Nephthys appeared atop one of the taller buildings in Gloamview, close enough to the square to see, but far enough away that no one would be looking for her—if they could even see through her invisibility spell, which was unlikely.
She scanned the streets below, noting a peculiar sense of anticipation. Crowds were beginning to gather, though not in any consistent manner. People paused their bustle to linger, this person leaning against the wall, that one sitting on an empty corner of a market stall. It was as if everyone knew something was about to happen, but no one knew what or where exactly.
Her knee-jerk reaction was to assume it related to the Titan’s appearance, but she quickly brushed the thought away. It was recency bias, her own bias, which pushed that through to the front.
The Titan’s arrival was expected; she had heard the whispers, but he was much earlier than she had anticipated. She was unsure exactly how long it took to get from wherever he was in Vadenlaud to Gloamview.
Prelude’s Ashreach DLC saw the journey to the continent taking a couple of blinks of the eye. It was functionally just a loading screen on departure, a couple of isolated combat zones where she had to fight sea monsters on the way, and then another loading screen. She had no clue what that translated to in real-world travel time.
Plus, travel between the continents was not allowed in Prelude. Once a character journeyed to Ashreach, they were there for good.
Nephthys had always assumed that the devs wanted Ashreach to feel as combative and hostile as possible, and that the rest of the world would undermine that tension by serving as safe zones players could escape to, where PvP was disallowed and everyone, from NPCs to monsters, would be severely underleveled compared to the players.
Regardless, high-level individuals further complicated travel estimates. She, for example, could probably make the trip all the way to Sardvend in a few hours by flying, and she had to assume that she was not the only person in the world capable of fighter-jet speeds. That the Titan was here already was further proof.
She, of course, could not help herself, testing the young man’s strength. He was strong, probably in the low 200s level-wise, but she had to gauge that strength based solely on his fighting instincts and reactions. His strength and durability would be far beyond his level, courtesy of the Titan path, which was all about endurance.
Titan had not been discovered on the specific server Nephthys had played on, but she was vaguely familiar with it based on what she read online.
Strangely, the acquisition methods for Primarch paths seemed to have some degree of randomness per server, as no one could find the Titan path following online instructions, and Nephthys’ Celestial path acquisition was not the same as what she read online, either.
The abilities, however, should be similar, meaning the Titan possessed immense physical strength and a nearly indestructible body. The tradeoff for such power was absolute incompatibility with magic.
This meant not only that the Titan could not wield magic himself, but he also could not even make use of magical artifacts or enchanted gear, regardless of the gear’s power source.
Nephthys could hardly even fathom the demerits; who would ever be inclined to give up magic?
Still, the path was undeniably powerful, as her brief ‘spar’ with the young man had showcased. He could not have been more than in his early twenties, yet he possessed the strength to challenge even high-level warriors. Even Nephthys’ level 999+ knee to his face only broke his nose.
She winced at the memory of the crunch his nose made. She had only hit him because she was pretty sure he could take it, but it was still disconcerting to strike someone she had no grievance with so hard. She had sparred during MMA classes, but she was not packing the strength to break the sound barrier with her punches back then.
Actually, how would the Titan have fared if she had taken the spar to the ground? That was generally something she would avoid, if at all possible, but did the Sardvend military include grappling in their training? Damn, maybe she should have tested him further.
She shook the thought away. She had already stretched credibility by engaging him the first time. She was obviously aware that he was not grabbing her with the intention to harm, but she needed to know where he stood, so she had exaggerated and attacked him.
She could not go back now and challenge him again, especially not after delivering her parting line.
If her body were capable of it, her cheeks would color at the memory. Why did she say that? She had delivered it so instinctively at the time, warning him against pride, as his title reminded her of a certain Titan from her own world’s mythology who overthrew his father out of envy and devoured his children out of fear of suffering the same fate.
Who do you think you are, Addy? You can’t say shit like that with a straight face. You’re not some oracle of legend.
Shaking her head once again, slightly more violently this time, she tossed her embarrassment to the back of her mind and refocused on the crowd. It was difficult to discern exactly what was going on from her vantage point, and though she could eavesdrop and try to piece things together, Nephthys decided on a more direct approach.
She appeared in an alley and strode out into the street, the throngs pressing, though they were not constricting quite yet. It was not yet a situation where all citizens were crowding the streets, just most of them.
“What is going on?” she asked.
A man leaning against the entrance to a shop glanced at her, shrugging.
“Word is that some major announcement is coming today, but it’s all rumor,” he said, returning his gaze forward.
“Why are so many out, then? Mere tavern rumors do not usually spur the sober to action,” Nephthys replied.
“Huh,” the man grunted. “Can tell by the way you talk. You wouldn’t know. Things’ve been hard recently. Food’s more expensive, gotta walk farther to find a working well every day, and you can’t even travel outside the city safely anymore.
“People are hopin’ the message from the count, or whoever, will shed some light on the situation, maybe give ‘em a little hope. Wouldn’t expect you fancies in your high towers to know about needin’ hope to get you through the day, though,” he scoffed, straightening and disappearing into the still-growing crowd.
Nephthys was shocked by both his accusation and information. Was she speaking ‘fancy’? Perhaps she had grown too used to pretending to be regal and proper for Nemesis. She did not speak so properly back home. She would have to remember to adjust her speech to her audience in the future.
The information, though…how could she not have known how bad things were for the average citizen? She had been snooping nearly every night since arriving in the city. She had listened to whispers from…
Oh, that was the problem, she realized, resisting the urge to smack her forehead. She had homed in on the people she thought would be most relevant to her needs: establishing a trade route. She had not been investigating the city as a whole; she had only been looking to have her needs fulfilled.
She had heard from the count’s chamberlain. She had observed the underground drug group. She had spoken with a low-level food merchant. She observed many throughout the city, but she had not watched the average person, the everyday citizen, going about their business. She knew the situation in this city only as it pertained to her.
What a blunder to have allowed such an obvious blind spot.
She heard shouting in the distance, and in a flash, she was there, crouching behind a parapet wall overlooking a street corner, watching a young crier jump about and wave a wooden frame with lettering carved into the wax between it.
“Rationing for food below level 100 is now in effect! Please consult your nearest government center to find out where you are authorized to buy from, and in what quantities, per Count Baracourt!” he shouted repeatedly, as if a skipping record.
Rationing? There’s no way things got that bad without my noticing.
A clamor rose from the streets below, echoed by the surrounding roads and paths. It seemed criers had been sent out to proclaim the new decree throughout the city. Citizens were initially mumbling, chatting with their neighbors, but the hubbub quickly gave way to a dull roar as irate voices drowned out the low chatter.
“What about my kids?!” one shouted.
“Why does Promise City get our money while we’re forced to ration?!” another cried.
Dots were beginning to connect in Nephthys’ mind, but even this was too early to do more than speculate. She would need to investigate further.
She stood, staring down at the crowds below, and vanished from the roof.
————————————————
A tall man with a barrel chest sat at the head of a large table, a glistening smile on his face, grease tracing a path down his chin. He carelessly wiped it with the back of his sleeve, unconcerned with manners, as he enjoyed his meal. His bald head gleamed in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows, and his thin mustache was pressed to his face, stuck fast in the grease that still lingered.
Several people in elaborate finery feasted in merriment, the count’s own disregard for dining etiquette having given the atmosphere one of unreserved celebration. Boisterous chatter filled the room, along with clinks from glasses and silverware.
“A momentous occasion, Count Baracourt, truly,” a man said as he approached with a silver tray, removing one cup and giving it a swirl before handing it to the count.
“Jace, you dog!” Count Baracourt laughed, accepting the proffered cup, failing to notice the particulate within, obscured by the drink’s swirling. “You and your people should be celebrating, not serving! In just a short time, we’ll rule this place, I from above, and you from below!”
Jace smiled, sitting down next to the count. He placed the silver tray upon the table before him delicately, removing the second cup and taking a long drink.
The count squinted forward, his lip wrinkling slightly.
“Though, I must say, they are dampening the mood slightly,” he said, nodding toward the other end of the table.
Several of Jace’s people scurried to and fro, carrying plates of food and trays topped with drinks to the celebrants, their faces obscured by fabric, which covered up to their noses.
“Ah, they protect themselves. Many live much closer to their neighbors than you or I, so they must maintain a level of plausible deniability if they wish to live ordinary lives, you see.
“Not everyone will be happy with the…circumstances we are about to create, after all. It is simply a measure to ensure their own neighbors do not seek to strangle them in their sleep,” Jace explained, staring across the table over the rim of his cup.
“Well, whatever. What matters is having a good time! Tomorrow, the real work begins!” the count exclaimed, draining his cup.
“Of course, of course. Now is a time for merrymaking,” Jace chuckled.
He gazed over the festive atmosphere, noting what none of the participants seemed to: a strange ‘spice’ being sprinkled on the food, a powder being mixed into drinks, and dust being scattered across the floor to clump in corners or disperse into the air.
None of the celebrants seemed concerned about Jace’s people covering their mouths and noses, nor did they even notice how they refused to partake of any food or drink that they served.
A crooked smile spread across Jace’s face, and his dark eyes briefly flashed a bright green, yet no one noticed that, either.
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