture of surprise, “and don’t ya know it? I happen to know an excellent potter who owes me a few favours as well. Funny how that works, aye?”

She ignored the crinkling at the edge of his eyes and tried not to quash the feeling of nervousness and pride warring inside her at the thought. “You sure-”

He cut her off before she could even finish her though. “Aye aye, shut it. You know you’re great at it by now, cut the false humility. He will die to see some of your collection, and I wouldn’t be shocked if he tries to buy a few of your newer pieces too. I told you honestly Lass, you’ve grown into an impressive artist by this point.”

It was a testament to her growth over the last decade that she simply smiled at him and continued speaking. When she’d first met him, she would have ignored it entirely, such was the morose state she inhabited at the time.

Within the first year she’d managed to reclaim some small zest for life, but still struggled with sincerity – she likely would have taken a half-hearted jab at him to shut down the conversation. More recently, she would have at least blushed a bit at the genuine praise from someone about a skill unrelated to fighting. She knew she was a fighter, and wouldn’t harbour any false modesty about that – she’d put money on herself against any similarly aged and levelled opponent without hesitation – but her pottery was something deeply sentimental, and therefore something precious.

It was a link directly to her battle with her past, hope for the future, and a reconstruction of her trauma. To show that to somebody was a supreme act of vulnerability, and for her to acknowledge a sincere compliment about her artwork without turning away was a true testament to her progress.

She didn’t miss the small nod of approval from Jorge, and that was a step too far. She feinted a jab at him, and he flinched, looking momentarily startled before laughing at her smug expression. They continued bantering back and forth as they moved through the stone city with the easy camaraderie of those who had remained close friends for just over a decade.

The third layer of the city was a jumbled mess – old estates fallen to ruin, twisting passages cut into the rock disappearing from sight, rickety rope and wood bridges criss-crossing the canyon and the dim gloom of afternoon shade all combined to create a dingy environment.

Vera felt then like a cart pulled in opposite directions by equally motivated oxen. On the one hand there was the sense of mystery and adventure that unexplored places still prompted in her, the childlike wonder that the world had tried so hard to destroy but not quite managed to. On the other, there was her hard-bitten cynicism and ample experience with some of the worst of humanity, which shouted at the small excited child within her that she was an idiot, and those unexplored passageways just as likely led to a Tazine den and an early grave.

It was with some relief then that they arrived at a fairly nondescript heavy metal gate in a large chiselled entrance way. The carvings were worn and difficult to make out, and still held an air of majesty in their level of detail and sheer scale. Other than that, it looked like any other part of this deep city, if more well-maintained. She had been worried about overly ostentatious displays of wealth and difficult etiquette that often came as part and parcel of meeting nobles, but this simple entrance served to allay her fears. Afterall – it was unlikely that anyone of power or consequence would choose to live this deep within the canyon, surrounded by the lower classes and dregs of society that populated the area.

Jorge strode up confidently and wrapped his knuckles against the heavy metal gate sharply. It was hard enough to produce a clanging that reverberated around the stone passageway, but he acted as if he’d simply tapped it – a perk of high attributes, as she well knew. The knowledge that your own body was more solid than the world around you was a strange understanding to come to after all, and most took years to truly make peace with it.

It felt like mere moments had passed before a shadow marched around the corner of the twisting passage before them and resolved into the shape of a well-dressed man. He was of average height and looked unremarkable in almost every way, save for a small hat sitting atop his head at a jaunty angle. It looked out of place against his professional garb, but she was willing to overlook a few eccentricities from a reclusive noble – ‘councillor’, she mentally corrected herself.

She personally doubted that much changed except the names, but Jorge had insisted that not everywhere was run like the Sunset Kingdoms she grew up in, and she had to admit that the people in most of the lands she had travelled through did seem markedly better off. Still, she also saw the signs of neglect and oppression, and doubted the city of Colchet was much different. There would have been no need for the Breeze-Born Rebellion if everything was sunshine and roses, after all.

She shook the thoughts from her mind and greeted the man politely, allowing herself to be ushered through the gate, which had slipped into the floor on some sort of smooth rolling mechanism, before it closed behind her and Jorge as they headed inside. The passage turned out to be a short twist followed by a dozen or so steps, during which the man introduced himself as the ‘Assistant Gardener and Gate-Warden of the House’ – another strange title to be sure, but Colchet did seem to be one for weird professions.

He left them to wait in a small room filled with tea and a few assorted baked treats, as he went to ‘inform the Master of the House’ of their arrival. She pointedly ignored his stupid little hat as he marched off and took a deep breath to rid herself of the frustration bubbling up inside her.

Jorge caught her eye and smiled. “He seems alright?”

More of a question than a statement, she knew he was asking for her impression of the place so far. She had to agree that nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and it actually seemed fairly understated for the home of a fancy bigwig.

“Except for that stupid hat.” She replied, biting a piece of one of the honey-soaked crumbly pastries. She raised an eyebrow after she swallowed, begrudgingly adding on “good food though.”

He chuckled and grabbed one for himself. “So you’ll be alright, you reckon?” He asked around a mouthful of flakes.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine…as long as I don’t have to deal with too much noble nonsense it shouldn’t be an issue.”

Right on cue, the first man strode up to them out of the passage he’d disappeared into, beckoning them over before turning away and striding off the way he had come. They quickly wolfed down the remainder of their pastries and followed, Vera snorting as she saw Jorge dusting off a number of flakes from his shirt.

They emerged out through the passageway into a large cave-mouth, a beautiful garden to their right set against the canyon wall. Vibrant blue, orange and green mosses clung to the layered stone, and dew gleamed in the sunlight streaming in from the open canyon, artfully assisted by what must be a fiendishly complex array of sun-lamps scattered through the canyon above. Beautifully verdant vines swung between many-limbed trees that gripped the rock, and flowers of all colours and varieties hung between them.

Such was the sight that she took a few moments to simply stare in wonder, spinning to take it all in, before turning again to follow the Gate-Warden. The ‘Gardener’ title certainly held more esteem in her mind now after seeing the garden he tended to.

Her brief moment of calm contemplation was shattered utterly by the man before her though. Jorge nearly bumped into her back as she stopped abruptly when she noticed the bench to her right. Or rather, the figure on the bench.

Bedecked in a comically oversized fur coat, he looked more like a tiny bear than a man. The enthusiasm with which he sprung to his feet at their approach was more akin to a puppy, however.

“My friends! So glad am I to see you here! Welcome welcome, please take your rest on this fine seat, allow me to introduce you to my home.”

Sleeves several times too large waved through the air as he gestured, and his green hair danced wildly with his motion, dangling sporadically from beneath a hat with the widest-brim she had ever seen. Colourful feathers adorned the monstrosity, and Vera was almost blinded by flashing gemstones set into many the bracelets and rings exposed by the flopping sleeves of his coat.

It only got worse as she looked him up and down, as from his boots to his belt, to the strange layered silks he wore around his waist, the man seemed a perfect example of ‘overly ostentatious’.

“Ah, I see you’ve already met my good friend Alisdair – such a jewel he is! I could not help but snatch him away from the Contessa when I visited her garden several years past.” He leaned in conspiratorially as he continued in a stage-whisper, “She was a bitch, do not worry. Oh! You’re going to love it here! Come, let me show you my favourite piece.”

The man turned smartly on his heel and shuffled off into the undergrowth behind the bench. She turned to see Jorge looking at her wide-eyed, half-way between amused and concerned, and also caught a glimpse of a somewhat pained-looking Alisdair the Gate-Warden looking on at both of them almost apologetically.

She’d known her patience was to be tested this day, she’d known it with every fibre of her body. She hated nobles with a passion and had a long personal history of circumstance to back that hatred up. She also knew that nobles, of all stripes, seemed to be unable to not flaunt their status at every opportunity.

But despite knowing this, she had foolishly considered herself ready anyway. She had spent nearly half a decade of her life training specifically to control the twisting beast of rage and anger that lurked within her, ever ready to spring outwards at a moment’s notice.

She had then spent an equal amount of time re-working her class to be more than the simple reactive conduit for that same rage. She had renounced her 3rd-tier class, studied cultures across the continent and re-created new skills from half-destroyed texts.

From the ashes of her old berserking class, she had built a new one. One that was under her control, a class that channelled that anger into something productive and malleable in her hands rather than the uncontrollable beast it had been before. It had been more than a year since she had truly lost her temper and she knew her control of herself was iron-wrought at this point.

And yet.

And yet this pompous little prick had her hands clenching from simply meeting him. How could she possibly survive an entire day without ripping his head – enormous hat included – from his tiny body, like pulling a grape from the vine?

Jorge’s rough voice pulled her from her grisly contemplation. “Well it looks like you’ve got everything in hand here Vera…I’ll just be headin-“

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

The older man looked back at her wide-eyed, but she knew the shock at her harsh words was feigned. The little bastard was more than amused, she just knew it.

“If I have to suffer through this today, then so do you. Now get your short ass over there to follow little Mr Pompous or I swear by the great tree itself I will gut you with your own blade right here and now!”

Her threat was somewhat undercut by the polite clearing of a voice from behind both of them, and she was soon met with the dulcet tones of a very posh Gardener. “Now see here young lady, I don’t think language like that is at all appropriate in this household.”

She turned her glare on the well-dressed man, who abruptly blanched at her expression. “Well…that is to say…if you could modulate your diction somewhat, I would be most…ah…eeep!” His courage ran out, and he scuttled away, tiny hat bumbling awkwardly as he retreated from the cave-garden.

Jorge laughed and clapped her on the shoulder as he slipped past. “Come on, let’s get this over with then, lass. I’ll bet ya a pint that the little lad shows us an entire closet just for scarves before the day is done.”