Reference information
Portals in Barliona
Static: Connects two points in space. Operated by subjugated demons. Not available for acquisition by players for personal use. Located in large cities or key points in Barliona.
Breach: Has a static point of departure and a dynamic point of arrival. The static point is operated by a subjugated demon, whose level must be at least five times higher than the level of the lock. The portal takes energy directly from the lock. A portal demon cannot be bought; it can only be subjugated, have its essence burned out, and be tethered to a portal.
Custom: Created by three Wizards. Enables transfer to any point on the continent. Cost of maintenance: 30% Energy per minute; Energy potions may be used during maintenance.
Teleport scrolls
Created by wizards, both NPCs and players. Enable transfer from any point on the continent to a specific point indicated in the scroll. Cost of using scroll always set according to zone 5.
Scale of distance and cost
Barliona charges a fee for using all types of portal. Players may set a surcharge to make a profit, usually 10–20% of cost of transfer.
Zone 1. 0–50 km. Cost: 11 gold
Zone 2. 51–100 km. Cost: 32 gold
Zone 3. 101–200 km. Cost: 84 gold
Zone 4. 201–300 km. Cost: 137 gold
Zone 5. 301+ km. Cost: 210 gold
After creating a character, any player could leave the nursery without training if they considered they had the strength to bring all comers to heel. All abilities could easily be gained automatically, without instuctors. This was done for those impatient ones who thought the wide world more attractive than the nursery. I was not one of them; I had plenty to do in the training camp.
Tarlin took my silent inaction as a sign of resignation and, readjusting his grip on my tail, dragged me back to my point of rebirth, clearly longing to see me run. A couple of times the interested faces of demon hunters flashed by, among whom I could make out a human, an orc, two elves, and not a single tiefling. The players grinned as they watched me go. Evidently it wasn’t every day they got to observe the taming of a shrewish half-demon.
When we got back to the point, the instructor flipped me over onto my feet. Drums and flutes began to play in my head from the abrupt change of position, and I felt sick again. It seemed my vestibular apparatus was not yet adjusted to the new reality. Tarlin produced a flask, forced my mouth open, and poured the contents into me. I had to swallow, or else I risked choking. The nausea passed immediately, and my HP shot up to maximum.
“The barracks! Thirty seconds! At the double, march!” Tarlin rapped out, making no secret of his hostility.
This time I didn’t argue. It isn’t a sin for generals to run during hostilities. I shot off so fast my hooves sparked, but when I got to the designated point, I froze and considered how I felt. In the real world, any acceleration without warming up meant wheezing and giddiness; here I didn’t so much as pant. I liked the feeling of having an agile, lissom, strong body. Tarlin stood next to me and didn’t intervene. He waited patiently until I familiarized myself with my recently created character. I opened the characteristics window and became absorbed in reading.
What first caught my eye was the absence of Liveliness. The very same headache which had made everyone more attentive to the game. You’d constantly had to remember how long you could run, jump, use your abilities, and carry out physical activities. Even I, a lowly level-ten player, had my fill of sorrow with Liveliness. One day I was whacking a hare in a clearing, but didn’t notice my Liveliness level in time, and dropped to the ground like I’d been poleaxed. I couldn’t stand, couldn’t sit, couldn’t move my arm. There was no one about to pour water into my mouth, so I lay there, enjoying the clouds and waiting for automatic recovery. The fluffy beastie, however, didn’t wait, and began to gnaw at me like a carrot, forgetting it was a herbivore. Level one hare-mob gnaws level-five player! If Barliona had a Darwin Award for the stupidest death, I would definitely have won it. And more than once. Now there was no Liveliness, and you could work out actively and not worry about getting tired. It’s probably the only time when advocates and opponents of changes in Barliona were united — without Liveliness the game became more dynamic and easier to master.
I did a few squats, eyeing the table carefully. Nothing changed, but the 3 on my Agility scale showed that skills grew during the process of carrying out an action. The four turtles supporting the mechanism of Barliona were included in the Main Characteristics block, and were called Stamina, Strength, Intellect and Agility. All parameters depended on them, from Energy and Health, to Attack and Chance of Avoidance. Each characteristic had its own scale of growth. Squats didn’t increase anything, but running at full speed had an impact on Agility. The people on the forums were right — now the scale filled up only as a result of real physical exertion. You couldn’t boost Agility by sitting in a chair, dangling your feet and picking your nose. You had to run, swim or jump, balls to the wall. Then mass would grow too, just like in reality. When you gained a new level, your main characteristics automatically increased by a point and you earned two bonus points, which you could spend on either additional characteristics or a specialization. You couldn’t boost the four turtles like that. If you hadn’t assigned your bonus points within five minutes of levelling up, the game did it for you. If there was nowhere to assign them, they burned up. Not very nice, but very convenient for beginners. Especially those who didn’t like spending time to “think,” considering it a relic of the past.
There was nothing else of interest in the characteristics window. Attack and Protection had some formulae, but I wanted to deal with them with a calculator, and in reality. There was no reminder of the bonus for registration, which was disappointing. Everything else was pristine.
“Twenty-eight seconds!” Tarlin waited for me to get bored of looking at my virtual doll, then continued to roast me. “Two hundred meters in twenty-eight seconds! Were you running on all fours?”
“I can’t go any faster, I need to train,” I said honestly. In the real world, honesty and self-criticism were an excellent way to disarm your opponent. Why shouldn’t it work in Barliona?
“So what are you doing here when the training camp’s empty?” The instructor abruptly changed the course of the conversation. Now I was guilty of not training. Which was better than being seen as a weakling.
“Can you begin by enlightening the unenlightened?” I stuck to my guns. “Which course is meant for newbies? I don’t want to turn up at the advanced one and have everyone die laughing at my failure. Who would be responsible for their deaths?”
“You’re going to retch like a pregnant tortoise on the first one anyway.” The impervious instructor waved a hand in the direction of the assault course. “It’s that way. The instructor’s name is master Gurt. Muster is every six hours. Latecomers and no-shows take a dive into the Abyss. You’ll be living in this barrack. Go and register, then get training, newbie. I don’t want to see you until you’ve completed the course with full marks.
Task received: Step 1. Start of training
Description: Class-specific task. Complete newbie assault course. Minimum completion score: 7 out of 10. Completion time unlimited.
Reward:
Experience: +5
Reputation with Light of Barliona faction: +1
Access to next training step
Bonus for course completion with full marks: +1 to all main characteristics
First up I went to check out the barrack. It was almost empty, only one of the twenty bunks occupied. The game obligingly offered me the choice of the free ones, and since I wasn’t planning to spend the night in Barliona, I put my hand on the bed closest to the exit.
I froze. Only now did it strike me how easy it was to walk on hooves; no less so than on feet. And I might have been born with a tail. Focusing on my glutes, I wiggled my buttocks. A good looking lad! Pfft, a good tail, and it would come
in handy in the game, as a third lower limb or an extra argument in a fistfight. The main thing was to tense the right buttock at the right time. Imagining my backside clenching there and then in the pod, I couldn’t resist a sarcastic smile. So that was it, the tieflings’ bonus — a toned butt for free! I would have to push the idea to the masses on a women’s forum. It was quick and cheap, and if you waved it around like a huge fan, in a month you could be posting “before and after” photos.
“What are you smiling about, goat?” A gruff voice returned me to the game. Here we go!
Two level-three players barred the way to the training camp. Braksed the elf and Kurtune the human, sharing the second name Vartalinsky. They must have been brothers, at least in mind. Outwardly the pair looked very different from the players hovering behind them. If the rest wore simple shirts and pants, and many even had no shoes, Braksed and Kurtune were not badly kitted out: full leather armor, rings, chains, helmets, and heavy belts with several bags. Even by my inexperienced reckoning they were dressed more than sufficiently for level three of a closed location. What were guys like them doing in the nursery?
“Smell the light!”
Something bright lit up in the hands of the elf, and the light produced an unpleasant chill in my body, making me twitch. The same feeling as when I was reborn in the temple. Back then I’d thought it was a smell, but I was wrong — it was the effect light magic had on me. The closer it came, the worse the pain and shivering. Reflexively I shoved a fist out in front, wanting to punch the scumbag, but it went straight through him unhindered. They couldn’t lay into me on the training camp, but ruining a tiefling’s physical and mental health with light magic would be a piece of cake.
“I don’t get it,” frowned Braksed, turning a blind eye to my attempt at retribution. “Why isn’t he doubled up?”
“You’re all fingers and thumbs,” said Kurtune. “Give it here.”
He grabbed the shining sphere and set it to maximum brightness. These guys were a team because they worked well together. My body felt the chill once more. I’d reduced my sensitivity threshold to ten percent just in time.
“What’s going on here?” Supervising Instructor Drumm appeared just as the pointlessness of the Vartalinskys’ actions was becoming apparent. The menacing werewolf, covered from head to toe in thick fur, looked funny in his demon hunter’s leather clothes, but his natural charm, bestowed on him by Barliona’s artists, precluded any joking on the subject. His contemptuously raised upper lip bared sharp fangs, and the look he gave everyone around was particularly noteworthy. It was the look you gave to the dead wood beneath your feet.
“Let’s exorcise demons!” laughed Braksed and Kurtune, ignoring the charisma of the NPC. I breathed a sigh of relief — there were even school kids here! These two were no older than twenty, and had no brains and no brakes, but enough attitude to pave a road out in the sticks. Mommy and daddy had given them money, but not bothered with manners. The gilded youth in all its loathsome glory. Adolescents who had lost their minds to overindulgence and tedium. Multiply that by the opportunities of Barliona, and you get players with no mind disobeying the rules.
“The light of Eluna has little effect on tieflings. If you want to banish a half-demon, ask your parents to buy you a brain.” NPCs could also pick out the golden guys. “Have you completed my task?”
“No.” Kurtune stroppily screwed up his face. “We’ve still got two hours.”
“I’ll be waiting for your results. Put the Drop of Light back where it belongs. You’ll be penalized for using it.” Drumm cast another disdainful glance over us and went off to attend to his business. The scene was boring without him, so I went to find the newbie assault course.
“Flea-ridden mutt,” spat Braksed. “Three thousand gold!”
“Forget it, our folks will cough up.” Kurtune waved it away and called to me: “We haven’t finished with you, goat-boy!”
He got no reaction, so he caught me up and blocked my path. I walked through him like he wasn’t there. Blatant disregard was one of the most terrifying punishments for them. At home they were used to everyone licking their asses, and they expected the same here. Braksed shouted after me that he’d find me in reality and chastize me, but all my attention was now on the training camp.
Next to the portal was a small muster station. On one side of it stood barracks — four for players and one for instructors. On the other side were two assault courses enclosed by a low fence. A newbie course and a basic course. Beyond them were another two — the mid- and high-level courses, along with an obscure wooden tower similar to a high diving board. “Minimalism and practicality” was evidently the guiding motto of the cartographer who created this place. A huge hullabaloo and the shouts of the instructors — the training process was in full swing.
“We haven’t finished with you yet!” I caught one last threat from behind me before I stepped onto the course and all external sounds disappeared — the magic fence had superb sound insulation inward, only letting noise out. Nothing should distract a student from his training. The newbies’ course consisted of ten obstacles one after another. You had to walk, crawl, run or jump, avoiding swinging axes, spiked clubs, firewalls, spears, and other devices that would hamper your painless transfer from point A to point B. There were no safety mats or stage props, only red-hot iron and fire. There was a player on the course as I arrived. He skipped nimbly under the swinging chopper, flew between the incandescent slabs, scarcely touching them, scrambled adroitly over the barbed-wire net, and frustratingly didn’t react in time to a spike appearing from out of the ground.
“Seven out of ten, an excellent result,” boomed master Gurt, a green orc. “Marcon the Spoiled, I give you access to the basic level. Access to this course remains open to you until you complete all ten obstacles. Next!”
Marcon’s fall didn’t send him to be regenerated — with one HP he lay on the ground and waited for a healer. The next player stepped onto the course. He passed the first three tests with relative ease, but a powerful blow to the chest on the fourth knocked him out.
“Three out of ten. Waste of space!” Gurt was not happy with progress. “Number four to the start!”
The number “11” appeared in the upper part of my viewer — I had evidently received an electronic ticket to join the queue of fortunate souls. The bad news was that I had to attempt the course without any previous training.
“Number four to the start!” repeated Gurt louder. Number four was in no hurry to take his place, making everyone wait. Players milled about, exchanging quizzical glances and wondering whose turn it was. “Eredani!” Gurt shouted out a familiar name. “Where the hell are you? On the course, at the double!”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw something move over by the fence. Eredani sat and looked gloomily at the course, ignoring the instructor and everyone else.
“You want to go back to the Abyss?” asked Gurt, and the tiefling twitched. Begrudgingly Eredani stood up and moved slowly to the start, dragging his flaccid tail. After clambering up onto the platform, my horned fellow tribesman shivered, closed his eyes, and took off at a pace. The first obstacle was the slabs crashing into each other. Even I, who had never stepped on a course before, could have got through, but not Eredani. The slabs collided, crushing the tiefling to the sound of his doleful “oofs” and “aahs”, and a second later we watched empathetically as a compacted briquette fell to the ground.
“Again?! Nought out of ten. Waste of space. Next!”
The duty priestess restored the tiefling’s health, and Eredani quietly headed back to his place by the fence. I went a little closer to the course, to train mentally along with the players attempting it. It would soon be my turn, and none of my predecessors had got further than the fifth obstacle, which was making Gurt all the more angry and disconsolate. When my turn came, the orc just waved a paw, unhopeful of my success. I didn’t let him down. The first obstacle really was too elementary to embarrass myself on, but next c
ame the spikes popping up from below, and no matter how long I studied them for, I could see no pattern in their appearance. As a result I crashed out straight after the first obstacle.
“One out of ten. Waste of space!” Gurt had a good look round the group and said, “Get training! You’re demon hunters, not legless, blind pieces of meat. You’ve got to be quick and agile like the hare, not slow like the tortoise. The next test is in five hours. Get to work!”
The training camp shimmered and faded, and in its place appeared ten simulators, the same as on the course, only you weren’t required to have completed the previous levels. Players rushed to their problem sections to work on their movements. Several demon hunters were able to train simultaneously on the same piece of equipment, passing effortlessly through each other’s projections. Each had its own virtuality, which was both good and bad. Good because you could observe and repeat the movements of an experienced player. Bad because you could become confused with all the projections, and not notice a trap under your feet. Before joining the others, I wanted to clear up an important question with the instructor.
A Second Chance Page 8