22. Strike Out For A Player Village

“Something really stupid,” you sigh, “because as well as minions, I need Fame. I'm going to head to Brakenford, and see if it's possible to generate a quest. More than one, if I can.”

You hold up a forelimb to quieten the protests of both girls. “There's no way I'm going to be able to level up enough to be a threat if I'm always going to be a drakeling. That's just the way it is.”

You open your character sheet and inspect your fame count. From being emptied the previous night, it was already back up to 154 as the ever present 'people are talking about you' had surged shortly after your victory, but the increase hadn't lasted long, and you hadn't seen anyone accepting a quest about you in a while.

“I need another three hundred and forty six fame to evolve, whatever that means. But I think that's going to be the key here. So I'm going to the village and I'm going to get as much of it as I can.”

The others are, understandably, not enthused by the idea, but they don't move to stop you as you stride out of your lair and stretch your wings in the morning sun.

Brakenford is on the other side of the mountain, where the forest peters out. You should be able to glide most of the way, you think. Part of you registers Sapphire and Feathers coming to join you, one on either side as your haunches bunch.

“Be careful sir.”

“No die.”

You share a smile with each of them, and then leap skywards, your improved Athleticism skill combined with your winglets allowing you to gain an extra nine feet or so of height before your wings unfurl and catch the updraught that curls around the mountain. You twist your body to start to slide along the current and wink at your champions before you glide around the corner and out of sight.

Once away from line of sight, you bring up your character sheet again and stare at the reason you've been so insistent that evolving is the right path

You have fuzzy recollections of Rivalry being a mechanic for a few updates at least – adventures who lost to a monster would often hunt them down, again and again. What should have been a method for creating unique and player driven bosses became little more than bounties and farming. You heard of one or two times where a rivalry lead to a monster killing the same adventurer a few times, and getting stronger because of it. Never had you heard of monsters having a hard limit on their stats.

It made sense, you thought, in a sick way. 20 was the limit required for many basic activities. Reading required an intelligence of 20, unhindered use of tools; dexterity 20. It made sense that Hyena would not be able to reach dexterity 20, and that you would not be able to reach much beyond it. But if your dexterity was capped already, you thought it likely that your other starts would start to reach a cap soon

And that would spell the end for your fledgling dungeon.

Your morbid wondering have carried you through around a quarter of your journey before you're pulled from them. Carried by an unusually strong breeze, a waft of foul air blind sides you. Your eyes water and you lose several feet of altitude as you subconsciously try to avoid the stench.

It sticks of brackish water, old blood, and unmistakably of death aligned magic.

You shake your head to help clear your nose, and look around for the source, which isn't hard to spot.

“What on...”

The forest underneath you, while normal at first glance, is spotted with treetops riddled with cancerous looking growths. Bare branches dripping viscous fluids jut from the otherwise unbroken green ocean. Small glades of infected looking trees surround broken clearings of foul mud.

You twist your wings and swoop lower, backtracking to allow you a closer look at one tree that sits higher than the others.

Its bark is a mottled grey, speckled with spots of both black and white. Each extreme of colour sat in a small depression, leaking a thick, pus like sap of the same colour. The slow moving waterfall mixes and curdles as it seeps down the trunk, and the morass that reaches the tree's roots slides into the soil, leaving an oily sheen behind.

Chunks of amber seem to have burst from the tree's surface, several feet across at a time. Even as you watch, one flexes and shudders unpleasantly before your flight carries it out of sight. By the time you've corrected your trajectory back to your original route, that pustule hangs in ragged tatters, and something... wet, slick with the sickness, sits above it on the branch

Whatever foul magic caused this, you want no part of it, and you steepen your angle to carry you away form this cursed place all the quicker.