The Way of the Clan 4 by Dem Mikhaylov
The online game of Valdira. An enormous, mysterious world readily accepts anyone into its arms, with guaranteeing endless adventures, epic battles and fabulous treasures. Countless clans fiercely fight for land, participate in wars, spin intrigue and lead spy battles. And somewhere out there, in the endless expanses of Valdira, the adventures of Rosgard continue, thanks to fate and his own personal stubbornness. He has become the Great Navigator, destined to lead the naval armada and guide it directly to the ancient lost continent…
Series: The World of Valdira.
Book Four.
Thunder of Heaven.
Chapter One.
Mages Guild. The Global Quake. Tomorrow will be war!
The soft flash of teleportation brought be right to the main street of Algora at night. Around me was a smooth rush of citizens and players, hurrying nowhere. Among them one could notice prominent running figures, but very rarely— thanks to the city guard, most of the running through the main streets and city parks at night was limited. So as not to unnerve the residents and visitors of Algora deciding to take an evening stroll through the promenade.
Slowly stepping to the side, I perched by one of the nearby tables, smattered with colorful posters. I briefly paused, and looked around to the sharply changed environment. From a crude dungeon, straight into the lively looking “Street” at night— anyone would have fallen to a stupor. So I looked around, having the benefit of things to look at. And people.
The iridescent play of light emitted from seemingly tiny and trembling streetlamps in colored glass lamps, but the lighting itself was bright, and lit up the whole street, giving it an extraordinary coziness. Leaning against some of the lampposts were sets of narrow stairs— a large army of lamplighters, grumbling good-naturedly, inspected the lamps and added a special enchanted oil. It’s all these details which gave Valdira a special realism— lamplighters refueling lamps, superintendents waving brooms, and nagging housewives hanging clothing and linens on the drying lines— linens which can, in fact, be stolen. Everything as it really can be. Not an imitation of life, but a real life— even if it’s only digital.
The buds of many “night” plants flowered— those which, in the daytime, looked like normal greenery. Only at nightfall did they show their true splendor— huge, white and pale blue flowers with a distinct glow. Over these swarmed myriads of tiny fireflies and other glowing insects of all the colors of the rainbow. Also visible were slightly larger “clumps” of light— also swarming from flower to flower. If you get close and look more attentively, it is possible to discern a tiny nocturnal hummingbird or flower fairy, awakened at dusk and eager to collect sweet nectar and catch small insects, and perhaps having no idea that they themselves are one of the colorful elements of Algora’s nightly design.
Under this rich variety of colors are scattered, here and there, a bunch of cozy benches— made from a variety of materials, of various colors, sizes, and shapes, but all in all looking extremely convenient. Some, massive and short and made mostly of stone— as though created specifically for the dwarves. Others, made of many wild, interlacing plant shoots and various greenery— ideal for elves. Even achilots would not have trouble finding themselves a suitable bench— somewhere among the lawns, near the benches, were a few small round pools with crystal clear waters which allowed the achilots to see people and be seen. And even to talk, occasionally sticking their heads out of the water. From these aquariums the way out led straight to a lighted underground channel which, in turn, connects to any external body of water outside the city. Everything is provided— all taken into account.
On the benches were many couples admiring the surrounding splendor and the starry sky, which was no less magnificent. On the small surrounding tables stood vases with fruit, uncorked bottles of wine and champagne, and crystal wine glasses. Somewhere in the distance, a barely audible strumming of a guitar or mandolin— and a quiet female voice, singing brazenly that same immortal song:
-- How delightful are the evenings in Valdira. Let it be all a dream, and love be but a game, but let my wishes and embraces…
Players sauntered through the streets done up in their best suits and dresses.
As for the apparel variety, of course, the women were in the lead. There were lush skirts with numerous pleats and ruffles, tight corsets, elegant hairstyles and half-masks on their faces, fans in their fingers and languid smiles upon thin, parted lips. A huge variety of colors, styles, and eras. And I heard the clatter of heels on stone tiles. Women are always women, even if only in this ephemeral digital world.
The males were trying to keep up. Jackets embroidered with gold and silver, coats, Persian robes, sleeveless jackets, wide trousers, breeches, stockings, boots… one could not count it all. And many of the people had on elaborate masks a la Zorro. As a consequence— over the heads of each of these players was no mention of levels or clans. Only the inscription: Mr. Incognito. Or: Lady Mystery. And other inscriptions of the same kind. This was the feature of the masks— in certain central areas of the city, and only at night, the masks allowed one to hide their information and become, temporarily, a mysterious stranger.
This was convenient. Especially if one was a famous fighter, or a winner of a tournament— the head of a famous clan, or distinguished in something else which brought him universal fame or popularity in the world of Valdira. Or hatred— if you are the head of an Aggr clan, for example. How would one expect to walk through the streets of Algora with a lady on your arm, if insults rained down on you from all sides? Even the worst thief, accustomed to the very worst, would not like it. Masquerade masks solve this problem perfectly. Of course, so long that you do not forget to remove your conspicuous Mithril armor beforehand… otherwise, the disguise is good for nothing. And again— the magic does not have any effect on the city guard. Mask or not— they are able to see perfectly all the information they need. But the guards will not tell anyone.
Overall— a mask in the evening streets of Algora is the most reliable tool for getting rid of pesky gawkers, beggars, or other vengeful characters. And for a Baroness— a mask is of the most vital necessity. Otherwise they won’t leave her alone. And.. and for me too, I suppose. With all these adventures, I had almost forgotten quite how famous I had become in Valdira, and how many already knew my nickname. It was on everyone’s lips. As soon as one shouts: “Rosgard!” all those who have heard will be sure to respond— even if just a lazy look over their shoulder. And some would hurry to get to know me. And I do not want this at all.
Abruptly ceasing my admiration of the surrounding beauty, and briefly looking around, I was assured that my modest persona had not yet attracted any special attention, and darted to the left, where an old “local” was perched at a small neat counter. It was a plan wooden box on high legs, with a mirror mounted in a silver frame standing on top, facing the buyer. And an array of goods— unpretentious masquerade masks for ridiculous prices. And a bent handle was attached to the side of the box, from which a hardly audible melody rang out. I looked like it was even an instrument. Looking at me with expressionless eyes, the old man pursed his lips and, without saying a word, gestured towards his goods— choose, as they say, whatever the heart desires.
I can sure choose, no problem.. but money is tight. In general, no money at all. Only items. Maroon ragged cloaks, for example. Wet and singed, and ready for trading.
-- Good evening! – I began joyfully, squeezing out this joy with difficulty through a sudden overpowering fatigue.
-- Good indeed— the salesman answered, nodding shortly— Choose, good man. The items are short-lived, but fun! I’
ve got simple cloth masks, ones decorated with mother of pearl, there are ones trimmed with beads, multi-colored feathers… All different. All for good prices. No loss for you, and at least a little bit of a gain for me!
-- I’ll have a simple cloth mask— I answered quickly— Black. But here’s the trouble— I don’t have a penny.
-- Not a penny… then take your time leaving— offered the old man, his eyes flashing fun. Looks like I amused him.
-- Yes, I’d like to, but without a mask I can’t— I confessed, widely spreading my hands and looking nervously around.
-- So you’re a thief? – suggested the old man, clearly animating after each of my gems of bad verse.
-- More of a tyrant – I chuckled— Be a good man…give me the mask for now. And in an hour, well, maybe a little later, I’ll return and repay your heavy debt to the penny.
-- Smooth talker – sighed the seller— Looks like you’re a crook. You talk the talk, and twirl others around your finger.
-- That kind of sin is not my style— I did not agree with the serious charge— I am a simple citizen.
-- Then a lover-boy? Stealing the hearts of married girls and then running away from their husbands, fearing the wrath of Hades?
-- Nope, I didn’t anger Hades, confused no hearts, and saw no ladies… but I’m very tired! – I offered – Gramps, listen, let me have the mask eh? I swear— I’ll bring back all down to the very penny!
-- Here— the old man laughed maliciously, handing me a mask— A poet… in a mask… and boots…
-- I ain’t a poet. Oh! Thanks for reminding me about the boots, Gramps! How much do I owe for the mask?
-- Free— waved the old man— You’re amusing, you amused me. Just look into the mirror, do not forget.
-- Uh-huh— I nodded, pressing the patch of black cloth to my eyes.
Looking into the mirror through the narrow slits in the mask, I saw the inscription above my reflection slowly disappear. Next went all of my stats, and there was a message in front of me, prompting me to select a temporary name and say it out loud.
-- Talentless Poet – I pronounced, an homage to the results of the recent verse-battle with the seller.
Temporary name approved. Validity: 04.59.59 – After a short hesitation the system replied, endorsing the name chosen by me.
Well. I have five hours of time. Quite enough.
The old man chuckled again and silently handed me a black hat with a wide brim.
-- Again you amused me— he explained— It’s not often it happens.
Pulling on the hat, I bowed awkwardly to the seller and walked away to his farewell laugh, feeling like a recently approved Zorro— only not nearly as charming or cool. And there was no sword, no trusty steed. Yet in Valdira I was more wanted than Zorro— by everyone at once, from single people to entire clans. What remained was only to come up with one’s personal mark, and leave it in random places. Something like: “Ros was here!”
Damnit... pausing for a moment, I took off my conspicuous boots and placed them into my bag. I carefully patted myself down, shaking off layers of died mud and scraps of seaweed. Well. Now my level of appearance had increased to an acceptable level. And it corresponded to my temporary name— Untalented Poet. The half-starved and impoverished specimen shuffles down the colorful streets of Algora at night. One could even start reciting poems stuck together on the fly, but I do not have enough courage. Beside, this would be equal to dumping a bucket of verbal assaults upon my own poor head— there here were not lacking.
In addition, it is not a fact that people would fall for this crude image— many well-known players live to play pretend and assume a poor image on the streets. Rags are not proof of the poverty line. Previously only kings behaved in this way— now, whoever felt like it. And why add to the hassle— there are thousands just like be on the streets. All is well.
A crackling shot like a machine gun fire sparked and glittered in front of me… I jerked involuntarily in surprise, realizing that one of the players had thrown exploding firecrackers. The blasts went off and the player immediately ran— the guards chase you for this but lazily, good-naturedly. They shake their fist at the humorist and calm down. They respond with understanding. There is no harm other than the noise, and fun galore. Especially when a firecracker explodes directly under your feet… I chucked and continued on my unhurried pace, trying to keep my walk steady.
Oh… walking towards me was an interesting couple. So interesting that many people turned around and looked after them. Above their heads shone no less entertaining nicknames: Plague Doctor and Robot Werther. One in a sparkling silver jumpsuit with a high neck, and a stiff facial expression, long straight hair, and a strange shuffling. The other player wore a long black cloak and on his face was a mask with a giant bird beak, the eyes glowing a dark and sinister green. Despite his dismal attire, heavy step and sinister mask, the second player enjoyed much less popularity than his team mate. This could be clearly deduced from the number of “likes” dotting the chest of the silver jumpsuit of the Robot Werther. Three dozen or more, it seemed, judging by the shining, diamond like spots. The Plague Doctor in a black cloak had no more than five. Each player, over the course of the masquerade evening, is allowed to throw a “like” one time at another character, whose costume and attire they like best. It’s enough to touch the player with your hand and say “Like!” Characters with the highest number of “likes” receive a prize from the administration of the game— often, very valuable. For some reason, Robot Werther enjoyed a whole lot of popularity, despite his defenseless and old-fashioned appearance. I’m gonna have to do a little digging on the internet and find out who the player is portraying. Maybe a new movie came out…
All in all— the people are rejoicing. Some players continue their adventures, while others happily saunter through Algora. All depends on the character of the player. Whatever is more to their liking— monsters falling at their feet defeated, or the luxury of the evening promenade.
I can only imagine what is going on in Plosefonte— there, even the daytime isn’t boring, but now… life is beating like an oil fountain… Rumor has it that specifically in the evenings famous fashion designers, directors, and many others visit Plosefont. I don’t know how close to the truth these rumors are, but the “indigenous” residents of the square certainly try to outdo themselves.
Just the riot of colors I need. So I marched to the gates of the Mage’s Guild— accompanied by many colorfully dressed players and “locals,” also looking for their chance to “step out.” Against this background, I appeared to be a barn mouse.
Now there are friendships beginning, love affairs being established. Clowns, jesters, and fools— so many you couldn’t count. Above the street hung a few wires and upon them danced a few leaping gymnasts, spinning in somersaults and doing unimaginable tricks. Especially notable was the figure of a girl in a fancy silver mask and matching bikini. One could not tear away the eye— she was the embodiment of grace and beauty. It was clear that a lot of time and effort had been given to create this external appearance. A decent audience gathered, spellbound, watching the performance. But I shuddered to think of the cost of such a performance. Surely, it would take many experience points to mock the laws of physics like that— and a pretty penny.
-- Take it! – a little boy thrust a colorful flyer into my hand and then again disappeared into the crowd, not having asked for a dime.
Looking at the paper, I laughed— it was advertising.
“Don’t miss it! The main event of the evening!
The Grand Opera of Valdira presents!
Theatrical performance of “Arrival in Zar’graad!”
With incredible scenery, costume design, special effects and vocals! In the role of the Navigator— the famous tenor Luigi Galvari! Involving more than three hundred actors and singers! “
Hmph… way to spoil my mood.
I could just imagine myself at the hull of the flagship, stretching my arms fo
rward and belting out “Fiii-garo… fiii-gaaroo… Zar’graaad…”
And the sailors sing along: “Ahoooy! Ahhhoooy! On the horizon!”
And in the back of the boat, sitting by the oars, the Black Baroness hysterically, cheerfully sings:
“Do not leave me this way I can’t survive, I can’t stay alive…”
Ahem… my imagination was getting away with me. The fantasy sure unfolded before me.
Stifling my laughter, I threw the handout into a nearby colored box, the inside of which happily stirred and growled— the garbage creature nesting there, with an appetite for dinner. I hope the paper was to his taste. These creatures, however, eat just about anything.
Soon I was standing at the familiar gates of the Mage’s Guild. The gates were thrown open hospitably, which was to be expected— the guild was used to working around the clock. Players exist in Valdira not only in the daytime, after all. And they might prefer to update their skills at the most unexpected times. But the higher ranking magicians must already be in their cribs. Yes, the “locals” also sleep. How else could thieves sneak into their houses on tiptoe under the cover of darkness, on the creaky floorboards, afraid of waking the owners?
I very much hope that killing the famous werewolf should cheer up an old magician enough that he is encouraged to get out of his warm bed and make his way to me. And I also hope that he gets excited enough that he forgets to even think about sleep.
I really wanted to sell the “hot” items in the form of the werewolf’s chopped off head. And to receive the reward.
My expectations and hopes did not deceive me.
I was greeted right at the gate— as soon as I stepped inside, a teenager standing at the fence in a long robe and a ridiculously high hood screamed something unintelligible and rushed headlong through the door of the Mage’s Guild. He stumbled as he ran, holding his funny cap with both hands.
This was no accidental yelp…
I froze for a moment, trying to assess the situation and decide what to do— to walk on inside, or to turn against fate and walk away.
The Way of the Clan 4 (World of Valdira) Page 1