How To Avoid Death On A Daily Basis: Book One Read Online Free Page B
Author: V. Moody
that made him look like he had nothing on underneath. I desperately hoped that wasn’t the case. He ignored me and continued to bang away—Pang! Pang! Pang!— red sparks flying in every direction. The hammer could have been borrowed from Thor. He picked a glowing object off the anvil with large pincers and plunged it in a bucket of water. Steam shot into the air.
“What is it?” he finally said without looking at me.
“How much for a dagger?” There were a number of daggers of varying sizes on a shelf.
“Depends.” He started banging away again. Pang! Pang! Pang!
A bit rude, you might think. How did he expect to sell anything with that attitude? Well, you have to look at it from his perspective. A sweaty young man approaches, holding up his trousers with one hand, and carrying what looks like a table leg in the other. Are you thinking, ‘ Ho ho, big spender. I’ll be able to shut up shop early tonight! ’? Of course not. More likely your first thought is, ‘ Shit, crazy homeless guy. Don’t make eye contact, don’t make eye contact. ’
“The cheapest one,” I shouted over the noise. “How much?”
“Five bits,” he shouted back, still not looking at me.
I thanked him and walked away. How much was five bits? No idea. I thought the currency would be coppers and silvers, maybe gold for expensive stuff. I had no idea if five bits would be easy to earn or not.
The other had overheard our conversation and were equally unsure.
“Hey, what weapons did you get?” I asked the others.
Claire pulled out a stick similar to mine. Dudley had two wooden balls attached by a string. Flossie looked sheepish, then put her hand down her top and took out a dagger.
“Bloody hell,” said Maurice. “Nice.”
I couldn’t really tell if he meant the dagger or the cleavage it had emerged from. Both, were quite impressive.
“Put it away,” I said. “And don’t show it to anyone.” It was the sort of thing others might want for themselves. She quickly stuffed it back in its hiding place.
Clearly, we needed better weapons and this place would sell them to us. But first we had to make money. In an RPG, you killed monsters and they dropped loot. Money, potions, weapons. I looked at the stick in my hand, and wondered if the local fast food joint was hiring.
11. Taking Stock
We wandered around a bit more. There was a place with animal skins hanging outside, like animal shaped rugs but with a strange yellow liquid dripping off them. The stink made me want to gag.
A man with oily black hair stood over a table set up outside the shop, cutting large skins with oversized scissors. Through the doorway I could see two girls carrying piles of skins from one place to another.
I guessed this guy turned skins into leather. Maybe he also turned them into clothing.
A sign leaning against the table had drawings of what looked like various animals—rabbits, pigs, dogs—with a number next to them. At least they used the same numbers as us, although the rest of their writing was gobbledigook to my eyes.
Either the numbers were the price you paid for each to type of material, or it was how much they paid you for bringing them skins you hunted. I considered the latter to be more likely, especially in a place like this that was basically a starter town.
In RPGs you always begin in a low level area where you make money by doing menial and repetitive tasks. Hunting low level animals for their skins seemed like an obvious way to make money and train your fighting skills at the same time. It was the sort of thing that provided an easy grind when playing on a computer. It probably wouldn’t be so easy in real life. Assuming this was real life.
The lowest number on the board was for rabbit, with a one next to it. One bit? Five rabbits for a dagger, maybe? The most money was for a triangle. I had no idea what that represented, but it had the
“What is it?” he finally said without looking at me.
“How much for a dagger?” There were a number of daggers of varying sizes on a shelf.
“Depends.” He started banging away again. Pang! Pang! Pang!
A bit rude, you might think. How did he expect to sell anything with that attitude? Well, you have to look at it from his perspective. A sweaty young man approaches, holding up his trousers with one hand, and carrying what looks like a table leg in the other. Are you thinking, ‘ Ho ho, big spender. I’ll be able to shut up shop early tonight! ’? Of course not. More likely your first thought is, ‘ Shit, crazy homeless guy. Don’t make eye contact, don’t make eye contact. ’
“The cheapest one,” I shouted over the noise. “How much?”
“Five bits,” he shouted back, still not looking at me.
I thanked him and walked away. How much was five bits? No idea. I thought the currency would be coppers and silvers, maybe gold for expensive stuff. I had no idea if five bits would be easy to earn or not.
The other had overheard our conversation and were equally unsure.
“Hey, what weapons did you get?” I asked the others.
Claire pulled out a stick similar to mine. Dudley had two wooden balls attached by a string. Flossie looked sheepish, then put her hand down her top and took out a dagger.
“Bloody hell,” said Maurice. “Nice.”
I couldn’t really tell if he meant the dagger or the cleavage it had emerged from. Both, were quite impressive.
“Put it away,” I said. “And don’t show it to anyone.” It was the sort of thing others might want for themselves. She quickly stuffed it back in its hiding place.
Clearly, we needed better weapons and this place would sell them to us. But first we had to make money. In an RPG, you killed monsters and they dropped loot. Money, potions, weapons. I looked at the stick in my hand, and wondered if the local fast food joint was hiring.
11. Taking Stock
We wandered around a bit more. There was a place with animal skins hanging outside, like animal shaped rugs but with a strange yellow liquid dripping off them. The stink made me want to gag.
A man with oily black hair stood over a table set up outside the shop, cutting large skins with oversized scissors. Through the doorway I could see two girls carrying piles of skins from one place to another.
I guessed this guy turned skins into leather. Maybe he also turned them into clothing.
A sign leaning against the table had drawings of what looked like various animals—rabbits, pigs, dogs—with a number next to them. At least they used the same numbers as us, although the rest of their writing was gobbledigook to my eyes.
Either the numbers were the price you paid for each to type of material, or it was how much they paid you for bringing them skins you hunted. I considered the latter to be more likely, especially in a place like this that was basically a starter town.
In RPGs you always begin in a low level area where you make money by doing menial and repetitive tasks. Hunting low level animals for their skins seemed like an obvious way to make money and train your fighting skills at the same time. It was the sort of thing that provided an easy grind when playing on a computer. It probably wouldn’t be so easy in real life. Assuming this was real life.
The lowest number on the board was for rabbit, with a one next to it. One bit? Five rabbits for a dagger, maybe? The most money was for a triangle. I had no idea what that represented, but it had the
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