The next day was about as close to a full-blown holiday as we ever got in Skara Brae, which is to say, people were smiling. A lot. It was a little unnerving, to be honest. The entire settlement seemed to make a pilgrimage down to the new well, not just to get water, but to see it. To stand before this small miracle of stone and wood and know, with absolute certainty, that we wouldn't die of thirst or be forced to melt questionable yellow snow.
I received so many pats on the back I was worried my shoulder might get dislocated. The real reward, though, was seeing the tangible relief on everyone's faces. The crew working the mines were the most effusive. One of them, a burly man named Gus whose arms were thicker than my legs, grabbed me in a dusty, one-armed hug that lifted me off the ground.
"Leader, you're a lifesaver!" he boomed, his voice echoing in the main cavern. "Do you have any idea what it's like trying to haul ore for ten hours on a single waterskin? By the end of my shift, my tongue felt like a piece of dried leather. Now this!" He gestured dramatically toward the well. "Unlimited hydration! The production quotas will tremble before us!"
I just laughed and managed a choked, "You're welcome, Gus," as he set me down. The man's enthusiasm was infectious.
Even the Rangers, our resident council of grim-faced stoics, offered their version of jubilant praise. Reece Rogers caught my eye as he was filling a half-dozen waterskins for their next patrol. He gave a short, sharp nod, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards in what might have been, in a different man, a full-fledged grin. For Reece, it was practically a standing ovation. That single nod spoke volumes, and it was a rare sight. The constant, biting wind and oppressive snow seemed to have permanently sandblasted any overt happiness from their faces on a good day.
Catch them after a failed hunt, though? I'd learned early on to give them a wide berth. A very, very wide berth. A hungry Ranger is a creature of pure, focused crankiness. Everyone had learned that lesson. It was one of the many fascinating, and sometimes terrifying, things I was learning about our new reality in Norrath: Vocations didn't just give you skills; they seemed to fundamentally reshape your personality.
It was a theory I'd been developing, a sort of amateur sociological study. My own Merchant Vocation was a prime example. I could get stressed, irritated, and overwhelmed by the sheer volume of logistics I had to manage, but I was never truly exhausted by the mental load. My brain just kept going, processing supply chains, optimizing work schedules, and calculating SP expenditures like a supercharged accounting program. It was a low-level, passive hum of cognitive endurance that I was certain I never possessed back in my college days.
The Rangers were the other side of that coin. They could spend days out in this brutal, frozen landscape, facing down threats that would make a normal person's blood run cold, and they'd return without a word of complaint. It wasn't just physical toughness; it was a deep, ingrained resilience. Sadness, despair, frustration—those emotions seemed to slide right off them, replaced by a calm, predatory focus. It was simply their nature.
A Ranger, I'd come to assume, is a person whose very being is meant to exist in harmony with nature, no matter how hostile that nature is. Lush woods? They'd be fine. Arid desert? They'd adapt. A frozen, monster-infested mountain range? Just another Tuesday. They assimilated into their environment with supernatural speed, and their personalities adapted right along with them. They became what the environment demanded. Here, it demanded they be hard, quiet, and ruthlessly efficient. And so, they were. It wasn't a choice; it was an integral part of their Vocation's package.
That fundamental difference in Vocation-based psychology was also the main reason I'd decided we were making a trip downhill tomorrow. And my bodyguards? They were going to be the best in the business: our quartet of perpetually grumpy, hyper-competent Rangers. It was a mission I'd been planning for a week, a calculated risk that my inner business student had already run a full cost-benefit analysis on. The potential return on investment—new recruits with new Vocations—was too high to ignore.
One of the massive, and frankly underrated, benefits of living up in the mountain's armpit was that threats were surprisingly uncommon. So long as you didn't get stupid and wander too far up or too far down, you were mostly left alone. The local monsters seemed to operate on a strict energy-conservation model; climbing all the way up to our perch just to try and eat a few stringy humans wasn't worth the caloric effort.
The Rangers had learned this lesson the hard way, of course. About a month ago, a two-man team scouting a higher pass had been ambushed. Their report had been delivered in Reece's typical clipped, no-nonsense monotone, but the details were enough to make my blood run cold. The creature they encountered was, for lack of a better term, a bear from hell. They'd dubbed it a "Ridge-Stalker." It was bigger than a grizzly, faster than a cheetah, and had abilities that firmly planted it in the 'monster' category.
According to their frantic post-encounter analysis, the Ridge-Stalker had some kind of short-range teleport ability, a sort of 'blink' that let it cross fifty feet of broken terrain in an instant. It also had claws that didn't just slice rock but seemed to leave behind a shimmering, energy-draining residue. The only reason the two Rangers were still alive was because their pre-planned escape route involved a fifty-foot rappel down a sheer cliff face. The bear-thing, apparently, couldn't be bothered with the hassle of climbing and gave up the chase.
Their conclusion was the most chilling part: they were certain the Ridge-Stalker wasn't even close to the strongest thing living in the highest peaks. It was likely a mid-tier predator that hunted the weaker creatures that strayed too far from the lowlands. After hearing that, I had silently taken my grand plans for 'High-Altitude Expansion' and tossed them into a mental fireplace. Exploring deeper into the mountains was officially off the table.
So, the new strategy was to go down. We'd descend into the forests at the base of the mountain and actively search for more humans. It was riskier in terms of random encounters, but the threats were more manageable. Our Rangers were now all between Level 6 and 7, kitted out with decent gear from our mine-fueled forge. They could handle most things the forest could throw at them, especially goblins, which they treated with the same level of annoyance as biting flies.
As for me, I wasn't totally helpless, which was a nice change of pace from my first few weeks.
I pulled up my own status in my mind's eye, a familiar translucent screen overlaying my vision.
Name: Jemma O'Brien
Level: 6
Vocation: Merchant
Attributes:
Strength: 11
Agility: 12
Vitality: 10
Intellect: 18
Will: 15
My build was… unconventional for a Merchant. After my initial terror-fueled incompetence, I'd made a conscious decision: I would not be the squishy leader who needed constant protection. Every attribute point I'd earned since Level 1 had been dutifully dumped into Strength and Agility. My Intellect and Will were naturally high due to my Vocation, but my physical stats were now at least respectable. I was pretty sure with a Strength of 11, I could probably win a serious arm-wrestling match against a decently strong guy back on Earth, and I was nimble enough to not trip over my own feet if I had to run for my life. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.
Still, I was under no illusions. My combat skills consisted of swinging a short sword with more enthusiasm than grace. The Rangers, on the other hand? They could probably take down a whole team of MMA fighters without breaking a sweat. Their Agility scores were likely double mine, and their Vocation skills—things like [Sure-Footed], [Predator's Gaze], and [Silent Step]—made them lethally effective in their chosen environment. They were the professionals. I was just the manager who'd spent enough time in the company gym to not pull a muscle carrying the groceries.
My analysis and planning done, I didn't waste any time. I sent a runner to fetch the Rangers. All four of them. An hour later, they were crammed into my small stone office, their presence making the already cramped space feel like a sardine can. Reece Rogers, their unofficial leader, stood front and center, with the other three—a quiet woman named Lena and two near brothers who where never seen without each other, Matt and Caden—arrayed behind him. They didn't sit. Rangers never sat if they could stand; it was like they were spring-loaded, always ready to move.
"You wanted to see us, Leader?" Reece asked, his voice as flat and devoid of emotion as the stone walls around us.
"I did," I said, leaning forward against my desk. I decided to get straight to the point; beating around the bush with them was a waste of breath. "Tomorrow at first light, we're mounting a multi-day expedition. We're going down into the Greywoods."
None of them so much as blinked. "Objective?" Reece asked.
"Active recruitment," I replied. "Our population is stable, hovering around forty people, but to reach Tier 2, we need more hands. More Vocations. We can't just wait for lost souls to stumble up our path. We need to be proactive."
"Understood," Reece said with a nod. "We'll take a standard two-man team. Lena and Caden can handle a three-day circuit."
"No," I said, holding up a hand. "It'll be a five-person team. All four of you," I looked at each of them in turn, "and me."
That got a reaction. It was small—a slight widening of Lena's eyes, a shift in weight from Matt—but it was there. Reece's face remained a perfect mask of neutrality, but I could feel the disapproval radiating from him.
"Leader, with respect," he said slowly, choosing his words with care, "your place is here. Skara Brae needs you. The forest floor is no place for…" He trailed off, too professional to say you.
"For a Merchant with mediocre combat skills?" I finished for him, a wry smile on my face. "I'm aware. But my presence is non-negotiable. Think about it, Reece. What happens when you find a group of scared, starving survivors? You can't exactly force them to come back with you. You need to persuade them. You need to sell them on the idea that climbing a mountain to join a settlement they've never seen is their best option."
I tapped my temple. "I am is our single greatest recruitment tool. I need to be there to make the pitch. Besides, our defenses here are solid. The switchback trail is a natural chokepoint a handful of our people could hold , and our watch positions are always manned. The settlement will be fine for a few days."
Reece was silent for a long moment, processing. I could almost see the tactical calculations running behind his eyes. He was weighing the risk of bringing his boss on a field trip against the logic of my argument. Finally, he gave another one of his sharp, decisive nods. The debate was over.
"Very well," he said, shifting seamlessly from objecting to planning. "We'll need full winter kits. Three days' worth of rations, double the standard loadout of arrows, and a full waterskin for everyone from the new well. We leave at 0600. Be ready."
With that, they turned as one and filed out of my office, leaving me alone in the sudden quiet. I let out a long breath and scrubbed a hand over my face. Step one, complete.
A few minutes later, I stepped outside onto the main overlook, a wide stone balcony we'd carved out of the mountainside. The air was frigid, stealing the warmth from my lungs, but the view was breathtaking. The sun was beginning to set, painting the endless sea of snow-covered peaks in shades of orange and pink. It was a beautiful, deadly world.
As I watched the colors fade, my eyes caught a flicker of movement high above. It was a bird. A raven, I thought, but it was enormous, far larger than any I'd ever seen back home. It circled lazily against the darkening sky, its wings barely seeming to move. It wasn't just flying; it was observing. I felt a strange, prickling sensation on the back of my neck, the distinct feeling of being watched, analyzed, and assessed by an intelligence that was far more than mere animal cunning. For a long moment, our gazes seemed to meet across the vast distance. Then, with a powerful downstroke of its wings, the great black bird banked and disappeared over the far ridge, melting into the twilight.