Unforged

Chapter 15: Priorities

Tristan

It was two full days before Tristan’s mother demanded access to the forge specifically to force Tristan to rest. The budding blacksmith had completely lost all track of time. Once he was forced to stop, he realized that he was exhausted. Apparently even with more than double his level 1 Endurance, he needed to sleep more than once a week.

That said, he had also made a lot of progress.

He had slightly overestimated the amount of materials he'd gained from his dungeon run with Chessa and Opie and now knew it wouldn’t quite carry him all the way to tier up. Luckily, with his new growth bag’s auto-sorting perk, he knew exactly how much he had (and how much more he’d need) at all times. All of the scrap iron, copper, and bronze could be melted down and worked anew, given time. And time was the one thing Tristan felt he had in spades.

After his mother’s reintroduction of sanity to his schedule, Tristan was surprised to find that he was much more productive. It wasn’t a massive change, but his day grew to closely match his father’s: he rose at dawn, ate a healthy breakfast, and went immediately to the forge. He spent all day there, pausing only for what his father called “lunch with a side of reflection.” A time in which he should think back to what he’d made in the morning, both his successes and his mistakes, and consider how best to improve on both before resuming in the afternoon. It wasn’t something that came easily or even naturally to Tristan. He struggled, just as he always had, with the “quiet reflection” stuff. He’d never been able to do his mother’s “pond without ripples” either. But after all that was done, he’d pound the anvil again until it was dinner time. There was now a strictly enforced rule of “no forge after dinner”--though Tristan bristled when he found it only applied to him.

Yet even with those changes, Tristan made impressive progress. He worked and refined and shaped and flattened and bent and molded and scraped and polished and ground and drew out until he had piles of both finished and ongoing projects. The ongoing projects mattered most of all, as they still had the possibility of becoming greater.

Including the project that mattered more than any other.

His sword.

It was far past the planning stages, but he also knew that he needed more experience and practice to ensure that it surpassed his current skills. The sword deserved so much more. So Tristan wouldn’t hurry. He would practice, level, and practice some more, continuing to improve his sword throughout tier 1 and possibly his full Path, until he was sure every line and edge would be as perfect as he could make it.

One massive improvement brought on by leveling his Class was how much quicker it was to finish many of his projects. His techniques were getting sharper, and Tristan could feel a little bit of a guiding touch from his Path as he swung his hammer. It was like his Class reached out and lifted a small part of the burden from each skill used.

The list of items he felt comfortable making had also grown substantially. He’d started this marathon with billets, but once he’d turned those into basic swords, he’d wanted to try experimenting with different sword designs. Each project inspired another, and each swing of his hammer brought new ideas. New ways to improve things he hadn't worked on yet. It was exciting, but also intimidating. Would he ever have enough time to test all his ideas? Maybe if I reach godhood, he chuckled to himself. Maybe.

As an example, eventually he would need a crossguard and full handle for his sword, and there were so many possibilities! It was honestly overwhelming. He'd even considered if he could enrich the design of the crossguard with the talisman from the Brightshield, but the attached memory was still too raw for him to give the design the proper focus. Maybe when he was closer.

The one thing he was sure about was that he wanted the blade to be bigger, large enough to require two hands. A greatsword.

Another week of sword-work flew by, and Tristan had roughly doubled his shortsword crafting speed. Forging each blade no longer took the better part of a day. But, even with so many new weapons, he’d yet to find one he wanted to replace the [Repaired Rusted Sword] with. So he decided to once again branch out into other crafts. He had to acknowledge that currently he could learn more by mastering all the skills available to him instead of just focusing on one.

At level 6 he had learned [Craft Armor], but he hadn’t really experimented with it yet, ironically spending more time creating rings and amulets from scratch. He started making bracers, as they seemed the easiest type to craft--and was likely why they provided minimal stats. The best he’d made had only given +1 armor. So he moved up a rung in complexity and began making splints that could be turned into mail.

There, he’d learned two valuable lessons. First, to make splint mail, he’d have to work with non-metal mediums, which he wouldn’t do if he didn't have to--and since his Core meant he’d only ever work on his own gear, he’d never have to. Second, it would take him months at his current skill level to finish a wearable splint mail chestpiece. If that was the case, wouldn’t it just be better to shift over to a full metal breastplate? Maybe later, he finally decided, putting his splints away and doubting he’d ever return to them.

Gauntlets, he quickly learned, were also something he didn’t enjoy making. Finger coverings in general were just a nightmare. He had no idea how to make them strong and sturdy and correctly sized! He was starting to think his Path would leave the more diverse skills of armor smithing to others. No, when it came to armor, it would be bracers, or breastplates, or nothing at all. Well, maybe some pants. He wouldn’t want to be running around with just boxers on.

Maybe I can do something unique with my Path and incorporate defenses into my swords. Then I might not even need traditional armor.

Days into his newest marathon, he hit level 7, and as always the Ding! filled him with joy. He got his second passive skill, and this one was awesome.

[Strength Up I] A passive skill that grants the user a 10% increase to Strength. Skills that scale exclusively off of Strength receive double this bonus.

At his current level, it was basically just a +2 bonus, which definitely felt minor, even if it did bring his total Strength up to 26. But the impact as his stats grew would be immense. He couldn’t tell whether or not it was affected by the bonus from his {Fledgling Dungeon Delver} title. Maybe later, when that +1 crossed a breakpoint, it would be obvious. He also wondered if the percent boost would work with bonuses from gear he might get. That would be exciting. Regardless, with such small stat totals, it was just a small bump, not even a level’s worth. But eventually...

Tristan continued to lose himself in his work. Even hitting level 8 wasn’t enough to pull him out of the forge. If anything, getting his new skill just gave him more to do.

[Craft Shield] An active ability allowing a user to polish and shape metal into a one- or two-handed, portable protective barrier of different shapes, sizes, and combat styles.

It turned out that crafting a shield while using the skill only helped polish what he’d already learned the hard way. His toolbox hadn’t really changed, but it was almost like he’d gotten a few new notes to help deepen his ability and understanding slightly. Of course, none of the shields he produced with it matched his [Heartmender’s Shield]. Crafting just one uncommon-rarity anything was already a huge deal for any tier 1 crafter.

Tristan was suddenly pulled from his focus by the sounds of yelling outside. He stopped his hammer swings and decided not to reheat the metal breastplate he was currently working on. It could wait. His curiosity could not. “I’ll be right back,” he shouted over to his father whose only reply was a grunt as the sound of his perfected hammer swings continued to ring out.

Tristan hung up his apron and went to the door, skirting the front counter where his mother would no doubt slow him with irrelevant questions about his day. The shouting outside had only grown more intense, and he was dying to know what was going on.

- - - - -

Aaric

Standing just behind the manor, near enough to the kitchen that he could smell the feast being prepared for dinner, Aaric was not pleased in the slightest. He also refused to ask his questions aloud, choosing to utilize party chat on the off chance someone happened close enough to overhear.

Aaric: It still didn't feel fast enough. How far was I from perfect timing?

Scout: You were only a combined 1.5 seconds from the optimal casting rotation there, which I must remind you again would be considered incredibly difficult for even a second tier. It counts.

Aaric: But it’s not perfect. It shouldn’t count.

Scout: You set the threshold at 2 seconds, sir. Would you like to adjust it?

Aaric: No, just--What’s the current streak?

Scout: Eleven successes in a row, sir.

Aaric: And you’re sure this is my maximum damage output?

Scout: With your current spell and gear selection, it is.

Aaric scowled. Part of him would always hate how precisely the scout answered his questions, never offering more than what was asked. But the man was tier 4 and uniquely capable when it came to evaluating abilities. At least unique in this part of the realm anyway. Aaric could not find anyone better at the moment, and he hated that too.

Turning back to the shimmering wooden dummy, Aaric knew he only had two ways to improve. Primarily, he would practice until he was better, even if it took him another month. Even if he had to buy ten more dungeon slots. Even if he caused a snowstorm!

But there was always the chance that they could find another ice-specialized caster...

He saw the shadow of movement from within the kitchen’s frosted windows and, glimpsing the sunset briefly, cursed that he’d wasted practice time in reflection. He could not stop yet. There was work to do.

He focused instead on the practice dummy he’d commissioned. It was a marvelous thing with a shield that moved in unpredictable and unpatterned ways. If anything, it was too good and too skilled to adequately represent... anyone of consequence that happened to also wield a shield. It was a great test for Aaric’s accuracy and precision, while also letting him work on other benchmarks. Like how quickly he could restack chill into a full freeze on a second cycle. He’d managed to get his time to under thirty seconds.

Scout: Make sure you cast [Frost Bolt] first to shatter the frozen status, and then begin channeling [Ice Barrage]. Frozen only gives one hit of double damage, and you lose too much of that bonus if a tiny barrage shard hits first.

Aaric cooled his temper by remembering that the scout was, in fact, helping him, just like he’d done when trying to do before that spar. When old Aaric hadn’t listened, and almost lost to a noncombat Class. But he wasn’t like that anymore. Aaric no longer deluded himself into thinking he’d merely not won. For weeks he’d been agonizing over it, replaying it in his mind even as he destroyed every other challenger at the Training Grounds. That single match had soured every other bout in the entire place for him.

Since then, he’d done two dungeon runs in quick succession. He’d have done a third, but the others in the group had said they’d needed breaks. Despite the fact that he’d offered double the rate. It boggled the mind, especially when their job was markedly easier with Aaric freezing almost every monster solid! How else was he going to get the gear and experience he needed to be an {Ice Prodigy}?

But just like that group, everything Aaric attempted now seemed inadequate and infuriating. And it all stemmed back to one spar.

I didn’t lose, but I could have. I would have. He would have outlasted me, an ice mage! An {Ice Prodigy}!

Even the illusion of such an outcome could never be allowed to happen again. Aaric needed to be perfect.

He completed the twelfth rotation and sat down, chugging an entire uncommon tier 2 mana potion before tossing it toward the pile of other empty vessels near the kitchen door.

Scout: Another success.

Aaric: And my timing?

Scout: This time you were just over 1 combined second from the optimal freeze combo. Again, well within your stated limit. Again, I offer my previous reply.

Aaric nodded as the dummy’s shield continued to move. He imagined the sound of a rusted blade tapping it.

“Again!” he said aloud.

“Actually, that’s enough training for now,” the deep and exacting voice of Aaric's father, Lord Longbloom, called from the kitchen door. It strolled from syllable to syllable at its own pace, always clearly enunciated, as the man would never repeat himself. “Come inside for dinner.”

Aaric repositioned his feet, not quite daring to cast at the dummy again but also not wanting to leave yet. He looked at the scout, but that man had already bowed fully over with one arm across his chest. He appeared as still as a statue, despite replying to Aaric’s messages.

Aaric: We're not done.

Scout: As you like, sir. But after dinner, and with the Lord's permission, we shall resume.

Aaric hated that he understood the scout's reticence--his father could be... terrifying when he wanted to be. It was why Aaric himself would never truly resist his father’s will. Only try to bend it some.

His father had not stayed after delivering his pronouncement, however. His tall shadow was already fading from the kitchen, no doubt heading to the dining hall. It would not do to keep him waiting. As Aaric entered the kitchen himself, he sent his final, hopeful query to the scout. A question he’d delayed asking on the off chance the answer might change.

Aaric: The rotation itself is still too inefficient. Have there been any leads on locating someone with [Ice Blast]?

Scout: Not yet, sir, though I expect my connections will lead to something soon. Patience is the Path of an ice mage.

Aaric wanted to throw his hands up, but that would have toppled a nearby servant’s tray of steaming chicken skewers. Who was Scout to talk of patience? Aaric was the one walking the Path of a frost mage! He could outlast anyone!

Nearly anyone, he self-corrected, reminding himself once again that he was supposed to be listening more. He snared a deveined prawn from a chilled bowl that would no doubt be the second course. He popped it into his mouth and wove his way past all servers and chefs, out of the kitchen, and toward the massive oaken table.

It stretched far enough guests often felt the need to raise their voices when speaking to the man seated at the far end. A grave mistake, to be sure, and one capitalized on all too often by Lord Longbloom. He had designed every facet of the table, from the scrawled legs to its sleek, mirror-like finish. It radiated wealth and authority.

He saw his father was already seated and sipping slowly at a glass of red wine. His mother sat directly to the Lord’s left. She smiled, as always, a bit too widely. Her face was already flushed red, and a quick check of the pitcher being held by the servant directly behind her goblet-carrying hand appeared to be half empty already.

Her words ran together as she asked, “Are you done training for the day, Aaric?”

“I haven't yet decided,” he lied.

She nodded, perhaps half listening as she sloshed her goblet around. “You should rest some before your next outing. When will that be?”

“When Father finds a party capable of running a dungeon with suitable rewards. And finishes getting my gear crafted.”

The man in question popped a prawn into his mouth, unbothered by the mild inaccuracies. He summoned a servant, wiped his fingers on the man’s shirt, and then waved him away as the wine glass returned to his lips.

“It's not always easy to find something matching such specific parameters,” his father said between slow sips. “And the crafters capable of adding both of those properties to gear have assured me that doing so raises the level requirement of said gear to be too high for you,” he glared, almost accusingly. “This once, you might have to settle for something less specific.”

Aaric’s fingernails dug into his palm. I don’t want to settle for less than the best for my Path. But he could never say something to contradict his father. He stared at him for a moment and considered. You wouldn’t settle. So instead he broached the topic with the cool logic his father demanded. “I need both added frost damage and mana efficiency if I’m to stay ahead of the curve. Neither is negotiable.” He waved away the skewers that had finally reached him. The servers were all walking rather slowly this evening, he felt.

His father took a few final bites of the salad that had appeared before them earlier, and which Aaric had yet to touch. “And yet,” his father began, “every single day, sacrifices must be made as costs are weighed against other priorities.”

“That doesn’t leave much room for time-sensitive opportunities like mine,” Aaric countered.

Beside Lord Longbloom, Aaric’s mother tilted precariously in her chair as another round of servants emerged from the kitchen with dishes covered by silver cloches. “Is that what you’ve been up to today, Aaric dear? Time... things? Tell me about that.” She was fully distracted by the steaming soup just revealed.

“Training such as you’re doing is not time-sensitive,” his father let each word drip like honey from his tongue with more deliberate slowness than usual. A sign that he felt dangerously close to repeating himself.

Aaric pivoted instead to his mother, which felt like safer ground from which to continue his assault. “Yes, mother, I’ve been working on mastering my spell timings. What could be more time-sensitive than the very nature of my foundational skills?” Aaric finally allowed himself a bite of the soup, which was (of course) buttery and delicious.

“It seems this is another example of your priorities needing adjustment, son,” Lord Longbloom said with languid certainty. “Time spent with family should be atop all of our lists.” He slightly raised his half-empty wine glass, which was instantly topped off by a servant wearing white gloves. “Above business, above growth, above the divine. Family is sacrosanct.”

The final words had been calm and no louder than any of the others, yet they had filled the entire room. Such was the power of Lord Longbloom’s aura. Every person within earshot had felt the force of their truth.

Aaric bowed his head. “Of course, father.”

The man sipped delicately at his soup. “Have you any new arguments on the subject to make today, or shall yesterday’s judgment continue to hold?”

Aaric was forced to swallow his reply for fear of speaking over his mother, whose glass had once again moved away from her lips. “Well, I want to hear more about your day today. Why were you practicing your timings? Was it for a race of some sort? A time trial?” She nodded briefly as the properly blank-faced attendant holding the half-full decanter left her glass totally refilled. She turned fully toward Aaric, beaming. “Did you win?”

Aaric tried not to roll his eyes at the absolute lack of help his mother was offering. Appearances mattered, after all. She could do so much more than her trophy wife Class if she’d just tried, he thought, or merely stay sober. But he couldn’t show any of his disappointment; he could feel his father’s gaze upon him. “No, mother, it’s not perfect yet.”

With the subtlest shift of two of Lord Longbloom’s fingers, the wine bearer stepped away from Lady Longbloom.

“Perhaps you should aim a little lower,” his mother slurred, staining the glass with her lipstick again. “Though I suppose you take after your father...”

“From your beautiful lips to the gods’ ears,” Lord Longbloom said, smiling more broadly at her than he ever had at Aaric. “You offer such wisdom, my dear, and it would be a shame should we not all learn from it. Why not tell us more about your day?”

Aaric knew that for the dismissal it was. It was his father’s way of signaling that their discussion had ended, just as the placing of his soup spoon beside his bowl signaled his readiness for the next course.

Immediately the soup bowls were gone, sharp knives were placed beside each Longbloom’s right hand, and thick red steaks filled the center of their plates. Lord Longbloom loved his steaks rare, which meant Aaric had to suffer the same.

Aaric seethed. I didn’t even get a chance to answer him.

But time was wasting.

In his head, he heard one of his blessed father’s infamously over-quoted sayings in the man’s own voice: “Time is the one resource of which even we can’t buy more.”