Brushing off broken corn ears from my cloak, I speak the word "Greenwise" just as this spooky whisper advises me to.
I like him from the start. He comes through the field; ghosts into the corn, more like. The brushing stems part automatically at his presence. And he has a controlled, capable presence; with a purpose that's only emphasised by his firmly gripped, thick wooden staff. (You wouldn't want to get hit by it.) Clearly, he's some magical bloke. Or an angel. I was sure I heard wings.
"Welcome seeker-friend... to Fountellion... the island... the green garden... as it... exists... at this moment."
He's got a voice as rough as sandpaper, and I wonder how much I'm going to need him and whether he's going to keep disappearing on me.
He explains things well but with a mysterious air of... urgency. But while he talks now and then, I'm still zoning out to look at the world around. It's so... busy. Seeds are dispersing like magical dust in the summery air. Bees and other insects fly on tiny missions around us, over the tops of the planted field. The level of detail again. I mean, it's beautiful, yeah, but all so... alive. I feel young again.
And now... I get my own personal guru...
"It sure is a nice... world... you have here," is all I can manage.
This Greenwise dude – now leaning calmly on his Sherwood Forest-style staff – pauses for a moment, as though he's registering and processing a response. It arrives; his gaze meets mine and his mouth suddenly forms a friendly smile. NPC, semi-NPC. Whatever. I don't want to break the spell of disbelief I'm under. He looks cool, in the way that any old guy in an old, worn cloak would look cool, because he's just so... unassuming; humble; wise-seeming. Like a retired Indiana Jones crossed with a Shaolin monk.
"It's never been my world. No... all this is still yours. But thank you, Dan... and... Dr. Fielding and Mr. Leaven have specifically requested me to say congratulations on finding the key in Revel. And being one of the first, they expect you now to have... questions. But allow me to be a guide, and not answer too much at once. There is not limitless time here. There are dangers too. For your progression. And if we're... interrupted... do not fear. Just listen to me carefully. You may also summon me again, while there is still light. Are you with me?"
So, no pressure already. "Yeah! On board.. and... thanks."
"Good. I will continue. I am sworn to protect this land... and yet it is not... yet... in balance... There is a shadow rising across it... and where... it can only be the player – or players; its future Mages – maybe you – that can salvage it. Preserve it. I can only guide... and guard."
"So you must know all sorts of ninja-type stuff?" I had to ask this, as I've seen server moderator-guardians before, and some of them were extremely bad-ass.
A small smile only, but he seems wary too. The AI in this guy must be... intense.
"Only... if necessary. But you wouldn't want to...." In fact... yes, I would. It's too much temptation. I move to punch him in the face... just... well, because... to see what happens. It's a game, right? And already, just like a kid, I'm curious about its limits, so that I can get a grip on the potential scope here: for having fun...
Very easily though, he dodges my awkward move, grabbing the arm-sleeve of my cloak and pulling me easily – and gracefully – off-balance, past him and... down on the ground, where I squash yet more barley.
"...find out." He finishes, and then immediately offers his arm to help me up.
He didn't even use his stick. I'm impressed. He continues.
YOU ARE READING
Fountellion in THE SPIRAL: Greenwise & the Nature of the Game
Science FictionA gateway to a long-awaited, always-online virtual island (an 'Autonomous World') has opened for those who've found a key. This includes Dan Harvester, a guy who lives in a run-down apartment with his cat and runs a gaming channel. He's almost done...
