by G. Akella
Max didn't waste a second. A righteous hatred was burning in his heart—after all, just two days ago Somov and two of his buddies roughed up his friend, leaving him with ripped clothes and a broken lip. The boy pounced on the fallen giant, and started throwing punches. Caught entirely off guard, Rhino took a few hits before covering his face and attempting to regain his footing. But little Roman was hanging on for dear life, like a husky on a grizzly bear roused from hibernation. There came the sound of ripping fabric.
"His mouth! Tear up his mouth!" Roman shrieked, trying to get at the much taller seventh-grader's face.
Max was yelling something, too, but it was too long ago to remember... In the end, Somov fled in disgrace, leaving the field of battle for the victors.
"Why were you screaming about his mouth?" Max inquired of his friend, studying the bloodied knuckles on his right hand.
"What do I know?" Roman grinned, flashing an epic tooth gap. "But we sure gave him hell, didn't we?"
By boys' standards, Rhino had indeed taken quite a beating. A bloodied nose and a shiner under his right eye were no joke. No attempts at retaliation were made, and probably not because anyone was truly scared of them. Simply, after the fight rumors began to swirl that little Roman was a total psycho, and normal people naturally gave psychopaths a wide berth.
Max smiled at the memories flooding his mind, then checked the map—he was at most half a mile from the consulate of the High House of Marten. A gentle midday sun was shining, filtering through the green crowns of trees lining either side of the road. There was a pleasant cognac-induced buzzing in his head, and his spirits were high. If there was one thing he'd learned from his friend, it was that in matters of importance you had to fight to the end, hardships and circumstances be damned. Lay all your cards out on the table, and do it in a way that would make clear to all of your opponents that you are not to be messed with! Admittedly, that approach hadn't been particularly successful in business, but perhaps it would be more effective here, where not everything was decided by money? As for Roman, whoever or whatever he might have become, none of that mattered—he would always remain his best friend. Theirs was the kind of friendship that's only possible with someone who's been with you through thick and thin over many years...
Suddenly Max felt a strange kind of panic—a foreboding, uneasy feeling. The world's colors seemed to fade, and an unexplained dread stung at his heart. The warrior surveyed his surroundings, and seemed to locate its source. Several yards off the road, near a hedge marking somebody's private garden, a young woman was sitting on the grass, wrapped up in a black fox's tail. And she was crying. In the two months Max had been in the game, he had never encountered a creature like her. The girl was almost preposterously cute in her green coat and trousers that accentuated her lithe, slender figure. Not even the pointy animal ears sticking out of her messy mane of raven-black hair could be deemed a flaw. Spread out on the grass in front of her was a straw mat, upon which lay a disorderly heap of colorful small figurines, about ten in all.
A powerful mental mage? Max wondered. But then why isn't anybody noticing her? Indeed, though the road was bustling with traffic, nobody appeared to be paying any mind to the girl sitting only a few yards away, instead hurrying along to tend to their own elven affairs. A beggar? She certainly didn't look like one! With her name and level hidden, he couldn't even tell if he were looking at a player or an NPC. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but Max knew then there was no way he could just walk past this teary-eyed creature. Stepping off the main road, the warrior approached the young woman. Brushing the long strands of hair from her face, he gazed into those huge pools of sapphire-blue eyes.
"Why are you crying sweetheart?" he mumbled, somewhat stupefied by the sight of her. "Maybe I can help?"
The girl's beauty was truly surreal: fine, symmetrical features, soft and plump scarlet lips, and dazzlingly fair skin that was in stark contrast to the locals. Both of her cheeks bore three distinctly black lines, the kind Asian animators adorned werefoxes with. Come to think of it, her fox's ears and tail complemented that image perfectly. But what was a werefox doing here?!
"They don't even see me!" the girl lamented, gesturing at the constant flow of passers-by. "And I haven't eaten in days!"
"Hey, I saw you, didn't I?"
"Well? Do you want me to read your fortune?" she sniffed, nodding at the straw mat.
"If that will keep you from crying, then sure, you can read my fortune," Max said with a shrug, settling on the grass next to her.
"Five gold!" the fox-girl held out her hand.
"Take my purse, why don't ya..." said the warrior, scratching the back of his head as he produced the gold. Screw it, twenty gold wouldn't fetch anything decent, anyway, he thought to himself.
"Did you think your fortune was only worth a few coppers?" the girl chuckled, the tears evaporating from her face as if by a magic wand.
"Well..."
"I am the finest medium in the city, not some charlatan the likes of those guys," she declared archly and without a hint of her former sadness, hiding the gold in the folds of her clothes while motioning at a passing patrol, as if the wardens were her direct competition in reading fortunes.
"Can you tell me about what's happening with my friend? His name is Krian."
"Krian?" the fox smiled. "Do you have any idea how many Krians there are under the sun? Can you at least pinpoint your friend's location?!"
She's right, Max thought. In the early stages of the game's development, the Realm of Arkon's creators had decided against implementing unique characters. Instead, every name was assigned a unique and hidden ten-letter code, which had proved to be a nearly insurmountable obstacle in his search for Alyona not long ago. On the other hand, if it weren't for this code, he could never be simply "Max" in the game.
"He's in some kind of cursed princedom that's in Demon Grounds. In another plane of reality," he explained.
"I know about Demon Grounds," the raven-haired medium nodded. Gathering up the scattered figurines, she immediately threw them back down.
There was a soft clapping sound and the smell of ash in the air as a small cloud of dazzling sparks began to form over the straw mat. To his surprise, Max noted that some of the figurines had changed shape and increased in size while mid-flight. It wasn't that he'd forgotten he was in a magical realm, but the spectacle was so visually striking that he didn't immediately notice that the girl's features were likewise changing, becoming sharper somehow, her eyes now glowing a sorcerous blue color. The werefox reached out and picked up a black figurine depicting a frightening horned male. Biting her lower lip, she spoke in a serious tone:
"There's more to your friend than meets the eye, Gray One. He must be the reason for all that's been happening to you..."
"What are you talking about? And why are you calling me 'Gray One?'" asked Max, his heart starting to race.
"I called you 'Gray One' because that is what you are," explained the girl. "Or would you rather I call you a Night Hunter?"
Max had long realized this was no simple fortune-telling, and the girl was no simple NPC. He remembered the system message that said only certain high-level NPCs were capable of recognizing his belonging to the Night Hunters can. Who was she, really? Royalty disguised as a commoner? A goddess descended from the heavens? And why was it he hadn't even asked for her name? Max wasn't known to make such unforgivable blunders when engaging comely representatives of the fairer sex...
"Who are you? What is your name, and how do you know that I am one of the Night Hunters?" the warrior hurried to correct all his oversights.
"You've never met a Tylwyth Teg female? We're practically family," the fox gave him a broad smile. "Much like your kind, my people populate the Wild Wood, and can assume certain shapes. By saving your kin, you have also saved mine, and for that I am grateful. My name won't mean anything to you, and as for the rest... Your friend has been dragged into a grim and dire prophecy, and since your paths are destin
ed to cross at some point, you and his sister have been pulled into it as well. Your future now hinges on his actions. Make no mistake, the two of you still have your own destinies and free will, but I get the sense you won't leave his side in this battle," she said with a hint of sadness. "I cannot tell you any more at this time. And not because I don't want to—I simply don't know. Not even gods can see all of the future, to say nothing of a simple seer..."
"But how—" Max began to speak through his shock, his buzz irreversibly gone.
"Not another word, warrior!" the girl stopped him with a finger to his lips. "You've already sidetracked me from what I wanted to do."
"What was it you wanted?" he stammered out.
"I wanted to read your fortune. But you had to bring your friend into the mix, and I hadn't even known about his existence."
"All right, read my fortune, then..."
"Five gold," the fox held out her hand.
"Here," Max handed over the gold, feeling like a complete idiot.
Somehow he knew that he was about to be swindled, but he couldn't help himself. There was just too much charm radiating from this creature, so much so that he doubted any hot-blooded male could resist her.
"As for you, Gray One, you're going to be all right. I very much hope so, at least, and your eleven gold are going to serve as a security deposit of sorts." Slipping the money her the clothing, the girl drew closer to him in a fluid motion, threw her arms around his neck, gave him a peck on the cheek, and literally vanished into thin air. He thought he heard her tinkling laughter somewhere on the fringes of his consciousness as the black fox's tail flickered its farewell amidst the moving crowd.
"Hey, old chap, whatcha doing sitting there?" a patrolman's voice pulled the warrior back into reality. "Got a tag?"
"Sure, here it is," Max got back to his feet, still not quite having processed what had just happened, and handed the dour-looking elf the local equivalent of a permit.
"Are you all right?" the soldier returned the tag after passing a palm over the round scrap of leather.
"Yes, quite all right, thanks," Max nodded. "I was just tired and wanted to get some rest."
"All right, then," the elf grunted, turned to his mates and nodded, and the patrol squad was off.
What exactly did you get yourself into, Roman? All these prophecies, gods and demons... Swindler though she may have been, the fox had indirectly confirmed what Alyona had said the night before. It might take another binge drinking session with Donut to untangle all these threads, but he wasn't quite ready for that yet. "Tylwyth Teg," he repeated the strange name to himself. Another shapeshifting people, evidently. The rogue had mentioned that the Wild Wood was home to more than just the cat family, but many other interesting species besides. And why did she say eleven gold when he had given her only ten? Could she have been the same beggar girl that had burned down the inn?! Quite possibly, but even so, who was she, really? Max reached into his bag and felt for the piece of sausage he had picked up from that doomed establishment—a memento. Enough, no use wasting energy on guesswork, Max decided. Verifying his location against the map, he moved on toward his destination.
One of the doors of the opened consulate gate depicted a critter with dark brown fur and a tail. Like many visitors hailing from a big city, Max had never seen a marten in person, having only heard that the creature preyed on birds, squirrels and rodents. Yet, he didn't doubt for a second that he was looking at one—why would the elves of a house honoring this very creature depict any other on their front gate?
"Taure varno? What brings you to the doorstep of our House's consulate?" asked a stately fair-haired elf standing watch at the door.
"Good day," the warrior offered a greeting. I have business with the quartermaster of the High House of Marten, and I would be grateful if you pointed me to him."
"Ryhn Yssair does not sell weapons and armor to those who don't serve the Great Prince Goherym."
"I'm not here to shop," Max shook his head. "Quite the opposite, I have something that might be of great interest to your quartermaster." With those words, he produced from inventory a massive bone skull, roughly five times the size of a horse's, demonstrating it to the guard.
Times like these, the comical element of this world was all too apparent. Max imagined lugging something like this to some museum in Moscow... He would have needed to transport it in the backseat of his car, since he sincerely doubted he'd be allowed into the subway with a skull of this size. And at nearly sixty pounds in weight, physically carrying it anywhere would be an ordeal in its own right. But here, Gaerryon's skull took up a mere three slots in his bag, and felt no heavier than a piece of foam.
A shadow of surprise flickered across the elf guard's impassive face. He nodded to Max and motioned toward an elongated two-story log cabin to the right side of a four-story hand hewn tower—the main building on the territory of the consulate.
"Ryhn Yssair is in his quarters. The entrance to the treasury is around back."
"May I ask a question?" Max said, putting the bonehound's skull away. "What was it you called me when I first came up?"
"It wasn't me who called you that," the guard chuckled. "Taure varno is what our Father called you when choosing you to be one of his protectors. To my knowledge, you are the first two-lived to have merited this great honor. It was quite a surprise at first, but I see now that you truly are deserving of this exalted title."
I bet he was surprised, Max thought to himself, but didn't say anything. Instead, he simply thanked the guard, and headed toward the treasury.
Ryhn Yssair was a level 220 elf, short of stature and advanced in age. His dress was similar to that of the guard at the gate, featuring the yellow-brown colors of his House, the main distinction amounting to a fanciful and seemingly chaotic ligature sewn into the right sleeve of his top. Sizing up the warrior with hawkish, widely set eyes, he gave a nod and asked—in a surprisingly polite manner for an elf of his apparent standing—as to the purpose of Max's visit.
After taking his time studying the trophies laid out on the table, Yssair gave another nod and left to an adjacent chamber. Returning not three minutes later, he silently set a voluminous leather satchel before the warrior. One thousand eight hundred gold coins. Max saw this even without needing to count—the real mystery here was how the quartermaster had known the exact number of people involved in killing the two bosses. Then again, did it really matter? The experience gain was surprisingly meager as compared to the main quests—not even enough to level up—and his reputation with the House of Marten remained neutral. For a moment Max considered the paradox of being respected with the race as a whole, but only neutral with all the High Houses. Wasn't virtually every elf NPC already a member of some High House? Was this an oversight on the part of the game's creators, or was there a deeper layer here yet unseen?
"Would you explain to me why the High House of Marten is in need of such trophies, ryhn?" he inquired after putting the money away. It wasn't that he was dying to know, but he felt kind of awkward leaving without another word. And besides, it was a chance to ask questions of an elf who, if his position was any indication, probably had access to the Great Prince himself.
"Isn't it obvious?" his expression unchanged, the quartermaster peered into the warrior's eyes. "By selling the trophies to us, you share your glory with the High House of Marten. The number of seats in the Council of Branches is limited, and their allocation is done in accordance with the accomplishments of each organization. Need I explain further?"
"So, the High House that garners the most glory will win the most seats on this council?" Max had only heard of the Council of Great Princes, but he wasn't about to betray his political ignorance. "And this Council of Branches... is that like a parliament?"
"Aye, that is correct," the elf nodded. "His Highness Goherym is a wise ruler. When your people have appeared in our lands, his adopted a shrewd policy that resulted in roughly one thousand of your kind wearing the colors of our
House. Of course, only the most deserving merit this honor, but the opportunity is there for everyone."
"You mention 'my people' and 'my kind?'"
"The two-lived—how was that unclear? Your arrival is recent, and though you associate with us, your behavior more resembles that of humans. Which is confirmed by the stories of those we've accepted into the fold." He gave a somewhat bemused Max a flat look. "Yes, I know about the game, and that you all used to be human. And that you all had to die upon your arrival here. And it makes sense—the humans died so that dark elves would be born. What is so strange about that?"
"Well, if you know all that, then you know that you all, um..." Max faltered, not knowing how to finish the phrase without offending his interlocutor.
"Are you trying to say that we were all... computer programs?" ryhn said with a pause. "Nonsense! Every one of us remembers their life to the smallest detail."
"How do you explain all this, then?"
"The mages think that your kind have been placed by the Demiurge into the inanimate mirror reflection of our world. And the moment you matured for the migration, it happened. But does any of that really matter?"
"I suppose not," Max muttered, conceding that the elf had just articulated a rather viable theory. How many more of those would appear in the world before everybody would truly stop caring one way or another? A mirror reflection? Like a training simulator? And all the mobs and bossed slain before the patch had respawned... But the achievements had remained! Yet another paradox? Or... The elf was right—what did it matter?! It had been two months since they became dark elves, and the circumstances of their transformation were immaterial.
"You're still young, warrior. And weak," the quartermaster continued. "But the Great Forest doesn't distinguish its children for naught. Should you and your companions wish to take up the colors of our High House, that wish would be satisfied. Ryhn Dianel works with new recruits. He can tell you about all the privileges and advantages if you wish to—"
