1????????Soul Bound
1.3??????Making a Splash
1.3.3????An Unrequited Love
1.3.3.2? Atmosphere
8:15 am, Sunday June 11th, 2045
7 bells of the afternoon watch
Morday full, 17th day of the month of KrevinBelember, A2F1600
The first change Kafana noticed, as the wombles headed back into the Ghetto along Ozieri March, was that metal gratings had been used to block all the entrance tunnels leading into the Tickton parish. Not hastily improvised ones, either - sturdy enough to resist the strength of even a high level warrior and, judging by the way they’d been bolted to recessed anchor plates, this wasn’t the first time they’d been needed; though the occasional patch of rust suggested that emergencies severe enough to warrant dragging the gratings out of storage were most unusual.
The second change she noticed was harder to put into words. It wasn’t the expression on the previously friendly face of the middle aged Sassari woman, now standing guard over her Teutonic-styles chalet with sharp eyes and an even sharper crossbow. It wasn’t the hunted movements of the few remaining pedestrians, where previously they’d moved more like satiated predators, already gorged on bargains but still attracted by the scent of wounded merchants bleeding golden opportunities. It wasn’t precisely a change in background noises, shadows or even a magic premonition. Perhaps people who’d studied the nature of patterns and information, such as Wellington or Bulgaria, had learned terminology that would enable them to describe and comprehend it, model and predict it. The best she could come up with was “atmosphere”.
The atmosphere of the Ghetto had changed.
It was like the shadow of a passing cloud that chilled, or the moment in a film when the intrusion of skittering background music into a seemingly everyday scene leads the viewers to suspect everyone’s motives and identity, pumping them with adrenaline in anticipation of a need to fight or flee.
She looked to Tomsk, expecting him to start snapping out battle orders at any moment, but instead he just carried on walking at the front with Bulgaria, chatting genially and giving every appearance of being a harmless tourist, entirely unconnected with any purely local problems. Indeed, Bulgaria kept pointing at balconies, loudly praising the carvings on the wooden support struts.
It was only after he used the word “quaint” three times in as many sentences, that she realised he and Tomsk were talking in code.
Kafana: {Guys? Do we have a plan?}
Alderney: {Just some precautions. If combat starts, just switch your GUI over to raid mode and follow Wellington’s contingency tree. But basically? We don’t want to be seen fighting the official Basso district Count’s Guards - it would piss off Lord Pazzi, and you’re going to need his support. So stay within Tomsk’s anti-magic radius if he draws Nothung from its scabbard. And if diplomacy doesn’t work and they try attacking us? We run.}
Bungo: {The safe course of action would be to not get involved. Leave the Ghetto and spend the day training skills over on Libri, at the Zoo or the Mage tower. We could even visit the University Library - Count Zeno offered to show us around personally, and the tales I hear about it are so amazing I even get dreams about it.}
Bungo sounded stressed, and the way he jerked his head around at the slightest unexpected sound or motion was drawing attention from the crossbow woman. He was normally a great actor, with nerves of steel when it came to a threat of discovery or embarrassment, but now he was their in-game expert as well as their tank, and perhaps with greater responsibility came also a great fear of failing others? She wouldn’t use her reinforcement magic to cast a calming spell on him, but perhaps words could work as well?
She put a little teasing into her tone of voice and studied how Tomsk was walking, overriding her instincts which were still screaming “DANGER DANGER”.
Kafana: “Not return to spend more time watching orphans playing football? Will Bulgaria need to eat his hat?”
Bulgaria had spoken at length about the virtues of football, specifically British football and the culture surrounding it, until he’d ended up making a bet about it with Bungo.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Bungo: “I still don’t think football is the greatest game ever played by man. Or woman. I prefer cards or board games.”
Kafana: “But?”
Bungo thought about her words and his body, no longer driven by worry, unconsciously started to mirror her as she deliberately relaxed her legs and kept her gaze focused upon him.
Bungo: “But I admit there’s more to it than I’d realised. That crowd wasn’t there just as an excuse to get drunk, to bunk off work or even to say and do things they couldn’t normally get away with doing. It was more than exercise, entertainment or a social event. For some of them, perhaps. But for most of them? No. Baba Olga’s always demanding and often frightening, but she’s a really good trainer. In the right situation I can now literally sense symbols and archetypes hiding inside events, casting meaning and import in all directions like the shadows of a veiled statue that’s surrounded by a circle of flickering candles.”
Kafana: “What do the portents say about this riot? Will diplomacy work? Do you think we should leave?”
Bungo grinned shyly and produced a deck of Tarot cards with a flourish, shuffling them one handed before revealing three of them.
Bungo: “The Wheel of Fortune, reversed. The Ace of Swords. The Chariot.”
She felt tempted to turn on her Truesight skill. Did prophetic magic really work in this world when questing spirits were involved? Was it all probabilistic, or could it manipulate players so they only thought they’d freely chosen not to take actions that would invalidate a prediction? No, not now. She concentrated on Bungo, trying to stay in the moment and appreciate the wonder, accepting Covob as real in the way she’d want her viewers to experience it through her. Those interested in the mechanics could experience Wellington’s recordings. She stopped being Nadine, stopped being a player of a game, and immersed herself fully into her role as Kafana the priestess, who saw the inhabitants of Torello as individuals with problems and as having needs that were just as important as those of any other people.
She gave Bungo an impressed look, gesturing for him to continue.
Bungo: “My best guess? Something unexpected is going to happen. It has the feel of a painful birth. Not peaceful diplomacy, but the start of something new. An emphasis upon persisting through a long struggle rather than a short battle, though - months or even years. But this is the tipping point, the moment of selection between two paths. I don’t think the Ace of Swords indicate we should take the role of warrior, though. Surgeons also use blades. No, not precisely a surgeon, a midwife perhaps?”
Kafana: “How do you work out what it means? Why isn’t a chariot wheel connected with the illustration about love we saw earlier today in that Bembist book? Or a dead crafter, like the avatar of Wayland the Smith who died tied to a wheel?”
Bungo shrugged.
Bungo: “Inspired guesswork. The magic gives you strong or weak nudges, as you try to fit the possible interpretations into a pattern that makes sense. When it fails, that's sometimes because a nudge was wrong, but more often it’s because you asked a bad question, didn’t consider an interpretation, or let your interpretation get distorted by your hopes or fears. Baba Olga says that the mind of a Seer must be unchained, unassuming and unafraid.”
Bulgaria: “Not a bad thing to aspire to, even if you aren’t a Seer. And I’m glad I won’t need to eat my hat. But we’re getting close now. Let’s be careful.”
There was a sly grin on Bulgaria’s face, like that of a naughty boy who’d gotten away with something, and Kafana only twigged to it when Alderney winked at her and adjusted the cheap flat cloth beret upon her head, that she used to hide her short platinum blonde hair when trying to pass as a local.
Bulgaria wasn’t wearing a hat; nor had he been when he’d made the bet.
What a rotten cheating scoundrel! She suppressed a giggle, then felt guilty. She shouldn’t admire someone for being thoroughly untrustworthy and devious, but there was something about how unashamed he was, and the simple delight he took in his clever schemes, that wrenched admiration from her anyway. Did he get away with being roguish because he did it with style? Or was it because she didn’t feel in danger from him because he took care not to harm the innocent?
The former, perhaps. Tomsk was capable of lethal violence, but that just made her feel safer in his presence - she knew with utter certainty that he would never willingly harm her. Bulgaria? She thought it unlikely he’d sacrifice her for some abstract principle, but her trust of him wasn’t on the same instinctive level as her trust in Tomsk. Bulgaria had the acting ability to deceive others, and a strength of conviction that would let him make ruthless decisions when he felt they were justified. Setting up a pattern that could lead the unwary to expect just playful fun deceptions from him, the better to disguise the moves that mattered, was a tool in his toolbox and one that made him even more dangerous and hard for enemies to predict or counter.
Bulgaria brought them to a halt at the base of a long abandoned slag pile, whose sides were worn smooth by years of weather. It was twenty meters tall, almost ideal for snipers, if any were willing to risk the slippery treacherous footing. Or if, in the case of the Wombles, they happened to have a reinforcement mage who could temporarily reduce the weight of objects, and a scout with bouncing boots and plenty of rope. The view was perfect.
