You didn’t imagine it — there was no chapter 30. That’s because I added a new chapter between chapter 23 and 24, which will change the numbering on chapters 25 through 29.
You can read all installments published so far on this page.
Chapter 31: The griefer stops by the King’s Arms
The griefer, wearing a new buxom wench avatar, walked into the King’s Arms on a mission. He needed to find someone to kill.
The newspaper editor was too well protected. And it didn’t look like the newspaper had anything on him, anyway. The reporter had been dealt with in time.
The actress, that Amara Vivienne Chen-Ashworth, was a bust.
He needed to find someone well-known. Respected. Beloved, even.
The King’s Arms was the most popular tavern on Krim. Not to be confused with the King’s Armpit, the most foul-smelling tavern on Krim.
The King’s Arms was the one that overlooked the plaza and the central gate, the one that all the tourists came to first because it was literally right there.
The griefer cozied up to the bar, awkwardly adjusted his avatar’s bosom, and smiled up at the bartender. “Who’s the most famous person in this world?” he asked in the avatar’s sultry voice.
“Why, that woulds’t be the Baron de Mowbray, the most fearsome warrior in the land.”
“And with the biggest army, to boot,” added a serving wench. Then she winked at the griefer, as one wench to another.
“Maybe someone not quite so fearsome?” he asked the bartender. “Someone, say, if they walked in here, you’d give them a free drink?”
“The only soul I can bring to mind of that sort would be Marshall Henderson Trask,” said the bartender.
“Aye, he doth receive ale and victuals without coin wherever his path may lead!” the serving wench chimed in.
“Who is he?” the griefer said, pretending not to know. “Another warrior?”
“Nay, he is the chief of security for the chamber of commerce,” said the bartender. “But he is no warrior born. In truth, he beareth no blade nor weapon whatsoever.”
“But I have heard tell that this very day, not an hour ago, he did leave this city and venture forth to face down the Baron himself!” The serving wench giggled. “He doth keepst us all safe in our beds.”
This was new. The griefer had thought Trask was a harmless buffoon. But maybe he had secret depths that he didn’t know about.
Trask was also a very big man in a very distinctive costume. That should make him easier to aim at. He did miss him twice yesterday, the griefer recalled. But he hadn’t gotten used to shooting at a moving target yet. Still, next time, maybe he should get closer first.
“Why, only yestereve, the good man did charge into a blazing edifice nigh unto unclothed,” one drinker added.
The serving wench giggled again. The griefer smiled back, and wondered how long it would take Trask to get back to the city.
“The fire was already out when Trask went in,” muttered a drinker sitting further down at the bar. A local, judging by his clothes and sour expression. “But yeah, sure, he’s a big hero.”
“I saw in the paper that Trask caught the griefer,” said a tourist sitting at the bar two seats over, in a normal voice.
“There’s a paper?” asked another tourist.
He should have kept the newspaper, the griefer thought. Now he’ll have to find another copy so he could clip the article. Once this was over, he would frame it.
But he was a little miffed that the newspaper thought that Trask had caught him. He should write a letter to the editor and straighten them out. Once it was all over, of course.
How could people even think that Trask could catch anyone? That over-dressed buffoon? The griefer forced himself to smile.
“And upon this dawn, good sir Trask did cease the fell beheadings,” said the serving wench.
“I saw that more than fifty people were killed,” said the tourist who’d read the paper.
“Nay, the final tally was more akin to seven score and ten,” the bartender said.
“How much is that?” a tourist whispered.
“A hundred fifty souls, methinks,” said the serving wench.
The bartender nodded.
A hundred and fifty deaths! The griefer knew that he had killed less than a handful of people. Maybe two at most. The rest of the victims had just been wounded. The other deaths, those were the good people of Krim just killing each other off. He was just the spark that lit the flame.
At this point, he didn’t even care anymore what the investors planned to do with the grid. The people of Krim deserved whatever they got.
“So, what is it like to be beheaded?” the tourist asked.
The bartender shook his head. “‘Tis a dreadful thing,” he said. “Thy wits remain about thee for some few moments yet. They say thou art still aware, and those moments stretch like unto eternity.”
“Oh, my God, that’s awful!”
“I heard there’s a chance that if you die on Krim, you die for real,” asked the other tourist. “Is that possible?”
“Aye. ‘Tis most certainly possible. If thou art but a day-tripper, the shock to thy mortal form might be grievous enough that thy true heart doth cease its beating. And if the healing folk cannot reach thee in due time…”
This was a myth, the assassin thought. Nobody actually died from a death in-world. If that was a real risk, the insurance premiums would go through the roof and half the grids out there would go out of business. But he wasn’t about to disagree. “I’ve also heard that,” he spoke up. “I’m surprised anyone comes to Krim at all.”
“Maybe if you’re… you know, permanently online… then it isn’t as much of a risk,” the first tourist suggested.
“Nay,” said the bartender. “That doth prove even more perilous. Most especially if thou art newly… transcended. Newly departed from flesh. Newly passed beyond, as it were. Thou art not yet fully bound to this realm.”
That was probably not true, either, thought the assassin. But one could hope. If he killed Trask, and the man died for real…
The tourist shivered dramatically.
“But thou shouldst be well enough,” said the bartender. “Only shun the wicked precincts.”
“What wicked precincts?” asked the tourist.
“Marry, I would most certainly shun Lawless Alley, or the Liberties, or any realm beyond these city walls. ‘Tis naught but knaves, cutthroats, death cults, and fell wars. Great strife aboundeth in such territories.”
“Death cults?”
“And cults of carnal wickedness as well,” said the bartender. “Death cults and cults of the flesh, they are thus entwined.” He raised a hand, his fingers crossed. “Thou dost not wish to be seized by either. There is but a small difference in the measure of lustful cruelty when it cometh to the torment.”
“That sounds absolutely awful,” said the tourist. “How is a place like this allowed to even exist?”
“There should be a law,” said the first tourist.
“Maybe people should stop coming to Krim at all.” The griefer stepped back from the bar. “I myself, having heard all of this, am heading straight back to the gate and leaving.”
“Me too,” said the tourist. “It’s too much.”
“Same here,” the other tourist told the bartender. “But just to be on the safe side, you know, just in case, do you happen to have a map of the bad areas to avoid?”
“I have only one map in mine keeping, but ’tis thine for one silver piece,” the bartender said.
“I’ll take one.”
“I want one, too,” said the first tourist. “Just in case.”
“Mayhap I have another in mine keeping.”
The griefer walked to the exit. He needed to get back to the gate and show his face at work, but he’d return that night. He paused at the door and turned around. He might have a silver piece left.