“Pontificus, I’d wager?” Dakkon asked.
“Yes. And you’re here to buy salves,” the comically dressed old man barked.
“Salves? Well, no, I—”
“Salves, salves, salves. That’s all anyone ever wants from me. I’m an alchemist, dagflabbit! I toil to advance the alchemical arts! Be a man and buy a potion, why don’t you,” Pontificus challenged.
A player passing by, out of the old man’s field of view, locked eyes with Dakkon and shook his head meaningfully.
“Ah. I’m…” Dakkon refocused on Pontificus and the objective at hand, “I’m here to inquire about the lab assistant work.”
“Oh?” Pontificus’s demeanor transformed within a single syllable. “Good, Good! That’s splendid. Two in one day! Well, if you’re not some lollygagger, then let's get started!”
The robed old man twisted his form as he fiddled with the sash on his waist and pulled out a palmable, round, glass-stoppered bottle swirling purple with the mysteries of alchemy. “Drink this,” he demanded, “and I’ll give you five copper.”
Dakkon, remembering that pain and suffering were as real in this game as debuffs and stat penalties were in all games, looked doubtful. Gripped by sensibility, he made no motion for the potion.
“Don’t just stand there. Take it and quaff it down, already!” Pontificus held out the bottle expectantly.
Just then, from behind the old man, Dakkon’s undivided attention was captured by the form of a player dragging himself slowly out of the side-building which Pontificus had arrived from.
“Huuu… Huuelp Mee… ehhhhehhhhk.” The body oozed out words just as it oozed out yellow, foul-smelling—whatever it was.
“Oh, back inside! The potion has to run its course if we’re to learn anything of value.” Pontificus stepped towards the pudding-like man and encouraged him back inside with his foot. Then, after getting some yellow gunk on his shoes, decided instead to use the agape wooden door to leverage the player back inside.
And with that, Dakkon decided he wasn’t cut out for the life of an alchemist.
\\\\\\
After making the long trek back to the bulletin board again, Dakkon decided he’d pick up a job only if it appeared safe—and, only after playing devil’s advocate—twice.
Postings on the board read:
[Parcel delivery]
“Contraband that will put me in jail.”
\\\
[Feed our pet]
“That’s a man-eating cat.”
\\\
[Rear my babe]
“I don’t even know where to start with that one.”
\\\
[Escort me while I buy groceries]
[I’m a frail old man and the neighborhood isn’t what it used to be.]
[I can’t offer much, but I’d be grateful if you’d help me carry my bags.]
[I live right around the corner on Bridge Street, in the house with the ceramic piggy.]
“…” Dakkon stared at the post near the bottom of the board, at a height where a frail old man could have indeed left it. “…” He had become jaded from his experiences over the day, but he couldn’t give in just yet. “Well, I can scope it out, and if anything seems suspicious I can just bail,” he reasoned.
Dakkon walked around the corner and found the little hovel featuring a porcine statue. He walked up to the door, rapped on it three times with the back of his knuckle, and stepped back a couple of paces. After about a minute, the door opened quite slowly, and an ancient, harmless-looking, little old man, no higher than four feet tall, stood before him.
“Hello? Can I help you?” The old man asked.
Reassured at last, Dakkon offered his assistance, “I’m here to help. I saw the message you left on the bulletin board, and I’m here to pick you up for some grocery shopping. What do you say, would you like to head to the market?”
The old man looked up at Dakkon and replied, “That’s swell. What a good boy you are to help an old man out. Let me just grab my bags and wallet.” The elder then slowly turned back inside the house and disappeared for a solid five minutes. When he emerged again, he asked, “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes. Oh yes. Yes, indeed.” Dakkon was bored of the task already, but had a soft spot in his heart for the elderly which, for reasons unknown to him, didn’t waver from the knowledge that the old man before him was a simulation instead of an actual person. The old man slowly waddled out next to Dakkon and the two walked side by side, at a snail’s pace, in the general direction of the marketplace.
After an eternity of walking, and not having yet arrived at their destination, the old man began to lead Dakkon down an alleyway, suggesting it was a short cut to save time. Dakkon was all for it. After a few steps into the remarkably well tucked away alley, however, four bandits appeared, blocking any avenue of escape for the two of them—or just for Dakkon, rather, as the old man continued walking past the barricade with a silent nod to the biggest of the four ambushers.
“Give us yer money, boy!” The largest one spat after the old man had passed him by. “Don’t make this harder on yourself than it needs to be.”
Something in Dakkon snapped. “What the hell is wrong with this place!” he yelled.
The four brutes were surprised by the outburst. “Come on, your purse,” the smallest one demanded, in a higher pitched voice.
“What purse?” Dakkon shook his head. “All I’ve done since coming here is try to make some damned money, and what do I have to show for it?” He shot a fiery glance to the two mid-sized thugs, who had been silent. “Nothing! I haven’t got a single copper to my name! Not. One.”
The four thugs looked at each other, unsure about the unusual emotional state of their mark.
Dakkon continued venomously, “It’s not for lack of trying, either! No. It’s not. And before you ask, no, I don’t have anything else of value unless you want these beggar threads off my back.”
The largest thug, put his hands on his hips in a manner Dakkon would later suspect must be fairly uncharacteristic during an ambush and the thug grumbled, “Well what’s in the bag, then?”
“Oh?” Dakkon fumed. “You want to know what’s in my bag? You want to know what’s in my bag?” He paused for a second to study the large thug’s disbelieving face. “Traveler’s Tack! All. You. Can. Eat. Get it while it’s rock hard and horrible, boys.” Dakkon pulled out a piece of tack and belligerently began offering it to each bandit in turn.
“What the hell, man? Why don’t you have anything of value?” One of the clearly slow-witted, mid-sized bandits asked.
“Why don’t I have more? Why did you set up an AMBUSH targeting someone who’s so goddamned poor that they’re spending hours helping an old man buy groceries for copper pieces?” Dakkon logicked angrily while making impudent and grandiose gestures with his hands. “Couldn’t you pick a better target? Maybe—I don’t know—a merchant or a noble. Someone with guaranteed wealth?”
“You know,” the little thug said in the direction of the largest, “he’s got a point, boss.”
“Shut up!” The thug boss snarled back. The large man lifted his foot and kicked Dakkon to the ground.
A message flashed towards the bottom of Dakkon’s screen:
[Gettysburg has kicked you for 6 damage. Remaining HP 44/50]
Dakkon unceremoniously landed on his backside and, as he looked up and around him he saw the thugs trod of, one muttering, “You can keep your damned tack.”
Dakkon lay on the ground for a few minutes, frustrated. Then, after a bit of calming down, it finally dawned on him how his actions had been those of an insane person. It was a miracle they didn’t gut him in the alley and walk off with his bag and cloth booties. He’d insulted an ambush party to their faces and had gotten away with a simple kick.