A Song of Shadow (The Bard from Barliona Book #2) LitRPG series
The Bard from Barliona, Volume 2
Vasily Mahanenko and Eugenia Dmitrieva
Published by Magic Dome Books, 2018.
The Bard from Barliona
a LitRPG series
by Eugenia Dmitrieva
and Vasily Mahanenko
Album #2: A Song of Shadow
Magic Dome Books
The Bard from Barliona
Book # 2: A Song of Shadow
Copyright © Eugenia Dmitrieva, Vasily Mahanenko 2018
Cover Art © Timur Kvasov 2018
English translation copyright © Boris Smirnov 2018
Published by Magic Dome Books, 2018
All Rights Reserved
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The Dark Herbalist LitRPG series
by Michael Atamanov:
Video Game Plotline Tester
Stay on the Wing
A Trap for the Potentate
The Way of the Shaman LitRPG series
by Vasily Mahanenko:
Survival Quest
The Kartoss Gambit
The Secret of the Dark Forest
The Phantom Castle
The Karmadont Chess Set
Shaman’s Revenge
Clans War
The Hour of Pain (a bonus short story)
Dark Paladin LitRPG Series
by Vasily Mahanenko:
The Beginning
The Quest
Restart
Mirror World LitRPG Series
by Alexey Osadchuk:
Project Daily Grind
The Citadel
The Way of the Outcast
The Twilight Obelisk
Perimeter Defense LitRPG Series
by Michael Atamanov:
Sector Eight
Beyond Death
New Contract
A Game with No Rules
Phantom Server LitRPG Series
by Andrei Livadny:
Edge of Reality
The Outlaw
Black Sun
The Neuro LitRPG Series
by Andrei Livadny:
The Crystal Sphere
The Curse of Rion Castle
The Reapers
Table of Contents:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
From the Authors
About the Authors
Chapter One
Re-entering Barliona turned out harder than I imagined. My fingers trembled as they reached for the capsule’s sensors. My memory unkindly replayed the terrible agony I’d experienced during the changing of my alignment. It wasn’t right. Who came up with the idea of torturing players like that? Or was this supposed to be a particular ‘penalty’ for switching to the dark side? A tacit punishment for choosing the faction of the gameworld’s villains? And if so, what would I face later?
As soon as I slid into the capsule, the first thing I did was carefully double-check the sensory filter settings. Everything was as before—a pain threshold of 10%. After a couple seconds’ hesitation, I turned this down to five percent. Realism is good and all, but I think I’ve had enough. More than enough.
Welcome to Barliona!
An updated Lorelei the Captivating looked at me reproachfully from the game’s loading screen. There hadn’t really been anything captivating about her before, aside from her epithet. Now, new, small and sharp thorns protruded from her aquamarine epidermis, their arrangement forming whimsical patterns in some places and completely chaotic ones in others. The epidermis itself was streaked with little black veins which contributed to the ornament’s eeriness. The veins reminded me of the kind that frequently appear in holofilms as a symptom of some plague spreading through the victim’s circulatory system. However, instead of the branching of vessels, these veins formed something like a runic script on my Blighted Biota. Perhaps this creative tattoo meant something in one of Barliona’s languages. The only question was whom to ask for assistance in decoding it: a botanist, a dermatologist or a linguist.
My avatar’s eyes had changed too: A regular green glow had consumed the iris and pupil. Strange—in the video from the web, the shaman’s eyes had seeped with fog during the transformation. Was this a racial trait? Or was my scenario different? It didn’t do any good to guess—I was better off entering the game and figuring things out on location.
I don’t know what I expected—fanfare and an achievement like ‘You have become the first player of Shadow’ or maybe heaps of presents from the renegades, moved to the bottom of their hearts by my selfless deed—but whatever it was, nothing happened. Nothing at all.
I was even upset for a second: That Shaman Mahan got an epic sacrifice from the top players, trips to the ancient past, a unicorn on a leash, but little old me...all I got was a camp full of renegade vegetables. No fortifications, major facilities, haunted castles or even ordinary old houses. The place looked less like the headquarters of sinister conspirators, and more like a temporary camp for some tourists to spend a few days. Even the Sixth’s ‘throne room’ was little but a simple meadow, albeit covered in blight. Although, I have to admit that the conspirators’ tents were kind of pretty: Instead of the players’ typical tents and huts, these were large cup-shaped flowers, whose stalks grew normally and then doubled over at about half-height so that the actual flower would cup a plot of ground.
Renegades from both races were running to and fro between the tents, individually and in units. Sentries in polished armor stood about; cauldrons boiled over bonfires under the watchful eyes of pirqs, awaiting troops returning from their missions. The ones about to set out were checking their weapons and equipment, going over their orders; a little off to the side, at a safe distance, some mages and bowmen were practicing.
All of this stood in contrast with the scenario I had seen in which Geranika recruited an apprentice, thus putting me on the thought that my plot line would be somewhat different.
“You’ve spent a long time coming to your senses, my new ally,” a voice said so unexpectedly that I started and turned quickly.
Elegantly-attired, as if he’d just returned from a soiree, Geranika stood in the meadow smiling. It’s odd to smile like that. Like a cat that was deliberating whether to eat the mouse now or play with it some more.
“The process turned out to be a fairly...painful.”
The mere memory of it made me start.
“You had to be reborn, Lorelei. And birth is always a painful process. For a human, for an idea, for a new world order...”
As Geranika went on speaking, I tried to understand what the great villain wanted from me. I doubt he’s
about to pull out a celebratory cake with a burning candle and suggest I make a wish.
“A new empire is being born, Lorelei,” Geranika went on. “An Empire of Shadow. A great war is coming and like any emperor, I will need useful people. Companions, strong and faithful. You are a special free citizen, Lorelei. You were unafraid to join the side of the renegades. You accepted Shadow, despite the loathing of those who live in Malabar and Kartoss. I find you interesting.”
I listened in silence.
“But interest on its own is insufficient,” he went on. “You are still too weak and I doubt you will be useful to my empire.”
I perked up my ears. I doubt I’d survive another ‘trial’ like the last one. To hell with that. I’d rather delete my avatar and start again than go through that again.
“I can help you become stronger.” Fog whirled in Geranika’s open palm. “But first you must prove to me that you can be useful, Lorelei. Prove to me that I should expend my time and effort on you.”
Quest available: Impress the Lord of Shadow.
Description: The Lord of Shadow seeks allies, but it’s no simple task to join their number. Do something that will earn Geranika’s consideration.
Quest type: Unique chain. Reward for completion: Variable, next quest in the chain. Penalty for declining the quest: -20 Attractiveness with Geranika.
So the rumors are true. Ever since Kartoss became a playable empire, the fora have been rumbling about a new Shadow faction. The wildest flame wars raged about the question of whether players would be able to play for Shadow. It looks like I now know the answer to that.
“I will do this,” I promised and noticed Geranika’s lip jerk just barely before he vanished.
I was left alone in the middle of the camp. Neither the Sixth nor her bodyguard were around. A short stroll around the encampment didn’t afford me anything apart from the esthetic pleasure derived from the exotic flora-architecture, some observations of army life in the field, and the benefit of breathing some fresh air. The typical gaming infrastructure I was accustomed to, was entirely absent here. There were neither signs, nor barkers nor the barest indicator of where to go or what to do. Nothing but rows of flower huts, some sentries loitering beside them and the odd messenger hurrying past with a leather satchel. And that’s it. An ordinary guerrilla outfit, with a touch of the local, floral flavor. And how was I supposed to level up my character? How was I supposed to make scratch here? Where could I find the gear I needed?
The answer to the last question popped up on its own. Using the scientific method of poking around aimlessly, I came across the local quartermaster, hiding out in one of the flower huts. This biota was sitting so still that I initially assumed he was part of the decor, and I would have moved on if he hadn’t spoken up.
“I’ve never seen you before, Lorelei,” the renegade said flatly. He was ensconced in the same plate armor I had observed on all the guards in the city. The same combination of wood and metal, only the wooden parts of it were black. He had a whimsical name too—Palisandro.
“It was only recently that I...” I hesitated, trying to find the right word. Switched? Became blighted? Turned?
“Joined Astilba,” Palisandro came to my aid. He smiled compassionately. “I know that the first days are the hardest. The life you were used to has ended. Difficult trials in the name of our brothers and sisters who cannot yet even fathom our motives lie ahead of you. I remember how shocked I was at first. Do you know what helped me?”
“What?”
“Work. Occupy yourself with whatever it is that brought you here. Move toward your goal and your doubts will waft away like dried chaff.”
“Work...” I echoed. “I can’t even imagine where to start and who to ask...”
Palisandro’s thorny brows rose with surprise.
“Are you saying that no one has briefed you? Given you a quest? Assigned you to some task?”
I coughed with some confusion, recalling what an offline player looks like to an NPC. It’s like sleep, but I suppose you could call it a deep coma too.
“No. After my transformation, I lost consciousness and came to only recently.”
“It is a painful procedure,” Palisandro agreed. “At least now you get to experience a new power. Our strength has grown so much among these shadowy lands that there are no unwanted guests that would dare visit us.”
He had a point here. Whereas before the transformation the blighted ground would saddle me with a debuff, now it worked in the other direction:
Blighted Strength. +50% to all stats. +1% HP for every minute spent on blighted ground.
“Are there many unwanted guests that try to come here?” I asked.
“There will be quite a few soon enough,” Palisandro squinted unkindly. “So don’t waste time and prepare yourself properly. Choose the equipment you need and locate Yavar. He is personally in charge of the preparations.”
The equipment was available without any restrictions, unless you take level requirements into account. There was no required reputation status—friendship sufficed. However, the quartermaster’s inventory was hardly impressive. The same old assortment of vegetable, leather and metallic gear with the typical ‘Shadow’ skin and a modest +2 to various stats. Strictly speaking, some of my items weren’t any worse, but I dispensed with modesty and picked out a full set of blighted gear. At this point, another not-so-unimportant detail occurred to me: The ‘weight’ of the armor affected stamina cost as well as my spellcasting time. Wearing the lightest gear available, which consisted mostly of the leaves and stalks of mysterious plants, I could cast spells at my full capacity. Leather armor would penalize my stamina slightly. Chain mail had a serious effect on my stamina and a little one on my casting time, while plate armor really encumbered both. A quick search of the fora brought me to a thread full of complicated formulas, from which I surmised only that as long as my Strength and Constitution stats remained below certain thresholds, heavy equipment was not for me. If I were a pirq bard, for instance, I could calmly jingle jangle around in my heavy plate armor all day long.
I couldn’t help but recall the drawing I had seen on the forum: A pirq in what looked like knight armor (as it is depicted in historical films) with drums of skulls hanging on his chest. It looked impressive, but...As Pasha-Chip would say, it’s not for me. Which is too bad...I could imagine it now: I step out all dramatic like the heroine of a mega-blockbuster about elves, jingling my plate armor and lute and the enemies just collapse all around me...in laughter. After all Pasha and Sasha would surely be right behind me, making stupid faces and just generally clowning around in their uniforms.
On the other hand, this fact didn’t upset me in the least. The new gear looked quite solid—I was ready to step out on the stage of some goth festival. I wonder if I try to cosplay all this out in meatspace, whether I could wear this gear for a long time? I doubt it, considering the cute accessories like the belt and the bracelet of thorny rose and, even prettier, a necklace of the flowering branches of black bramble. The vaguely BDSM style was completed by a small, sheathed dagger hanging on my belt. It’s not like I really needed it, but the renegades were giving me the equipment for free, so why not grab the dagger too? There was no concrete calculation here on my part—I just figured it’d be nice to have a knife if I went out into the wild.
When I had finished, I surrendered to my vanity for a second and stepped up to the large mirror and turned on my camera in order to take a memorable selfie-hologram. Recalling my assignment to shoot footage for our video, I didn’t bother turning it off. The guys and I could select the more effective footage later and put together a nice clip.
“If you’ve satiated your narcissism,” Palisandro taunted me kindly, “you should go see Legate Yavar and get to work.”
Thanking the quartermaster, I set out to find the legate, relishing the creativity of the devs along my way. As Chip, my personal know-it-all, had explained to me, Barliona featured a mixture of old languages and
cultural traditions of all the different races and peoples of our real, human history. At this point, Sasha set off on a wide tangent, comparing tattoos and writing, but Pasha stopped him in time, begging the lecturer to go make tea in the kitchen. Otherwise our excursion into comparative anthropology could have cost us a few hours at least.
I located the legate at one of the countless huts that housed the renegades. I was expecting to see something like a yurt of the peoples of the north, but approaching closer realized that I had made a mistake. The hut was constructed of enormous leaves, three times my height. They were bound in a clever manner by means of some kind of sticky substance, to which small litter had managed to stick before it had dried.
Legate Yavar was a stocky pirq with a leopard’s markings, sealed in coal-black plate armor that sumptuously harmonized with his fur. The typical alterations caused by Shadow only made this NPC appear more vivid. The sword hanging from his side looked more like a mutated sickle with a long handle. And it was on this handle that he drummed with his fingers as he spoke with two other pirq officers also outfitted in black plate armor. Noticing me, Yavar dismissed his companions with a gesture and concentrated on my person.
“Ah, a recruit,” he rumbled in a throaty baritone, and looked me over from head to toe, paused at my lute and shook his head disapprovingly. “And what am I supposed to do with a little booger like you?”
I made a mental note to cut this phrase out of my video, otherwise, I could just sense that this ‘little booger’ would stick to me—courtesy of my idiot friends.
“Any ideas, centurion?” The legate glanced over at the colossal, jet black pirq standing beside us with a Zweihander.
The pirq growled grimly, raised his upper lip, baring a row of sharp teeth and grumbled with displeasure:
“What could you possibly do with her? The best she could do is be a buccinator, but then she’d have to swap her lute for a buccina. And yet this piece of brushwood wouldn’t even be able to lift the horn and were she to attempt to blow it, she’d fall apart to leaves...Better send her over to Altaik’s turma, I say.”
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