+ Reid +

He stirred to the indistinct sounds of activity in the street below, and the smell of grilling fish wafting up and through the window to his room. Reid slipped himself out of his dreamroll - yes, he had used it on top of the bed, and yes it was the best idea - and put his always-perfect temperature sleeping bag back into storage. He summoned his armor out next, and spent a few minutes on some light cleaning before he put it on. Requiem followed, with extra time to get dried fish blood off his mace. By the time he was done, the smell of cooked fish was overpowering. He grabbed Bonewall from where he'd propped it against the door as a security measure, and slung it in its place on his armor.

Reid was quite certain he'd slept for more than his usual four-hour rest period, which was evidence enough that he'd been pushing himself hard over the last few days. A part of him lamented the effort required for things that didn't give him any tangible benefit - like levels or decent amounts of experience. He tried to remind himself that not everything was a step higher. Sometimes a step was just a step. He was bound to have more of those today. He took a breath, and swung open the incredibly creaky wooden door.

As he descended the stairs, Reid heard rushed noise and clanking pans coming from a room set off behind the bar. He craned his neck, and peeked through the open door at a stonetop griddle and a series of open flames that were transforming ingredients into something that pulled at his nostrils and his stomach.

A large man sat in a chair by the exterior door, facing outward like a bouncer. He spared a glance towards Reid at the sound of the creaking stares, and made a small wave before turning his attention back to the crowd assembled to peer into the establishment. Reid hadn't expected an audience this morning - especially given how fearful everyone ended up being yesterday.

Rongo was seated at the bar with a steaming cup of liquid in one hand, and a bottle of semi-translucent grey liquid in the other. He poured in a healthy amount from the bottle, and swirled the cup before taking a sip and a sigh. Thankfully, Kaeryn and Walsamo weren't in the room.

Reid pulled out the bicycle seat next to Rongo, grunted contemplatively. He took Bonewall off and leaned it against the bar, then took his helmet and put it on the bartop. The odd stool complained underneath him, but stayed intact. It was surprisingly more comfortable than he'd been expecting. Rongo gave him a hard nod, leaned forward, and shouted.

"Jaione! Another cup, and bring the whole carafe!"

A heavyset woman with a stained, short-sleeved button up lumbered out of the kitchen with two tall, wide mugs in one hand, and a white carafe in the other. She slid one of the mugs down to Reid, and let the other slide closer to the back edge of the bar top. She followed them over with the white carafe, and gave Reid an evaluating look.

"You ain't a demon." She practically spat. "Cowards and their stories." She poured a near-black liquid out of the carafe, and an aroma Reid had been dreaming of wafted up from the mug. He salivated involuntarily. When she was done with his mug, she poured one for herself. "So, lost child, they have coffee out there in the cosmos?"

The mug was already at his lips, piping hot liquid playing its bitter, earthy notes over his tongue. He took another sniff of its heavenly aroma, and swallowed. The taste was slightly less acidic than he was used to, and there was some sort of flavor he didn't place. Maybe cinnamon again? If so, these people put cinnamon in a lot of their drinks. He lifted his gaze to the gruff woman.

"Jaione, you are heaven-sent. I've been craving coffee longer than I want to think about. If I weren't married, I'd kiss you."

She glanced over his chest and torso. "Heh. Not interested. They not have marriage pins out there?"

Reid shook his head, and pointed to his hand. "Wedding rings."

Jaione barked out a laugh. "Heh! Rings. Weird damn aliens. Least you drink coffee." Rongo offered Jaione the bottle. She shook her head. "Not today. I want to be sober when I hear the rest of this shit from space-boy." A bit of coffee spilled onto the counter as she waved her mug at Reid. She frowned and wiped some of it up with her shirt. "Don't get into the good stuff until I finish cooking."

With that, the woman lumbered back into the kitchen, leaving Rongo and Reid alone with the carafe. The old man offered him the bottle of grey liquid, and Reid politely declined.

"Sorry bout that. Jaione's good people, but not everyone likes rough edges. Not sure what she thinks we're going to talk about."

Reid took another sip of the delicious liquid, and savored it. He had a few ideas on what to discuss next.

#

#

The morning passed quickly, and Reid gained more knowledge about the town. They were the smallest on the island, and were primarily supported by fishing and the small amount of tourism the mountain generated before the planetary awakening. There was an old legend that one of the 'warlords' prior to the planet's unification had made his declaration of intent to take over the world there, so it had a historical draw. Their education system was split into primary and secondary school - which was followed by the preparatory corps Brinkha, Norton, and Gerald had taught him about. On such a remote island, most didn't go into the corps, and instead went into local industry to make a living. The North side of the island, with its protection from harsh weather by the island-wide mountain range, had a far larger tourism industry. Dayo Evni, below the range, was the second smallest town, and primarily acted as an industrial port to repair cruise vessels and deal with the dirty jobs none of the other towns wanted associated with their image. Above the range, Dayo Norte was the oldest city, and the second largest. It was a tourist destination, but made more from industrial fishing than visitors, and the gruff, unpretty nature of its infrastructure prevented it from overtaking Dayo Wolte. Wolte, the largest city, was nestled on a section of the island with some of the most gentle, shallow waters. It had made a poor early location because of the lack of fish - but became a jewel for the island once tourism became a real industry. It was, in Rongo's words 'filled with uselessly tall, ugly buildings, and uselessly-wealthy, ugly people'. The north section was also home to the Ferber compound. Everyone seemed conflicted about the space. It was the 'secluded retreat' of a biotech oligarch of sorts, though the man was highly respected by many. He'd paid the inhabitants of the island to allow him to build and operate there, though the payments were scaled in relation to how close the locals had been to the build site. That meant Dayo Sovni received comparatively nothing.

Ferber's compound, though, was important for a single, hopeful reason. It had a series of runways, aircraft, and helicopters that were apparently top of the line devices. If there was anywhere on the island that Reid was going to find usable transportation to follow his recently-identified 'springboard' path to the continents, it would likely be from the compound. Rongo filled Reid's mental map with rough outlines of where local roads and mountain passes had once been, but gave no guarantees for their state or safety now. He also took Reid through a series of drawings and charts that gave clear directions on how to get between the islands that formed the springboard chain. Reid pretended not to notice notes scribbled in the corners of the maps that mentioned avoiding local law enforcement and where to find working girls.

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He drank most of the carafe, ate a not-perfect-but-tasty grilled fish breakfast that also sported greens and a starchy food he didn't recognize, and chatted with Rongo through a range of topics. The old smuggler, fisherman, and now settlement chief remained quick witted and sharp throughout their conversation, though Reid got the sense the man never truly got comfortable with him. When the talk started to die down, he turned things to the topic of defense.

"Not sure how quick you craft, but we'll put you up here, free coffee and food as long you need to make... a few dozen? Sets of armor and weapons. You're interested, I got an idea the boy failed to make, but you might be able to."

Reid accepted a folded paper Rongo took out of a pocket, and unfolded it. There was a simple diagram with a few callouts of finer components, and notes scribbled down the side in Rongo's messy handwriting. From what could tell, it was a skateboard-sized crossbow, with a storage space for...

"Is this... an automatic crossbow?"

Rongo grunted. "Bolt thrower. Since the awakening, I spent some time in the library. Figure weapons we can make ammunition for are better than ones we can't. And - you know - flying spiders. Need the range."

Reid poured back over the sketch. It was overly simplistic, and he found a few things that outright wouldn't work, but the idea was solid. A bit of excitement rose at the possibility of making something he'd never worked on before.

"Rongo, this looks like fun."

..+.. Quinlan ..+..

There were people in his living room and they wouldn't leave.

It hadn't taken everyone much thinking to make mental links between the demonic presence kitted head-to-toe with bone-crafted armor, and Quinlan. It didn't matter that he was wholly incapable of making anything close to what the nightmare had - because that wasn't why they were here. Two of the three 'leaders' of their town, plus another half dozen of their usual associates. Quinlan shifted the sleeves of his shirt down again. Everything was uncomfortable.

"... because what we should do - what everyone needs to do - is just what he wants. He asks, give it. But otherwise, don't offer. Then, he won't get angry but he also should feel unwelcome, and then he can just leave." Kaeryn offered, not for the first time.

Walsamo leaned in. "Yes - but we still plan for the worst. We need to find his weaknesses - any weakness. Fire, poison, alcohol, women, men - we need to figure out ways to control him or distract him. And the person that's going to do that, is you." He turned to Quinlan with a slow point.

He wanted to say no. He wanted no part in seeing that terror up close.

But he didn't have the will to fight against the group.

#

Quinlan followed Walsamo as the man elbowed his way through the thick crowd pressed against the front of Jaione's Bar. They were a mix of eager and fearful, drawn to catch glimpses of the terror. A group of boys he recognized egged each other on to get closer to the windows, each exuding bravado without stepping forward. A woman gasped near the front, and she dragged her boyfriend away from their spot at the front of the crowd. Quinlan didn't want to be here. Not near that nightmare that had effortlessly killed the impossible beasts, and then boasted about his own invulnerability to the entire town. The name rose back up - Serroc. As intimidating as the figure himself had been.

They climbed up two stone steps flanked by burly fighters, and Walsamo opened the door without stepping inside. Quinlan caught the man in fearful glances towards the interior. He had already started walking away by the time Quinlan reached the threshold. The door creaked and shut behind him, tinking against the metal catch. It was a light, high pitched death bell.

Thankfully, the two figures didn't take immediate notice. They were far too involved in their own activities for that.

"But, now that it's stronger, the same ropes aren't going to work, and some of these gears are going to wear down. You need someone to re-tooth the gears if they wear too far. And you'll want some kind of braided cable. Anyone with a decent crafting skill should be able to make it."

"HA! Your decent is anyone else's best. No offense. This girl needs stronger stuff... what about spider silk?"

"That's... not a bad idea. It'll take a few days, but the mountain is mostly clear. There's a few miles worth of webbing there. Man, I wish I'd thought of something like this. Early on, I just fought beasts by throwing rocks."

Rongo - the old drunkard and fisherman - let out a throaty laugh. "Heh! We all make mistakes," he tilted his head conspiratorially. "Let me tell you, never sleep with your bartender."

A heavyset woman whipped out from a door behind the bar long enough to shout. "You change that tone - or last night is gonna be the last time!"

The terror stared at the drunk, who shrugged in response. His lifted arms revealed three empty bottles, with another half gone. That explained how the man was so calm, so close to the menace. The drunk finally noticed him, and the menace turned. His massive frame set the stool groaning as he moved. Without his helmet and wings, he was slightly less intimidating. At least this time, his eyes weren't glowing.

"Ah! There he is," Rongo started. "Quinlan here is our bone-crafter. Fastest any kind of crafter we have in town, too. Come on over, kid. To the bar. Show 'em what you can do."

His feet shuffled forward with unsteady steps, and he made it to the bar - on the far side of Rongo, away from Serroc the Terror - without any trouble. Both stared at him. He put his hands out in the same way the first person to successfully craft an item had taught - shoulder width apart, with fingers splayed and curled towards each other. He struggled to keep focus over the next few minutes as the solid, sharp arrowhead came into existence through his skill. When finished, it clattered onto the counter. He didn't lift his head.

"See, that's the best we got." Rongo offered.

"Your name was Quinlan, right?" The terror asked. His voice was... normal. Like any other person asking a simple question. The thought just unsettled Quinlan further. He nodded anyway. "Why do you force yourself to craft with your hands so far apart? Why not just grow the arrowheads directly?"

He failed to stop his face from twisting in confusion, and lifted his head. When the menace saw his expression, his own face softened and he lifted one of his large, thick hands. There were bits of gore stuck in the corners of his fingernails. The hand made a fist, and points of bone grew straight up and out of the skin next to his knuckles. Quinlan suppressed the bit of bile rising in his throat. In seconds, four arrowheads broke free and fell to the countertop. Both men were staring at him, again.

It took seconds for him to find his voice. "I... I can't do that."

The terror frowned, and another chill ran up Quinlan's spine. Kaeryn had said to give Serroc what he wanted. But that was impossible.

"Let me ask," he started again. "What's your stat distribution look like, Quinlan?"

He swallowed hard. "I put most points into intelligence. Some into constitution and perception. Dexterity and Power are my dump stats."

The terror's mouth twisted into half-grin. "Ah, that makes this easier. Power has a relationship with your mana pool. We just need to have you put points into the stat." Serroc turned to the window. "It's still light, let's not waste time. Joice! Save that dinner for another time, we're headed out!"

Quinlan's knees shook. "What? W-Where are we going?"

Serroc pointed to the bar top, and the intricate crossbow-looking contraption that sat on it. "Bolt throwers. I'm going to make you all a bunch of those things, and you'll be able to kill the spiders pretty easy with them. But, we need someone to repair them when components break down. I can't, because I'm heading North to find a way off the island. So, my replacement is you. And we also need strings strong enough to work on the bolt throwers. That's back at the mountain. So, we're going to the mountain to get the spider silk, and we'll level you up on the way. Oh! Right. Accept this invitation."

NOTICE: [Serroc] has invited you to join [The Osteal Empire] as [Apprentice Smith].

The terror stared at him expectantly. His mind struggled to process everything that was happening, and it came to a simple conclusion.

Quinlan was going to die.

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