The Renegades

by Vasily Mahanenko

  “Check this out—the local bank branch isn’t affiliated to the one in the capital. In fact, it’s not affiliated with any other bank at all. My guildbros have sent me a bunch of stuff—bags, gold, equipment and whatnot—I have the password and everything, and I can’t withdraw any of it! And it’s the same deal with the mail. I can send you a letter, but when it comes to the world at large—forget it! The auction is local too. It’s all pircs and biotas. I can’t even buy gold for real cash. When they say biota is hardcore, they’re like really serious about it.”

  “Well, that’s the way hardcore should be,” Girasol replied. “With stats like that, they’ll have to carry us in their arms! Once we get out of newbspace, we’ll pump Con and avoid all these penalties. I’ll level up, sink everything into Int and then I’ll heal like a demon or an angel…a demonic angel!”

  At this point the two players walked out of earshot. So there’s no link to the outside world here. Makes sense. This way you can’t get presents from higher-level friends, or buy high-level gear or potions for meatspace cash. All the better for me—I won’t feel inadequate among the populace.

  The pirc meanwhile stopped at a nearby stall. As I looked on, my old acquaintance, Pickle, approached the giant and slapped Chip familiarly on the small of his back, since he couldn’t reach his shoulder due to the height difference.

  “What’s up bro? Catch my invite, you can tank for me, I’ll be your dps—we’ll pwn everyone.”

  When I was a child, I would spend time at my grandmother’s house where I really liked messing with the cat. A large, fluffy, calico. And when the cat got angry, she’d press her ears to her head just like this pirc just did. Unlike my grandmother, Pickle didn’t have a cat. Or brains or a sense of self-preservation—otherwise he wouldn’t buddy up to three-meter-tall Chip.

  “So what do you say? You coming, fluffy?” And my acquaintance playfully punched the pirc in the belly.

  This was the last straw.

  “Hold this,” Chip shoved his halberd into the hands of a stunned passerby. The pirc’s voice fit his appearance—a low growling bombast which rolled across the square like an avalanche. It seemed that Pickle began to figure out that his life was about to take a turn for the worse, but the only thing he managed to do was shut his mouth. That was it. The pirc grabbed him by the waist, lifted him and hurled him into the fountain, roaring: “Three pointer!”

  Pickle traced a pretty arc waving his extremities and plunked in the water with a splash.

  “And the Chicago Bulls have reached the finals!” the pirc barked triumphantly, taking his halberd.

  The passersby scattered, casting fearful glances at the bellowing pirc and the sputtering and spitting Pickle. The poor fellow tumbled over the edge of the fountain and wadded away into one of the alleys adjoining the square. He clearly didn’t want to continue tempting fate.

  “Should’ve done that earlier,” the pirc growled to no one in particular and looked around as if looking for another basketball. To his surprise, the new basketball turned out to be Pickle again—coming back in the company of a town guard. And I should mention that the guard was quite the sight: His body was clad in bark with a tough layer of leaves, forming something like scale mail.

  “This one! He attacked me!” Pickle pointed at the pirc. “Attacking a player is a PK felony!”

  The guard launched into his script, projecting a replay of Pickle approaching the pirc and slapping him on his back.

  “You landed the first blow,” the guard rendered his verdict and closed the projection. “You may go,” he told the pirc.

  Pretty simple justice system here. One, two, and that’s it.

  “Hey! Why’d you cut my reputation?” Pickle cried, but the guard wasn’t listening to him. The pirc, on the other hand, scowled happily and asked,

  “Yo, ikebana, you got a sharpie?”

  Stumped by such an odd question, Pickle merely shook his head.

  “No, why? What’s an ikebana?”

  “The Japanese art of flower arrangement. I need a sharpie because I like to show my work when I do my math,” Chip explained, leaning forward and bringing his ice-blue eyes with their slitted irises right up to Pickle’s.

  “Math?” Pickle gaped.

  “I was going to divide you by zero,” the pirc explained, jerking up his lip and demonstrating a row of glittering teeth, sharp even to the eye.

  At first Pickle started back reflexively. But then, I guess he remembered that he was dealing with a mere virtual avatar of a creature that didn’t actually exist—as well as that he was in the middle of a city whose guard wouldn’t permit the killing of a player—as well as that even if it came to that, he was still at level one and had nothing to lose but a few hours of waiting.

  “You’re getting way ahead of yourself,” he replied proudly, turned and made a show of waddling off with his chest stuck out—that is, without giving the pirc a chance to get the last word in.

  “What a child,” the pirc remarked and deciding that this dispute had been resolved, began looking around in search of whatever it was he needed.

  If at my first sight of the pirc I had begun to fantasize about him joining my party as a tank, then now I definitely thought better of inviting Chip to do quests with me. It seems that he’d chosen his epithet accurately—he really was spiteful. What if he’d off me somewhere for the sake of a few XP or coppers? And in general, I came here to do my quest chain, not to find party members. Time to get to work.

  Looking around surreptitiously, I plucked a small cup-shaped flower from one of the buildings and began to look for a good spot to perform: one that was busy enough with foot traffic and spacious enough to allow people to stop and listen. The side of the fountain that Pickle had taken a swim in looked great, but the noise of the water would overwhelm the music. On the other hand, the auction dais (or rather the enormous broad stump used for this purpose) seemed perfect. The auction crier looked bored to tears. I guess the low-level players didn’t have any rare goods, or money to buy them with, so there were no objections to my taking over the area as a stage.

  Placing the flower I’d picked in a conspicuous place—where the audience could render unto me their silver pieces—I clambered up on the stump, switched the lute from my back to my chest and ran my fingers along the strings to check its tuning…But, uh, what am I going to sing? All that was coming was a song from a children’s show… ‘Everyday when you’re walking down the street, everybody that you meet / Has an original point of view / And I say HEY! / What a wonderful kind of day / Where you can learn to work and play / And get along with each other…’ But something told me that theme songs to children’s shows wouldn’t find a welcome reception among the biota, much less since there weren’t really children around here. Plus it was night so…

  Back at the training tent, an old lute composition had occurred to me. It had been composed a long time ago, but remained popular enough. A wonderful song about a fairy-tale golden city seemed to fit this location perfectly.

  My fingers danced along the strings, I inhaled deeply and realized that I was as anxious as I had been during my first performance. But the melody that came out, scattered my fear like a spring rain, and carried me and my listeners away to a different world. The auctioneer perked up, placed his papers aside and began to listen to me closely. Incidental passersby began stopping, caught by the harmony, and even the grim-faced guards softened a little. Only the pirc looked up at the first chords, then grimaced like he’d gotten a whiff of vinegar and stepped away. But I didn’t have time for him anyway. In these kinds of moments I had no time for the rest of the world.

  The applause when the song ended suggested that the NPCs were quite happy with my level of play. Otherwise, I could as well forget a career as a bard in this game.

  Several coins clinked in my flower cup, while a series of notifications popped up before me:

  +1 Reputation with the Biota. Current status: Friendly. You are 2999 points away from the s
tatus of Respect.

  Oh, so it follows that we start at friendly status with our own faction? How nice. And the fact that I could level up my reputation with this kind of performance is nicer still! Of course, it would take me a while to perform three thousand songs…And that’s not even taking into account that my stamina fades as I perform…

  Experience gained: +1 XP. Points remaining until next level: 99.

  Skill increase:

  +1% to Agility. Total: 1%.

  Cute. I can level up by singing. A hundred more songs and I’ll get +1 to Agility. I wonder if I have to play a song or whether a few verses will do? I should experiment.

  Quest updated: A Bard’s Calling. Step 1: 2 silver and 34 copper coins earned.

  Achievement unlocked: ‘Busker Level 1’ (30 silver pieces until next level).

  Achievement reward: +1% to money earned busking.

  You can look at the list of achievements in the character settings.

  Well that’s quite a serious achievement. Something to be proud of, what can you say?

  Attention! A new stat has become available to your character: Panhandling. Panhandling increases your chance of earning donations and increases the amount received as well. At a certain level, you can beg NPCs to receive unique quests or items.

  Do you accept? Attention! You will not be able to remove an accepted stat!

  I’d never think of such a thing! It’s a cool stat. The devs seem to be having fun with us. I don’t mind earning some cash as a bard here and there but I’m not about to start begging full time.

  “Excuse me,” someone’s polite voice distracted me.

  Bowing my head, I encountered the pirc and jerked from surprise. Chip stood right before my stage, the edge of his halberd dangerously close to my toes.

  “Do you know anything other than the busker’s standard repertoire? It’s just that I have a band of buskers camping out under my window and every morning for the last two months I’ve been getting up to songs about golden towns with gates of glass.”

  Will you look at this jerk…Is it my fault that everyone’s beaten this horse to death? Although, two months really is too much to hear this ditty. All right, I’ll sing him another song if that’s what he wants. Several options (mostly concerning werewolves) flashed through my mind, but then I looked at the two-legged beast before me and for some reason began singing something else entirely.

  The drawn-out melody spilled across the square, filling its occupants’ hearts with sadness and homesickness. Alongside the song’s wandering hero, my listeners traveled endless dusty roads, dreaming of a home bathed in sunlight. Even the pirc froze, forgetting his desire to toss me into the fountain. Not that I cared anymore. The lovely, unjustly-forgotten song absorbed me and I dissolved in it. Neither the game, nor the biota, nor the pirc were around me any longer. I was the hero of the story. Cursed and drawn by fate, I was the wanderer who wandered among ruins and tombs. The tormented earth groaned beneath my steps and I dreamed of a city at the edge of the very sun, where faith, hope and love awaited me.

  A portion of the players had stopped scurrying between the merchants’ tents and drew nearer to listen to the little-known rock classic, and once the last chord had rung their applause brought me back to the game.

  Standing nearby, Chip wriggled his little pink nose and rendered his verdict:

  “Not bad. You have an excellent voice. I’d happily hear you underneath my window every morning,” he said and placed—and I mean ‘placed’ instead of ‘tossed’—a coin in my flower cup. My quest update indicated that the coin was a silver one. It’s not much, but at my level, it’s a good sum. I was now the proud owner of almost seven silver coins. Prosperity, here I come!

  It took me a half hour and five songs to earn my twenty coins. As soon as the quest was complete, a new system notification popped up:

  New class ability unlocked: ‘Master of string instruments.’ Bonus to spells cast with string instruments.

  Ah! Now this I understand. Taking a bow to my audience, I hopped off the stump, grabbed my flower cup and was hurrying back to Coleus when I noticed my stamina level. Holy meatballs! It was down to 16! Yeah. I definitely won’t be able to perform an entire concert like this. Biota use liquids to restore their stamina, so I guess I can expect to do a lot of drinking in this game—in the best bardic traditions of course. It’s just that I couldn’t see a pub nearby and the only source of water was the same fountain that Pickle had recently bathed in. I had neither a mug nor a flask, so I had to drink the old fashioned way: bowing down to the water and sipping from my palm. At least my stamina was restored immediately. Okay then. I will have to get myself a flask at the first possible opportunity. Quenching my thirst, I noticed the same ornament at the bottom of the fountain that I had seen in the circus tent arena. I suppose it’s like a local logo or something.

  But I wasn’t nearly as much interested in ethnography as I was in my skills. It wasn’t difficult to find an unoccupied leafevator and as it carried me back to the bard tent, I studied my spellbook.

  Magic Missile: Using performance, you shoot a Magic Missile (magic damage) at your enemy. The damage done depends on your Intellect stat. Time to cast: 3 seconds. Cost of attack: Character Level × 4 MP. Damage: Intellect × 3. Range: 20 meters.

  Okay. Looks like this spell has grown stronger. Checking my hunch, I opened up the game guide. Yes, that’s right. The damage formula is now similar to that of other hybrid classes—like shamans and druids. So the bards weren’t left out in the cold after all. I guess a certain someone simply lacked the patience to complete the quest chain and unlock the additional class abilities. This spell paled in comparison to what the mages and necromancers could cook up, but those guys were pure casters anyway. High dps was their bread and butter.

  I wonder what my healing powers are?

  Song of Healing: Heal target for the duration of your performance. HP healed depends on your Intellect stat. This spell is channeled. Cost: (Level × 2) MP per second. Healing rate: (Intellect × 2) HP per second.

  Yup. Here the mana cost has decreased and conversely the opportunity to level up has increased. The only strange thing is that the speed buff from the new lute doesn’t seem to factor in, but perhaps the devs simply rounded instead of splitting decimals. The hell with it. It works as it is. I’d like to imagine that I’ll get another bonus by the end of the quest chain.

  My leaf docked at the branch I needed and I happily marched to the tent. Several newbies had wandered in while I was gone and were now torturing Coleus’s instruments and nerves. I wonder if this poor fellow has some kind of deputy. Does he have to spend all day and night in this aural hell? Do NPCs even sleep in Barliona? I should sit down and read up on the game a bit more. But I can do that later. Right now I need to complete my quest and continue the chain.

  “My first honorarium,” I bragged, handing Coleus the flower with the clinking coins.

  The bard happily used this opportunity to escape the tent and we stepped out on the street. I wonder why he doesn’t simply kick out the hapless musicians, declaring them unsuited for the profession? Does his script lock him in?

  “You handled that quickly, a good beginning,” Coleus praised me as soon as we stepped out into fresh air. He poured the coins into his palm, jingled them pensively and then held them out to me.

  “Take these. They’re yours. Buy yourself something.”

  20 silver and 14 copper coins received.

  “This bag will help you in your travels,” Coleus went on, offering me a plain rucksack. “It doesn’t look like much, but it has room for all your instruments and songs.”

  Item acquired: Bard’s Bag (20 slots). Durability: Unbreakable. Attention! You may only store items (including songs) used for performance in this bag.

  Cool! All I have to do is figure out what songs are supposed to be in Barliona. I wonder if there’s something about this on the fora? Or am I going to have to pay?

  “I’m ready for more com
plex instruments,” I hinted transparently to my instructor.

  He hummed enigmatically, rubbed his beard of twigs and nodded.

  “We’re about to find out. A Bard’s Calling isn’t to entertain the rabble, but to heal the spirit, to awaken courage and love within it, and to grant warmth and succor, and instil true joy and light sorrow. If you prove that you have mastered this art—a number of difficult quests you cannot handle yet—then you will study with me for two months. And only afterwards will you receive another attempt.

  Quest available: A Bard’s Calling. Step 2: Demonstrate that your performance can awaken courage and love, grant warmth and succor, instil joy and light sorrow. Quest type: Class-based. Reward: +120 XP, +100 Reputation with the Biota, +5 gold, songs from Coleus’ songbook. No time limit. Penalty for declining the quest: 60 days until the quest chain can be reset.

  Eh. That’s the entire description? And how am I supposed to do all this? All right. If I can’t figure out myself, I can always ask someone. There’s got to be some high-level bards around here who’ve done this quest chain before.

  “How will you know when I accomplish all of this?” I asked just in case.

  “Trust me, I’ll know,” the NPC’s face took on such a sly expression that I suspected some trick. But there was nothing else to do but accept the quest.

  “Before I leave…I have several questions.”

  “Ask away,” Coleus nodded, glancing at the tent which buzzed with chaotic discord.

  “Can I learn to wield some weapon? A lute is great of course, but once my mana runs out, what am I going to do?”

  “Every five levels you will receive training points which you can use to learn other classes’ skills. You can use them to hone your skills using weapons.”