by G. Akella
"You had us scared there," Phylatrim sighed to his right. "In our memory, no one has ever lingered in the Phantasmal Wood for so long. You were supposed to wake up in an hour, but it's been eight hours! I know that the passage of time is different there, but still. Anyway, it's all behind us now. Welcome to the pack, brother!" the werepanther literally pulled Max off the altar and wrapped him up in a mighty embrace.
They waited there a while longer for Rutgen to hoist the carcass of a deer they'd killed in the night onto the altar and build three small bonfires around the shrine, the smoke from which seemed to draw toward the wooden sculpture in the most peculiar way. And when the day broke completely, Phylatrim shifted into an enormous panther with patches of gray fur on the sides, and gave the order to move out toward the castle.
They communicated in the party channel, Max having been invited to join at the very outset of their journey here. Whether the communication was telepathic for the shifters or they used chat options like the players, Max didn't know—and didn't particularly care. Why would he? Excess knowledge could only lead to unneeded burdens. He never could understand people digging for some higher truth without purpose. What was the point of airing dirty laundry of events long gone? Or pestering a woman you're with at the present about her past? Or slinging dirt at celebrities? Did any of those things make things better for anyone? Max liked this world better than the one he'd come from, so what did it matter if it functioned by computer programs or elements from the Periodic table? The important thing was that it existed. Sure, it operated by its own laws and customs, some of which were rather harsh. On the other hand, the conditions were equal for all. If you wanted respect, you had to earn it. There was no corrupt media here, no morally bankrupt elites who were above the law. If you acted like a prick, you were bound to get your clock cleaned; women weren't totally defenseless before violence; and, most importantly, not a single action of yours could be hidden from the System. Total control, you say? And what is so bad about that? Would life have been worse off in that other world if every killer was marked with a bloody-red legend above their head? No, this world was unequivocally more just, and the warrior didn't give a damn about its composition or laws of development.
"You've got some brawn on you, brother," Phylatrim chuckled, admiring Max's true form.
"You're not so puny yourself," the warrior returned his chuckle. "I've got a ways to go to catch up."
Indeed, the Night Hunters' lord was bigger than the gray cat by a factor of one and a half at the very least.
"Ha, compare your age with mine! We grow our whole lives, you know." Making a circle around Max, Phylatrim gave an astounded shake of the head. "The Departed surely favors you, Gray One."
"What makes you all think that he departed somewhere?" Max snorted. "He didn't. He just didn't feel like talking to you when you called for him."
"Wait," seating himself on the ground, the lord shot a quizzical gaze at Max. "How do you know this?"
Having shifted into a spotted cat that resembled an Earth's jaguar, the shaman drew closer, stopping next to the patriarch, and focused his attention on Max.
"And I wouldn't say he favors me, either," Max continued, ignoring the lord's question. "He dressed me down like some kitten and didn't explain a damn thing before disappearing. Aside from the passive skill he granted me—that should prove useful."
"Are you telling me Urkhunt himself appeared to you during your initiation?!" Rutgen's jaw dropped, exposing a set of huge white fangs to the world. Phylatrim didn't look any better. In fact, Max even felt a sense of pity for the two of them.
"Well, yes... And at the worst possible moment, too," the warrior recalled the butterfly scene, and giggled to himself.
"And?! What did he say?!" Phylatrim shifted from paw to paw in anticipation.
"If you're expecting a slew of revelations, I must disappoint you." Max bit his itching shoulder, surprising himself at actually being able to do it, and looked back at the lord. "He spoke about the dangers of the Ancients' invasion, and admonished me for being too nosy instead of handling my business."
"So he knows about Goherym's letter?"
"I believe so," getting up on all fours, Max lashed his side with his tail. He desperately wanted an end to this interrogation. He wanted to run through the forest, feeling as one with his surroundings, to leap over fallen trees and sniff out the myriad scents mingling in the air.
"Gray One! Focus!" Phylatrim growled. "I know how it is in the first days of acquiring one's true form—the beast easily dominates the mind. That is why we let the young ones loose in the forest for a few weeks, but you don't have such a luxury! Think, did the great Urkhunt approve of your mission?!"
"All he told me was to keep doing what I'm doing. Nothing else."
"This is all very strange," Phylatrim rose, casting a brooding gaze at the nearby trees. "I've been alive nearly half a millennia, and I have never met a single Great Essence. Whereas you've managed to speak with three deities in the span of several months."
"There's nothing strange about it," Max said with a sigh. "It's because of my friend. He became entangled in some epic storyline. Now everything that's happening to me is essentially a byproduct of the hardships that have befallen him. I'm not sure how else to explain it."
"What makes you say that?" asked the shaman who had been silent all this time.
"Sata basically stated as much."
"Doubtful that a goddess would lie. And yet, I shudder to imagine what your friend has gotten himself into if these are but side stories while his is the main narrative."
"Shall we run to Syruan?" Max turned his eyes to the lord. "You said it yourself, there's no time to spare. I'll tell you everything I know on the way."
"You're right, brother." The black panther crouched, then leaped to the edge of the meadow. Turning to the others, he roared. "Come! We really mustn't waste any time."
Chapter 12
Dusk descended upon Vesperylle surreptitiously. Though the crimson sun still clung to the crowns of trees to the west, a white mist was already rising from the water—like a living organism seeking to encroach upon land, but kept at bay by the breeze blowing into the river.
Max had been sitting here on the bank of Orianna for nearly an hour, gazing pensively as the full-flowing river carried its waters toward the South Ocean. Behind him, the city was slowly preparing for sleep.
The elves reminded Max of residents of European cities, at least the ones he'd been able to visit in years past. There was a stability to their lives, an order that was rarely questioned. You worked during the day, and slept at night. Even referring to their holidays as "holidays" would be a stretch. Back in Ellorian Max had chanced to witness a wedding procession, only he would never have guessed it was a wedding if Donut hadn't clued him in—the elves' expressions were no different from those on their morning commute to work in a Moscow or New York subway. Now, technically, shapeshifters didn't consider themselves elves, but that was their delusion. Sure, their skin was a shade lighter than the dark elves', but given that the difference in skin tone between dark elves and their light cousins wasn't entirely unlike that of a man at the end of a summer spent on the beach and the same man in the dog days of winter, all this talk about racial disparities was starting to feel a little ridiculous. Thankfully, the Great Forest had recently received an infusion to the tune of four million players, and they were bound to shake up the dreary elven routine sooner or later. It would take time, sure, but life here was certain to change in a big way.
A fish splashed near the very shore, giving the warrior a start. With a chuckle, he reached into his inventory for a pipe, and lit up. He needed to analyze the events of the past day.
He and Phylatrim had arrived in Vesperylle the evening prior. Before leaving Max had had the pleasure of meeting Lady Isida, Tasha's mother, who pelted the warrior with no less than three hundred questions, the main focus of which was a certain fire mage he knew well. And no wonder, what with her darling
daughter coming home from the hunt one fine day betrothed to a complete stranger who wasn't even one of their own! What if he hurt her or wouldn't be there for her in good times and bad? Curiously, the fact that her darling daughter was plenty capable of shattering the spinal column of a beast three times her size, especially if executing a sneak attack while stealthed, wasn't taken into account at all. Truly, mothers were mothers, whether on Earth or in a virtual realm of might and magic. Not even Lord Phylatrim could save him from the interrogation. In a hurry, you say? Ancient Gods threatening the Great Forest, you say? That's nice... And utterly immaterial as compared to the impending Rite of the Scarlet Moon.
On the subject of the Scarlet Moon, Max had learned that the rite was only applicable to situations when the son or daughter of the tribe chose to join their destiny with an outsider. On the night of the initiation of the prospective groom or bride, the young couple would retreat into the forest and work in tandem to take down some special kind of deer (jeez, deer sure got the raw end of the deal, no matter the world they inhabited) and lap up the blood of their slain prey. Whether or not there was some sacral meaning behind it, Max didn't know. And why would anyone even ask him? Hell, his own initiation had lasted all night instead of the hour it took normal people, or rather normal elves.
At last, all the questions had been asked and answered. Upon seemingly succeeding in convincing the woman that Tasha couldn't dream of a better husband, Phylatrim pounced at once and literally dragged the warrior out of sight before a new deluge of questions could follow. Once in the square behind the castle barracks, they took a portal to the outskirts of the Nightcrawlers' capital.
On the face of it, Vesperylle looked to be the carbon copy of Ellorian, only smaller: the same Marlorien, the same cultivated buildings, the same terem-like towers. The devs didn't appear to be overly concerned with creating a unique design for these elven capitals, content to offer just enough variance to illustrate that you were in a different location. Then again, how much creativity could you realistically expect of your typical artist when elves didn't actually exist? Or rather, didn't exist until very recently? Moreover, anything these cities lacked in originality, they more than made up with pure visual grandeur. And besides, imagine an elf suddenly finding themself on Earth—how easily would they be able to tell London from Moscow?
They stopped at one of the Marlorien on the outskirts of town, at the home of Lady Isida's extended family. Their hosts gave them a hearty welcome, fed them, and didn't ask a single question. Tact was a valuable quality among non-humans as well—the interlocutor was free to share whatever they were comfortable with. Neither Max nor Phylatrim were keen on sharing, however, so the evening passed by uneventfully over small talk.
Max knocked out his pipe against the stump he was sitting on, and opened his character menu for want of anything better to do. He had allocated the seven available talent points of his true form the night before, with a focus on boosting his damage output. Alas, Kill maxed out at tier three; this talent might not have violated the game's balance outright, but surely it stretched that notion to the limit. Bite could only be raised by four points—additional development was only possible after level 200—and the last talent point went into Camouflage without much deliberation. In the end, the three altered talents looked as follows:
Camouflage II.
Energy: 160 points.
Instant cast.
Required: cave lion form.
Cooldown: 10 seconds.
You slip into the shadows, becoming invisible to your enemies.
All damage dealt from invisibility is increased by 25%.
Bite V.
Energy: 250 points.
Instant cast.
Cooldown: 2 seconds.
Minimum level: 150.
Required: melee range.
An instant attack that deals 100% damage on top of the base damage of the weapon equipped when shifted into cave lion form.
You sink your teeth into your opponent, dealing 180% damage every two seconds on top of the base damage of the weapon equipped when shifted into cave lion form. The attack has a 10% chance of applying a Bleed effect, multiplying your damage dealt by 200% over 1 minute. The Bleed effect can be stacked up to five times at the current skill level.
Kill III.
Energy: 650 points.
Instant cast.
Cooldown: 2 seconds.
Minimum level: 150.
Required: melee range.
You sink your teeth into your opponent's throat, dealing 4x critical damage from your Bite ability at the current skill level.
I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure a mage around my level can expect a quick and certain death, assuming I can sneak up on him undetected, Max grunted as he closed his character window. An interesting side note was that certain useful warrior talents like Death Blow and Sweeping Strikes could also be used in the true form. This might have been the main difference between true shapeshifters and shapeshifting druids—for the latter, each form came with its own special action bar. Of course, all these attacks were executed with paws while the damage was calculated based on the weapon equipped when shifted into the true form. Biting might been a perfectly acceptable form of attack in the animal kingdom, but given that the lion's taste receptors were no different from a human's, Max wasn't particularly enthused by the idea of biting into rotting zombie flesh or breaking his teeth on somebody's metal armor.
After allocating all of his cat's talents, Max proceeded to have a serious negotiation with himself as to his psychological readiness to rip open the throat of another living being. With his teeth. Thankfully, the negotiation didn't last long—he wasn't going to eat them, after all, but simply use his deadliest weapons to fight and kill. Sure, the thought of it was still unsettling, but there was no point in making a big thing out of it. In for a penny, in for a pound, right? And besides, he wasn't going to kill anyone without a reason, and if there was a reason, he would rip open the throat of his enemy even in elf form, if need be. Max recalled the battle with the necromancer at the two-faced goddess' shrine, and his fists clenched involuntarily. Monsters like that needed to be dispatched to the Gray Frontier by any means necessary, and his new form would serve that cause well.
Over breakfast Phylatrim said that in the afternoon he would head to the palace of Great Prince Irwine to request an audience for Max. This was the only option, as the great prince never entertained mere mortals. The meeting with Goherym had happened thanks to a fortuitous confluence of circumstances, but that wasn't going to fly here. And Max wanted to avoid confiding the particulars of the mission entrusted to him by the ruler of the Martens to anyone else, even one of the Great Prince's confidantes.
He'd learned from Phylatrim that all the Nightcrawlers lords enjoyed the right—bestowed upon them millennia ago—to ask for an immediate audience with the Great Prince once every year. It was a sensible right. Max doubted that the mayor of some provincial town in Russia or even America had a shot in hell at getting a meeting with the nation's president at will. But here they could. And it didn't matter that the right could only be invoked once a year, or that the meeting would most likely only last ten minutes, unless the Great Prince decided to extend it, of course. What mattered was the chance to bring certain problems to the attention of the state authority in a timely fashion. And that was exactly what Phylatrim intended to do today. How is it going over there? Max wondered, glancing at his watch. The meeting should have ended by now, but there was no news of his blood brother. The party channel extended no further than a mile, and finding Max in a city that wasn't especially large shouldn't take more than half an hour. Max chased the worries away—the patriarch would find him if he needed to.
He gazed back out on the river, savoring these moments of solitude. He was free to dream about his future life with Alyona, about their unborn children... Somehow the warrior didn't doubt for a second that they would have them. Sure, that life was still a long ways away, but... He recalled t
he old adage: a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
Come morning, left to his own devices, Max was faced with a dilemma. Should he go see Redcliff the Whisperer for the Mysteries of History II quest or learn the Mining profession, which he had meant to do back in Ellorian but hadn't found the time? According to the map, Redcliff lived roughly eighteen miles from the city in a homonymous estate, so Max decided to visit him after the audience with the Great Prince.
It was close to ten in the morning when Max made it to the royal mines, situated just outside of town. A grim-looking elf in a weird brown robe named Arctehn tried to load him up with three quests to learn the profession for free while scoring a pickaxe and a small personal foundry in the process, all of which Max rejected without a second thought. He had no time to waste collecting low-quality ore, exterminating rats in the mine's lower levels, or preparing reports for the city council. What Max did have, however, was money. And he was more than happy to part with one gold to learn the profession, another fifty to buy a pickaxe with a +20 to Mining, and another two hundred for an improved personal foundry that boosted the output of pure metal when smelting by ten percent. Interestingly enough, the foundry weighed a whopping eleven hundred pounds and was shaped like a washing machine—Max remembered buying one just like it three years prior on the insistence of his ex-wide. Every smelting session consumed either vigor or mana, depending on the smelter's class and specialization. The ore was deposited into the foundry through an input at the top, and the newly smelted bars were ready for pickup from the contraption's lower section. After spending an additional two hundred fifty gold to stock up on ten tons of copper and five tons of tin ore, Max spent the next ten hours building up his Mining skill to 186 while producing one hundred seventy three bars: one hundred seventeen copper and fifty six tin, each weighing exactly two pounds. The best he could get for these bars at the auction house was twenty five gold, but he was easily assuaged by the knowledge that leveling the skill to 186 the old-fashioned way would have taken even the most assiduous player no less than three weeks, which the newfangled shapeshifter simply didn't have. And the metal he ended up with could be used to smelt over three hundred pounds of bronze using the recipes Max had purchased from Arctehn earlier. Unfortunately, the mine would be shutting down at eight in the evening, so Max bid his goodbye to the craftsman, having raised his reputation with him to respected, and headed back to the city, taking the scenic route along the riverbank.
