Darkwind docked his boat, grabbed his gear, and walked up-pier towards the Harbormaster’s quarters, which was a three-story, stone-and-mortar structure. The Mevalonic flag – split horizontally with gold and black stripes and three white stars forming the points (one for each of the three founders of Mevalon) of a triangle in the center – flapped in the harbor wind. Darkwind nodded to the Harbormaster as he passed, and the salty old dog returned the gesture as he sat smoking his pipe. Darkwind gazed up at the sky, which was cloudless over Mevalon. Today should be a good day. The screeches of seabirds floated on the wind and the waves. Darkwind made his way off the docks and headed into town.
Mevalon was one of the most admired kingdoms in all of Half-World. According to the in-game history, Mevalon was founded by three brothers – Escel, Juric, and Dorien Mevalon – who, together with allies from the east, conquered the oppressors of the enslaved kingdom of Korpor, whose elite exploited the masses and turned them on each other only to watch their subjects destroy themselves for their amusement. The Mevalon brothers liberated the kingdom, and soon after the dust had settled, the vile leaders of Korpor were quickly captured and beheaded. This cleansing of the old in turn ushered in the new blood—Mevalonic blood.
According to Half-World history books, it took nearly two-and-a-half centuries and tens of thousands of workers to construct the whole of the kingdom. The city boasted everything from courtyards and shopping districts to a variety of temples, residences, gardens and more. Darkwind noted that the always-bustling city at the heart of Mevalon had become dirtier, more decrepit, which was a stark contrast to the gleaming white and gold towers of the palace that loomed over the city in the distance. Then, a noise caught his attention. As Darkwind continued walking towards the city-center, he clutched his bag over his shoulder and kept moving to the marketplace. Most of the kingdom was connected by narrow cobblestone streets that snaked through the city, and there were many shadowy places in these alleys, where anyone could attack an unsuspecting vendor. Was he going to have to spill blood right now? He just had these pants cleaned! Luckily for Darkwind, it was only a catarat (half-cat/half-rat) scouring the puddles and trash heaps for some food and water, the former, Darkwind assumed, was scarce judging by the emaciated creature. He had no time to care, as he had to get to the market to unload his latest rare find.
The sounds of the marketplace grew louder as Darkwind exited a tunnel passage into the throngs of players trading. On any given day, the Mevalon marketplace was bursting with countless wares from vendors both local and as far away as Serevok in the region known as the Gothan Peninsula. Players traded everything from apples and housewares to weapons and magic potions. There sometimes would even be vendors that came looking to buy only junk gear. Zanzibarber should talk to them. Darkwind knew that today, he was about to blow some minds. There’s a saying among the locals: anything one can think to find, can likely be found in Mevalon.
“See my greatest of wondrous treasures, good sir,” a short and rotund, mustachioed vendor belted out at Darkwind as he passed. His stubby fingers were adorned with bejeweled rings of gold and silver. His garb resembled that of the nomadic merchants from the deserts of Wadun, who were known to be unscrupulous in their dealings, and while the man may have seduced a less-suspecting mark, Darkwind made a gesture shooing the little man away.
As he continued down the eastern corridor—the large, crowded route from the harbor to the city center—Darkwind was accosted with offers from hawkers in, as far as he could make out, no less than twelve different languages. The walls were lined with carts filled with wares ranging from varieties street cuisine and live flora and fauna, such as korporots and tantems, to weapons, armor, magical potions, spells, and more. The midday crowd shuffled against each other in the shade of the corridor, yet it was stifling and the air in the market stank of sweat, grease, and greed.
Darkwind stopped at a wine vendor he was familiar with: D'varik of Gerrone. His mobile cart was replete with a bar, which he stood behind, serving up an array of tasty wines to thirsty folk. He smiled when he recognized Darkwind.
“Ah, Darkwind, my friend! Back for more ocelot juice? Some fruit-of-the-wendil perhaps?” he mused at the thirsty warrior. He explained to Darkwind that he only harvested the ocelot berries when they were a deep orange, which meant their sugars were peaking, which when freshly squeezed, made for a delightfully sweet refreshment, and when distilled, became high in alcohol content (roughly 100-proof). It was a favorite among soldiers, and D’varik had made quite a name for himself and his wine throughout Mevalon and the surrounding central region.
D'varik could’ve been a fierce fighter—he was built like an ashtok bear and probably could tear limbs from bodies just as easily as one. He kept a clean face because he felt that the cold wind on a freshly shaven face made him feel alive. His massive hands somehow were able to wield his wines’ ingredients as well as he would have a sword on the field of battle. Darkwind couldn't understand why someone like D'varik took up wine rather than the sword, so he asked him over the transaction.
“Just because I'm large doesn't make me a brute,” he replied. “I never liked violence. My father tried to have me conscripted into the Vestican army when I was barely a man, so I left home and never returned. I found my way to Gerrone, which I claimed as my new home. That's where I learned how to make wine from the masters of the trade. I even developed my own brand of hosterberry wine—here you try some!”
D'varik hoisted a large barrel of his signature wine onto the bar. He opened the spigot and the blood-red liquid flowed into a copper goblet. Darkwind licked his lips. D'varik topped it off for one of his best customers. Darkwind drank in the deep flavors of the hosterberry, and it drizzled onto his beard. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and shot his friend a look of satisfaction.
“Good, yes? You like it? Here take some—” he said, handing Darkwind an additional flask of the divine drink. Darkwind thanked D'varik and tossed him a hefty tip of fifty Mevalons (the Mevalonic gold coinage).
Darkwind swigged from his wine flask as he continued through the bazaar, stopping occasionally to peruse a jeweler here, a snake-charmer there. He really planned on spending the day shopping and trading. Maybe he’d eat something and relax in the port, or just get drunk off the rest of this wine and try to pick a fight at a local inn (except, he couldn’t quite remember which inns in town had already banned him.) It didn’t matter, he’d likely see bloodshed at some point during the night, so what if he did start it? The afternoon was getting warm so Darkwind ducked into a nearby potion shop, which enjoyed the shade of a larger stone building that was an armory. It looked to have running fans.
The inside of the shop teemed with small rodents and reptiles that roamed freely about. There were no other customers, and the shopkeeper was nowhere to be seen. Darkwind glanced at the shelves, which were stocked with several different potions in small, nondescript 350mL glass bottles. Some were blue; others gold, red, green, pink, and variations thereof.
There were also strange, macabre items like shrunken heads from Lanika, a remote jungle village of supposed cannibals; an urn supposedly containing the ashes of Vontague of Nepsa—an old sorcerer, a necromancer to be exact, who was burned by dragonfire and kept by his pupils until his urn was stolen; and the hand of the elfin lord Baryat preserved in a jar of translucent fluid, lost in a game of mordoc. How this shop came to possess these items was none of Darkwind’s business, nor did he care. He wasn’t all that impressed, he just wanted out of the heat. It was amusing to see what these peddlers of magic had for sale. Alchemy kits that could turn bits of dust into flame. Darkwind sneered an air of superiority. All you really need is a good sword at your side! Helgabrand certainly was that sword. Nobody could argue that.
Darkwind was looking at a display of smooth egg rocks when a cracked voice appeared from behind the counter, “What do you want, young man?”
Darkwind looked around for the owner of the voice. “Who said that?�
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“Down here, buster!” the voice squawked. Darwind looked around for a moment before peering behind the counter to see a tiny, old gnome with big ears, frizzled hair, large glasses, and squinty eyes. He wore a blue tunic and white robes. “Well?” he snapped impatiently.
“I’m not really looking for—”
“Nonsense! I know why you’re here,” the old man said as he scuttled away into the rear of the shop, his voice trailing off as he disappeared into the dimly lit stock room. He emerged a few moments later carrying a wooden box that had an intricate carving of two embossed horses, reared up, facing each other, centered around a golden lock; its domed lid was fastened with hinges made of gold. “This is what you want.”
“What is that, old man?” he snickered. “Something to swindle me with?”
“Swindle?! How incredulous! Constantine of Mevalon does not swindle! You may not know it, but inside this box is one of the eight treasures of Half-World. Go on and open it, you’ll see.” The old man stood back as he slid the box across the countertop towards Darkwind.
Darkwind was curious now. He fumbled for a moment. “What about the lock?”
“If you’re meant to open it, it will unlock,” Constantine replied.
As Darkwind grasped the box, his thumbs ran over the embossed horses, which seemed to come alive, racing at each other. They met at the center lock, which sprung open with a flash of light. Darkwind dropped the box, instinctively shielding his eyes.
The treasure spilled onto the countertop and Constantine began howling with laughter, “Haha! I knew it! You would finally arrive and have the power to open that damned box. It’s been so long. Oh how long I’ve waited. But now the treasure is finally mine...all mine!”
There, shining before them was the nebulisk: a spiral-shaped stone that sparkled with thousands of tiny gems that were embedded in it. It was purported to give its wielder the power to control the stars. Constantine was a keen astronomer, and he wished to use the nebulisk to better study the stars.
Constantine giddily reached for the nebulisk, but the moment he touched it, he screamed in terror as he could not take his hand away. “Please help me! It burns! It burns!” he screamed and writhed as the nebulisk began to pull him into itself. It was as if it was draining his lifeforce. His screams were deleted with the disappearance of his head. Then, finally, his stockinged feet were sucked into oblivion. Once he was gone, a small twinkle of light flickered on the newest gem to join the nebulisk.
Darkwind stood awestruck for a moment. He almost was tempted to try and grab the nebulisk, but after what he just witnessed, it didn't look like a pleasant way to go. Of course, he was the one that was able to open the box. Maybe it’s his treasure. Darkwind stood there, contemplating his options. He could raid the shop and get some easy money, items, and gear; he could save his progress and reload if something went wrong, but meant that he’d have to get all the way back here before someone else possibly raids this loot; or he could just say “YOLO” and take a chance. Darkwind knew what he had to do—he swallowed the lump in his throat and prepared for the worst.
The nebulisk was smooth in his hand. Darkwind opened his eyes and realized that he was still there in the shop. What was this strange artifact? He would have to find out at some point. For now, he added it to his bag of treasures. He emptied what he could of Constantine’s register and potion stock into his satchel. Then, he blew out the shop lantern, exited the building, and continued on his way through the city.
***
The bells at the Temple of Letz rang out across the city, which typically signaled either a marriage or funeral. Their deep, metallic clangs floated above the rooftops and drifted off in the winds coming in off the sea. Today it was the latter. The kingdom of Mevalon was mourning the loss of their Regent, Stephalo Nordys, who had been recently murdered. Mevalonic Law was very clear on the Right to Vengeance:
ONE HAS THE RIGHT TO CORRECT AN INJUSTICE
IF NO OTHER SOLUTION CAN BE FOUND BY THE LAW.
Regent Nordys was disliked by many of the people and even more of his peers. He was considered by most citizens to be one of the core reasons that corruption with the crown existed in Mevalon. He had ingratiated himself with Mevalon’s High Council, working his way from the lowest tiers of the Council Halls all the way to the Capitol, eventually getting himself “elected” Regent after the mysterious and untimely death of the beloved former Regent, D’weron Jesco. Where the former Regent’s death filled the streets with mourners, today’s ceremonies were slim in attendance.
There were those calling for the head of the assassin, while others wanted to wait to see if more attacks were imminent and if so, where they were coming from and who was possibly directing the assassinations. It was chaos within the High Council following the death of Regent Nordys. All of the in-fighting over who would take the crown was culminating into an internal game of treachery, mendaciousness, and sedition that could contribute to the Council’s ultimate demise.
“I don’t know which is worse, Counselor Bin,” bellowed Counselor Oswic. His jowls flapped as he spat the words at his colleague. “You and the rest of this lot or those hounds at the gate whose fanged are reared and ready to tear into our flesh!”
“We’re all responsible, yes,” replied Bin. “Yet we cannot falter now. We have means of slipping away. Members of the High Council cannot be brought up on charges. I have my plans. What about you?” He left the Counselor bewildered and scraping at his own conscience. He had colluded with the rest of the High Council, and Regent Nordys, to abscond with millions in Mevalonic gold that had been siphoned off the kingdom’s taxes. Rumors were circulating around the Capitol that Regent Jesco had discovered the scheme and was going to banish them just before he was found poisoned. Now with the death of the short-lived Regent Nordys, who some believed he was killed after his guilt threatened to expose the scheme to the public.
Oswic also felt compelled to expose their deed, but now feared that if the other members of the High Council discovered his dissent, they might murder him as well! He already didn’t trust Bin. The other eight members were all culpable, too. Oswic felt he couldn’t trust anyone now.
The procession was small and the High Council members stood on the temple steps, heads bowed in seeming reverence. It was almost cliché when the rain started to drizzle. They filed inside the temple as the procession carried on down the cobblestone street. Two children dressed in white followed, tossing handfuls of white flower petals behind the trail of official pallbearers.
Darkwind had followed the bells from the market square and down Manaya Road, which led to the Temple of Letz. He walked slowly, enjoying the cool afternoon breeze. He stepped to the side of the road and watched as the procession moved past. The pallbearers were chanting in tongues, some ancient Mevalonic dialect used in those sorts of things. When Darkwind dies, just stick him in the ground! Thinking how if it was his own death, he figured plenty would show up to send off his corpse, even his haters, who would likely show up just to spit on his grave, but his burial wouldn’t be all the pomp-and-circumstance that was the Mevalonic death ritual. That was silly. It really sucks to be them because now they’re going to have to start over. Bummer.
Darkwind’s stomach rumbled and he agreed with it that it was time to get some sustenance. He still had a big haul that he wanted to unload on these merchants, and the market became something altogether different under the moon. The best deals were done late at night, as the most hardened and ruthless traders came out. Right about now though, the only thing on Darkwind’s mind was a fat, juicy slab of perocles meat with a side of hashed gorber. He already had the wine to wash it down.
***
Oswic gathered some robes, copies of his books and ledgers, and any evidence he thought might be able to tie him back to the crime. If he left tonight, without a word, he could possibly make it as far as Etonia, a mere two days’ ride, before they would find him missing. Perhaps he would fake his ow
n death. Oswic toyed with a few ideas before settling on seeing a sorcerer called Ulrind, who was known for his shapeshifting spells. If Ulrich can change a man’s face, perhaps he can help me hide in plain sight.
The disgraced High Councilman fumbled with his bags and sent a page to secure him a horse. He would wait until nightfall, lest he be caught trying to slip away during supper. He also knew that the road to Etonia could be treacherous; it was laden with bandits, and the first sight of a Mevalonic High Councilman alone on the roads at night would spell his instant demise. At this very moment, he was carrying over a few million in gold and treasury notes, which would be an epic loot for anyone. He only had to wait in his room for a few more hours…
***
The nearest pub to the temple was the Fiery Wyrm, where the locals cavorted under a large roof, filling it with song and ale. Darkwind laughed heartily at the sights and sounds, and remembered why he liked Mevalon so much. He had been coming back to this place since the game was first released, and now it kind of felt like…home.
“Hey, love. What’ll ya have?” chirped the bartender. She had curly white hair and elfin ears that were pierced several times. She wore a silver ring in her one nostril, which contrasted against her dark skin. Her arms were branded in dark elf runes, which were customary in dark elf coming-of-age rituals, imbued with special meaning (although some of Darkwind’s dark elf compatriots confided that sometimes the runes don’t mean anything, they get them just because they look really cool).
Exalted Realms Online- Harbinger of Chaos Page 3