Chương 13: The Oldest Complex Refreshed

It took a while, but WARHOL did it — he unlocked all of the doors (within a reasonable area) and lit up all the power crystals behind those doors. It drained him a bit. Actually, he broke a sweat doing it. He opened his HUD and checked his mana: [99, 999, 999+]. He worried for nothing. Because he had been so busy in acting as a human battery charger, Warhol hadn't the time to examine the many artifacts within the complex. He did so now and saw a bevy of treasure troves.

Relics, old tech, and cultural pieces (which included many old coffee mugs — fascinating!). What proved most intriguing was the language throughout the complex. It was a runic-based language. Or a language which looked closely related to runes, at any rate. Intellectually titillating as it all was, he felt a headache approach: wanting a break, Warhol [Teleported] back to The Hop.

He approached his same stool, though this time, found it occupied already by a barfly who was using the vines which made part of the bar itself as a pillow. Bad form.

"Excuse me, sir, that is my seat. Kindly remove yourself, please?" he spoke gently, far more so than he had to be. The centaur, far too intoxicated for his own good, bade him away with a rude gesture.

"The hard way, then." Warhol used [Ghost Hand] to grab and remove the centaur as if they were nothing more than an overlooked toy. He dropped the centaur on the other side of the bar, where a fungal lily pad became his new pillow. His seat now freed, Warhol nodded to the Facilitator and got his usual.

"All at the same time, please." Though the facilitator rolled their eyes disapprovingly at his command, they still brought him three shot glasses filled with Bunghole Sap. He downed all three glasses at once and felt the relief spread through his nervous system. He shivered in delight at no longer needing to endure the worldly noise. Numbing, disassociation, ghostly mirages all came to him at the same time. One memory he liked above all. It was the first time he met the Trickster God Faux.

It had been at this very establishment. The ghostly memory of Faux came and 'sat' next to him on a seat already occupied by a dwarf. Not caring how the dwarf reacted to him staring lovely at them, Warhol gazed friendly at the ghost, remembering... Many years ago, he had been an adventurer like anyone else in his guild. He was a newbie, overly cautious, and too worried for his own good about the dangers of the world as a mage.

Fresh from a mission which saw half his adventuring party killed by frenzied goblins overwhelmed by evil powers, he had visited The Hop with an older mentor friend who thought having an exotic drink would do him good after such an encounter in the field. His friend, of course, took off to a private room the moment they arrived, leaving him to fend for himself.

He had some drinks with exotic flavors and impressive alcohol contents, he chit-chatted with the fey folk, trying his best to appear sensitive to their issues, but none of it lessened his ennui. That is, until he encountered a Troll folk. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Their face was almost comical in how they reflected the stereotypical Troll: big everything, nose, lips, ears, gnashed teeth, and garish jewelry pierced through skin folds.

"How do you do, Human?" The Troll's voice was refined; so unexpected was the troll's voice, he laughed.

"I apologize, Troll sir! I did not expect your voice!"

"Bloody biscuits! What, are all us trolls supposed to sound the same, then?!" the Troll replied in mock rage. They ended up becoming friends that night. The troll told him nuggets of wisdom which, in hindsight, were silly lies, but at the time, were of the exact nature he wanted to hear from a friendly stranger who seemed unbothered by the world's violence.

"Keep your bloody eyes away from me!" the dwarf sitting next to him said, spitting at him before moving to another stool. Warhol chuckled. He snapped and incanted [Detoxify]. As he always did, he felt repaired. He had indulged his existential whimsies and that was enough to get him by for now. He [Teleported] to The Grotto and left behind his ghostly memories. Back in his safe, cozy space, he realized he still had the space artifact from before to scan.

He grabbed a snack, opened his dimensional pocket, and again used [Ghost Hands] to grab the artifact and place it within the Scanner in the back. He pressed a button and allowed the machine to do its thing. Minutes later he saw a big, fat nothing printed from The Scanner. It had no idea what the object was, though it did tell him what he needed to know: the energy it emitted was the same as in artifacts.

He had already verified as much from his own magical sensory abilities, but it was good to have an idea; next, he had his Celestial System scan the artifact. It returned to him an [Invalid: Not Enough Data].

"That's an oddity," he mouthed. When the System didn't have enough data, that meant one of several, or more, things, such as, the person needed to find more similar objects, or the person needed to purchase from the Holy Shop Boons which bestowed to their System extra-information about the Holy Pantheon. Did he need to purchase such Boons? He could also take the artifact to the Holy Church. That priest, Geoffrey Milton, did owe him a favor... He put down his scanning tools and finished his snack.

He could continue to tinker with this space-thing later. Snack done, he felt re-energized. He returned the artifact to dimensional storage and [Teleported] back to the complex. Having returned to the Oldest Complex after his brief break, he was determined to get to the truth of the runes he discovered. Warhol resumed his line of thought directly where he had left off vis-a-vis runic language: Not many societies had a semi-runic language.

He searched his knowledge for what it could be: he closed his eyes, and incanted [Mental Palace: Personal Knowledge]. Seconds later, Warhol was 'inside' a spacious but cozy cabin made from logs of the western red cedar tree, the gold standard for cabin construction. Wide windows throughout the entire room revealed the mountainous forest below, the gargantuan peaks of Holy Diver above. A fireplace roared between cases of books.

Across from the fireplace was a large desk filled with knickknacks and writing tools and accouterments. Beside the desk to the righthand side, was a bed, for aesthetic purposes. Lance breathed in relief. He was safe here. Mostly, anyway... his body remained back in the underground complex, but it was now cast with an [Invisibility] and [Indomitability] spell which he triggered to activate automatically whenever he entered his mind palace.

Everything he ever learned concerning magical history, theory, about the peoples of the world, resided in this construction. It took him years of intense study to be able to categorize his accumulated knowledge in such a fashion. It wasn't easy. But the results? It spoke for itself, he thought. Warhol tilted his finger. Several tomes from the shelves floated and opened to him to pages he had thought of in his head. One book contained part of what he knew on ancient societies.

Another contained some of what he knew about ancient magic. He pulled his finger again and more tomes came floating. Soon, he had over a dozen tomes orbiting him, some flipping to pages he thought of, others staying open. Other books yet he placed flat on his desk, reference charts bound in book displays for easy reference. He willed the fire stronger to warm himself as he gave the command to his teapot to begin brewing his hemp-based black tea; it was going to be a long night...