"Prof! What is magic? I mean, like from a game-dev point of view. Because I keep thinking and I just can't get the hang of it. I mean, I sort of get the spells, but even my crazy rituals tend to work most of the time! Why is that?"

The Professor looked at me over his glasses, as if solving a complex mathematical problem in his mind.

"Are you seriously asking me that?"

"Yes. What's so surprising?"

"Well, imagine if you would, you visit an exhibition of a famous artist. His paintings are breathtaking in their beauty and authenticity. Each one costs a small fortune. And while you are taking in another genius piece, you are approached by a man who begins asking you all kinds of questions about the basics of painting. The fundamentals of composition, proportion, structure, technique. And then you find out that the person asking actually is the famous artist, the author of all the works you came to see. What conclusion would you come to draw?"

"That he's fucking with me?"

"Exactly..."

"Anatoly, you misunderstand," The Prof skeptically raised on eyebrow. "I'm really asking you more about the chemical composition of the paints, the physics behind their interaction with the canvas, and the structures of the brushes."

"Okay, Oleg, I believe I understand. But first, tell me in your own words what do you think magic is. Not in the game, but rather, in general."

I pondered for a while.

"Well, it's hard to say. According to common belief - it is the expression of unknown forces, which people can control thanks to learned or inherited abilities. On their own or with the help of certain rituals or instruments. And these forces are only considered to be magic simply because they aren't well researched."

"But what if we ignore common belief. I believe that you of all people should have your own thoughts on the matter."

"I believe that magic is Communication."

"Communication?"

"Yeah... Persuasion, threats, conversations, demands, manipulations. But not between people, between a person and the world. Or God or higher powers, whichever you prefer."

"How is that? Do you mean that the world responds to people's requests?"

"Well, if you know how to ask, then it does..." A sly smile cut across my face.

"And how does one ask?"

"A little backstory first. You remember that Man was created in God's own image."

"Of course."

"By that train of thought, if we take after God, then God sort of resembles us."

"I'm following..."

"So I'm saying that if God was a person, he'd be an ironic, lazy bastard with a big kind heart."

Prof laughed.

"But don't you think that everybody has their own God? That there are more than Lazy ironic bastards with kind hearts overlooking our fates? There might be ambitious scum, unsane with inflated brains and thirsty for the blood of young boys," he nervously eyed Faust and Legolas. "As well as mild and timid deities."

"I don't know, I haven't checked."

"And does your God speak to you?"

"When I speak to God - its a prayer. When he speaks to me - that's schizophrenia. I wouldn't call it "speaking", rather he lets me know that my request has been processed."

"And how does the communication take place? You walk out into an open field and scream up at the sky? Then why the obsession with rituals?"

"You are welcome to scream your head off in a field at any time. But rituals... Imagine that a person you're talking to can only use simplistic speech patterns. He can only designate his desires, but can't explain the why or how of it all. Like he's incapable of forming sentences that complex. Rituals are a way of enriching the message. The make your request more vivid and expressive. For example, while walking down the street, you are approached by a nice old lady that blandly exclaims: "Buy pastry! Available with meat, rice, and jam!" Or she might say: "Sonny, buy a pastry! Help an old woman buy her medicine. I have some with meat, some with rice and others with jam. I made the jam myself, all-natural and very tasty." Who's got the best chances of getting paid for their pastries? Especially if both approach you at the same time, and the second one is smiling warmly. And what the hell does this have to do with the magic in the game anyway?"

"It has everything to do with it. The system works similarly, although in a discreet manner. One ritual ends up being more original and convincing that all the other similar ones. It's a contest for being the most logical, dramatic, beautiful. Or horrible..."

"Or the craziest..."

"Naturally," The Prof smiled. "That's most likely the secret behind you astounding success. So what's it like? Being a sorcerer in the real world?"

"It sucks..." I puckered up. "Just think of it! You wish to... Oh, I don't know... Find an obsidian shard in your back yard. And you have convinced the world by convincing yourself that you need it to be exactly in your back yard, so bad that it hurts. Screw making an effort like going somewhere to buy it or find it. And as soon as the convincing is done, a chain of events is set in motion. And the fun part is that it doesn't originate here and now. How does that piece of rock find it's way to the destination you set? And the stronger... Rather, the more convincing the sorcerer - the more convoluted the chain. If the ritual is potent, a glacier might slide down a nearby mountain-side and drag right through the said back yard. Or an innocent person may be killed, stabbed to death by a crazed devil-worshiper with the obsidian shard you ordered. Or it'll be brought by a friendly meteor. Or the neighbor's boy will toss it over your fence. And of your desperate enough to ritually tie your destiny with another person like that - it's over. The mind-boggling chain of events will drag you through life, scraping your meat off on concrete and dry sand, using you to break walls and demolishing lives in your immediate vicinity. Basically, it's like swallowing a crazy mess of fishing hooks on a line. You either get what you asked for, or you die. There is no option C."

"And you can really ask for anything you want?"

"Oh yeah, Prof! Anything. But only on the condition that YOU personally really NEED it. And that's often not determined consciously. It's hard to ask for logical stuff. And you still haven't answered my question. Aren't there like a complex system? Laws, paradoxes, equations?"

"Well, I guess there are... Somewhere... Where they have managed to think them up. But I don't think anyone will be able to show you a definite general formula of magic or it's logical model."

"Why? Do you think it's that complicated?"

"Our world has already been consumed by logic. Mathematical calculation reigns supreme, governing over everything from the healthy diet plans to social models. Humanity is on the brink of discovering the final elements of the formula of human personality. Sure, there are three thousand one hundred ninety-six variables, but it can categorize every human being. And the games are a safe haven from all that. A place where the power of logic isn't absolute. We have gifted ourselves a fairy tale. But tell me, Oleg, what did you convince the world to give you? What got you dragged in here?"

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Sure, Anatoly. Once I broke a glass pin under the full moon. The pin was washed in the three seas, has tasted the blood of three enemies, and held the warmth of my Love's hand. And as I did it, I was gloriously laughing at the absurdity of what I was about to say. Because I was about to give the higher powers a run for their money. I wished that I would one day step upon the lush green fields of Mars."

"Holy shiiiiiiiiiiit!"

It turned out that while we were pleasantly conversing, our group wandered out onto a riverbank, where a vast oared dracar was docked. Its crew was in the middle of setting up camp. I was amazed at the fact that none of us heard the huffing and puffing of all these gruff men, considering that there seemed to be just over a hundred of them. Formally, I was on scout duty. But considering that death here was mildly inconvenient, I wasn't all that concerned with my safety.

The one who said, "Holy shit" was a huge Viking, with piercing blue eyes, a weathered face, and a dirty-blonde beard weaved into braids of different girth. The enormity of his stature was enough to put all of us to shame. Except, probably, for Pickle.

Dis the Changeling, Warrior

Lvl 75

HP: 100 000

"Name's Fillin, Oleg to my friends," Yes, I'm aware that brashness is my curse.

"You swing a big set of balls for someone so small," The Viking rose from the log he was sitting on and heaved an ax on his shoulder. Judging by its size, the weapon was a relative of Louie's shield.

"By what right?" he asked.

"By right of spilled blood," I motioned my companions to remain silent and leaned onto my stick. "And who are you to ask me questions?"

"I am a Yarl, and behind me is my army."

"A yarl, huh? And since when do decent folk follow around a were-beast? And where do they follow him to?"

The Viking's eyes flashed.

"It's amusing to hear such questions from a ... thing that's followed by some band of freaks that reek of magic as bad as a hole of shit on a hot summer day."

"My comrades follow no mere mortal. They're drawn not by fame or gold. They march in the glory of a future God. And what of you?"

"I come for blood and glory, for women and land. And I venture to places where none come back from."

"You'll get nothing here, Dis."

"This I hear from a puny birdie-person and his band of freaks and jugglers. Who's going to stop me? You? Your pathetic magic?"

"Hell, screw magic," I planted my stick into the ground and proceeded to hang my cloak and my jacket, dropping all of my hidden knives, my string, and my revolver. I kinda liked the guy and didn't want to kill him. So I was gonna have to wing it.

"You and me, yarl, are gonna do it real simple - with fisticuffs. And we'll decide who's going where right here, in the circle."

Dis smirked, but I could see a hint of respect in his eyes as he also left all his weapons and armor behind. Meanwhile, his warriors murmured amongst themselves as they surrounded us in a thirty-foot circle.

I had a little time to think. I got while the sailors were silent, they're probably NPC's for one, and highly disciplined warriors as well. But why the hell was my crew so timid. It's not like I've installed army regulations or anything. Finally, I noticed the chat icon blinking on my periphery. The team thought they were smart to be quiet, but I was still guessing: were they afraid of spoiling my plans, did they think I would get carried away with my "cocky cut-throat" entourage, or where they shy in front of a hundred angry bearded dudes with axes? As things were, we were really risking getting slaughtered. And how was I supposed to tell them that we'll be fighting the imperial army along-side every one of these vikings? I sent a quick text, telling the team to enjoy the show and behave and stepped into the center of our primal arena.

Dis stepped out to greet me. The Viking leader's torso was bulging with muscles and was littered with all kinds of scars. Seeing this, I scoffed and opted to lose my shirt as well. I was on the ass end of this topless competition. I think that the volume of his body would fit three of mine. And I bet he could easily consume my corpse in a single helping. Leaving only crushed bones in his wake, considering he was a ware-beast and all.

We stood facing each other. It felt as though even the river stopped flowing. I looked around, then stomped my feet twice and clapped my hands. Again and again. On the third time, our audience caught the rhythm. And the ancient beat rumbled all through the camp. I could almost make out the lyrics of a song in my head, but I quickly shook them off.

Dis stepped forward and howled. I screeched. There was nothing human left in our battle cries as we lounged at each other. I ducked under the Viking's swing, kicked his lead leg, and with a twist, punched him straight in the back of his head. Dis lost balance and fell forward but was quick to roll over and regroup. Joy flashed in his eyes as the Viking growled. His jaw began to drop as his teeth grew sharp. Fur covered his body, and claws tore through his nails. Well, I know that trick.

Soon it was two humanoid beasts ready to tear each other apart. Another clash. I notice that I'm a lot faster. Not wanting to test my feathers against the werewolf's fangs, I dodge again, spin around and land a few blows to his kidneys. But the werewolf threw his head back, and his jaws snapped dangerously close to my face. His mistake. With that thought, I bit off a piece of his nose. His retaliation tore off one of my pectorals and threw me back. Nothing I couldn't handle. He, on the other hand, was partially blinded from all the blood that gushed from his nose.

I danced around the poor wolf, striking hard but avoiding fatal blows and dodging his haymaker swings. He was missing his left ear and half of his upper lip when I soared into the air and came crashing down onto his head. And that was it.

"Elsper, fix him up. I wanna talk some more."

While our healer was putting the Viking back together, I wiped the blood away with grass and got dressed.

"Well?"

"Yarl, allow me to serve in your ranks!" the Viking pleaded. His eyes shone with enthusiasm, and he was poorly holding back a wide-ass smile.

"Serve? FreakHead!" The head appeared out of thin air. "What do you think? Shall we make this one into our vassal?"

The head quickly ran around the pale Viking, poked its tale into his shin, and licked his boot for some reason. And finally purred in approval.

"Don't grow so pale, Dis. You're on the last position in FreakHead's menu. Isn't that right?"

The loose head that pensively froze with its maw gaping over my new comrade's calf and was quick to scutter away into the woods. After an educational kick from me, of course.

"Usually, the thing licks only Faust."

"I await your answer, Yarl."

"I'd think twice, Dis. Survival rates are minimal in this job. I would even say non-existent."

"It won't be the first time. I regret nothing. My request still stands."

"Suit yourself. So be it, people!" I jumped onto the log to attract the attention of all the other Vikings. Were they mute or something?

"People! The revoluthion that the bolthevicth have been talking about for tho long hath been cantheled! Now, Let's party!"

My new army was confused, my old team sighed wearily. I had to dumb down my slogans.

"Steve! Get your gargoyle out here! Let's get ourselves shitfaced!"

The crowd roared in approval.