The Slants

The day of my expedition into the cursed marshlands came.

After five days of patience, further study and cataloguing of my materials, diligent training, and heartwarming family dinners, I had a weapon strapped to my back, pockets full of gear, and many pouches strapped to my body.

The next stop was the Slants.

They were more grand and grim than the game could ever portray.

The Slants were three colossal bridges that jutted out from the southern side of the lower middle layer like they were support beams keeping the city of arcane metal in place.

Functionally, they were long, bustling arteries that ferried the city’s brave and desperate out into the miasma-and-fog-covered marsh surrounding the grand hill. Their incline was just shallow enough to drag a cart down by hand, but steep enough to make the climb back up an act of penance.

On either side of the central walkway ran thick walls that prevented people from just falling off—but they were no mere safety walls. No, they were mana-fed tracks for lift sleds.

Standing at the top, one could watch a sled shoot down. Those metal cages bolted to a rune-covered plate were fast. Sparks kicked from their undersides as they screamed down the track with passengers clinging to the grip bars and shouting over the whine. Large gears churned along the walls of the gateway. They were essential to this whole thing, but you’d have to ask Meredi if you wanted to know exactly what they were connected to.

Shoddy shops were built right into the walls of the lift tracks—rickety stalls with scrap-metal awnings, smelling of oil, roasted fungus, boiled meat, and cheap salves. Salvagers hawked tools and “blessed” charms they unearthed from below.

The Slants weren’t really part of the city, but interestingly, they were a place where people from the lowest layer strived to be. They would climb up from the ground floor, just to have a chance to live in the comparative luxury of the Slants. The people of The Slants—they were not kidding themselves. They knew that if there was ever an attack, or if some madman decided to cause trouble, they were on their own. The gates at the top of The Slants would come down, and they’d be locked out here. Their price to pay for leaving their “designated” place in life. All that said, the only attack I knew of was the one that killed the moms, so you could say it was a pretty good gamble to take.

Speaking of shops, the slightly more reputable ones were at the top. Situated right at the entrance to hell, they were a popular spot for the “legit” folk. Guards in tired armor sipped steaming cups of something strong and spiced while leaning on makeshift spears or half-polished blades. A few looked up as I had passed, then went back to their drinks. I was just another fool heading down.

In the game, this area had functioned as a simple transition zone between the city and the wild. It didn’t really do much other than offer some atmosphere and a tutorial on the bargain-hunting system built into the shopping system. The village setting didn’t really have an equivalent to The Slants, so you could argue that the concept of this gritty transition area was wasted.

Seeing it with my own eyes, yeah. I believed that even more than when I was a player. It seemed like such an interesting place to explore. The exotic figures of the people living on the bridge, their chatter, the sound of the lifts—high, metallic, and mournful—never stopped. It was so alive that it sold me more on this being a full-fledged world than the city interior did.

I was stopped at the gateway dividing the Slants and the city by a pair of tired-looking guards.

They stood in front of a rust-streaked checkpoint post that looked like it had been built out of leftover boiler plates. One leaned lazily against a polearm with a warped blade. The other had his helmet tucked under one arm and was chewing something that smelled vaguely minty and vaguely toxic.

“Hold up,” the chewing one said, sticking his boot out to block my way. “You registered for today’s descent? You don’t look like you’re in any guard unit or guild party.”

I refrained from raising a brow. I didn’t know there was a guild in this city.

“Not yet,” I replied, reaching for the small registration scroll on the desk beside them.

He gave me a once-over. I knew that look. It was the same one NPCs in the game gave when you equipped something stupid before a boss fight.

“You heading down for work or suicide?”

“Alchemy,” I replied, signing my name on the faded form. “Looking for ingredients. Marsh-grown reagents, corrupted minerals, maybe something funky. Usual stuff.”

The other guard snorted. “You got a death wish or just got dumped recently?”

“Oh, how I wished I could be far enough into any route to be dumped,” I lamented. Then I shot the confused guards a smirk. “Thanks for the concern, guys, but I don’t plan on dying.”

“They never do.” Chewer reached for the stamp and clicked it lazily. “We’re required to ask: if someone finds your body, where should we send notice?”

“You guys know Meredi, right? She comes by to repair the gears every few months or so.”

“Aye, she’s a good lady. Brings us a meal sometimes, too.”

My heart jumped. “Didn’t know that… But yeah. Workshop’s by the westward scraphouse. You can leave the notice there.”

Chewer shook his head as he scribbled my info onto a ratty ledger. “Boy, if you make that woman’s life any more difficult than it needs to be…”

“I’m trying to make it easier.”

The other one shook his head at me like I was a lost cause. “Meredi’s mighty kind to us. She repairs our shit, and she charges fair, too.”

“I bet,” I replied.

“Only a fool doesn’t respect the blacksmith.”

“Believe me. I respect her,” I said, patting the weapon on my back.

Chewer handed me a tag—thin tin stamped with the date and my initials. I clipped it to my belt pouch. He then squinted at my gear.

“You got a mask?”

“Of course.” I unclipped it from the side of my satchel and held it up. The filters were polished, and the cannister slots gleamed with fresh brass caps. “I even brought spares. And in case you didn’t know, I supply half the guardhouse with the inhalants you stuff into these.”

Polearm perked up. “Wait, you’re one of our alchemists?”

“Yes, sir.”

Chewer let out a low whistle. “Man—erm—Timaeus,” he said, after a peek at the ledger. “You sure about this? We don’t want to lose one of the alchemists worth his shop.”

“You’re not going to lose me,” I said, sliding the mask into its place on my bandolier. “All goes well, you might even get some upgrades.”

Chewer sighed, drawing my gaze. “I know your name,” he said. “I remembered it. Hey, you looking at me? I don’t want to be the one having to tell Meredi and Cynthia that you did something stupid and paid for it.”

“Then let the guys on the night watch do it.”

Chewer begrudgingly stuck out a hand. “You want the lift ride? Ten silvers, if you do.”

I handed over a gold and waited for him to grumble his way through making change. He gave me two silvers back and a paper voucher for the lift ride.

“Recommend you take the lift back up, too,” Chewer said. “Last thing you want is to come back tired and have to take on the ordeal that is that miserable climb.”

“And be careful of the filth down there,” Polearm said with disgust. “Those animals will rob you the moment you can’t punch back.”

I chuckled. “If you hear explosions, know that it’s me making a statement.”

Polearm whistled. “Tell us all about it when we reopen the gate.”

They stepped aside, and I was on my way, toward the rising shriek of an arriving lift.

I walked with my goal firmly in mind—the harvesting of a Gloomspawn’s flesh, preferably its heart.