Jackal Among Snakes

Galamon blinked his eyes open. The whole of him felt heavy, but it was considerably better than the numbing pain that had come after his battle with the demon of ice. That had been one of the fiercest opponents he’d ever faced, beaten only by the Shadowlander in Dirracha. But for foes that he’d fought personally, and killed personally, it took the prize by a large degree.

He felt a slight grip on his hand, and remembered that the last time he’d awakened, his wife had been by his side. He saw her there even still, and felt a sense of peace that he had seldom felt in Berendar during all his years of wandering as a mercenary. But he also saw two others sitting quietly. They wore familiar dusters and a breastplate bearing an indented symbol he’d come to know quite well—the sun-and-snake, Argrave’s personal heraldry.

“I believe he’s awake, king,” Muriem said, grabbing Argrave’s attention.

King Argrave rose from his chair quickly and looked down at him, Queen Anneliese waiting patiently with arms behind her back. The king said, “Galamon. You had me worried there.” He planted his hand on his wrist, then said vigorously, “Getting injured after big battles was my thing. I never wanted you to take up that role. You’re feeling better, I hope?”

Galamon focused, briefly questioning if he was hallucinating. Finally, he said only, “Yes.”

“Anything about these wounds I should know? Is this concerning?” Argrave continued, looking over him.

“No,” Galamon answered. “It’s passed.”

Argrave let out a sigh of relief. “That’s good.” He sat back down in a chair he’d pulled up. “Provided you’re up to snuff… let’s talk about why there’s a big hole in the city wall, and why this out-of-place fellow is here.”

Galamon looked to his dwarven companion, Anestis. The man gave him very pleading eyes.

“I’m not sure myself.” Galamon rested his head back on his pillow.

#####

For the early game of Heroes of Berendar, warriors and rogues had quite the rough go of things. Sure, spellcasters started off very bad—F and D-rank spells could kill people, but generally a warrior or rogue could walk up and cut someone down far faster than a spellcaster might zap someone to death. Magic was a limited resource, too, by and large. Argrave had recklessly met Erlebnis to mitigate that fact, then pranced about avoiding battles when he couldn’t use the ancient god’s blessing.

But by C and B-rank, it was abundantly clear spellcasters had the true damage-dealing ability. The gap could be bridged with enchantments, and the physical classes were generally hardier than mages, but in terms of raw power magic users outclassed warriors and rogues by a good magnitude.

case forever. Heroes of Berendar was, after all, a game—one class shouldn’t outperform another by an extremely obvious margin for the entire duration. The developers had to create some illusion of balance, even if it

example of a mid to late game warrior—Orion. His strength was unparalleled, and using nothing but his body, he could conjure waves of flames, sparking trails, and walls of ice. This power of his came from blessings. They were a part of his being, however, unable to be taken

spellcasters was shamanic magic, which employed spirits to achieve devastating effects. If spirits were only available to spellcasters… players would surely

ate a huge bowl of stew. Muriem was returning home to fetch their son that he might speak to his father now that he’d woken up. Argrave was curious about their relationship, but other

to me, once.” Anneliese said to

at the dwarf on the opposite side of the bed. “As a matter of fact… what happened

Their people persisted even below the Ebon Cult, exposed to extreme pressures and high temperatures at all times of the year. Down there, the Dwarven Senate colonized the underground bit

that contrasted harshly with the pale

their credit, the dwarves did lead enviable lives compared to the average human in Vasquer. With a true democracy, quality of living relatively equal across most classes, and safety from war, Argrave might’ve enjoyed waking up there. After so long being seven feet tall, perhaps the other end

I did,” Anestis defended himself, the

arms. “Do you still have the device

his eyes

of which could be manipulated in specific ways for specific results. And it’s still

used it, the spirits were processed and projected into Galamon’s body, where their essence was expended to give him a temporary boost of strength. Mortal bodies weren’t made for divinity, and so it burned through his flesh while granting him tremendous strength.” He turned his head to Galamon. “The only reason he’s alive, probably, is because

then lowered

into his chair. “Yes, well… the milk is spilled,

short end of the stick, somewhat. Using spirits to empower oneself was infinitely less useful than using shamanic magic. On the optimal side of things, one could offer spirits to gods, earning their favor and perhaps a blessing. Most

be reached in

for the ways to make dwarven metals once more?” Argrave asked flatly. “I know a lot of your people

didn’t deem the dwarf some great person. Then again, judging people like

would say he did come for precisely that,” Anneliese answered for

him too hard. There had been attacks,” Galamon said, putting his bowl aside finally. “People thought it was the Ebon tribe returned. Lot of bodies, and more investigations… but no results. Eventually, I found a lead. It was fading fast, so I took a risk, went into the undergrounds. Went into a dwarven city. Found this man… and the ice abomination shortly after.” He focused on Argrave, his vitality

was no dwarven city,” Anestis protested. “It was the works of our ancestors, thousands of

said sharply, shutting the dwarf up. He looked back to Galamon and asked in exasperation, “You really went looking for the Ebon Cult?” He stared an unflinching Galamon down, then sighed deeply while

Galamon grunted in response.