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Ishan Orlov lay awake in his bed. He was numb and hollow. He had cried himself empty until his eyes were puffy and raw.
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There had not been as much improvement with the regiment in the past month as Fane had hoped. Running speed and shot accuracy had improved; however, many social and cultural traditions impeded progress at every turn.
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Fane woke to a throbbing headache. The last thing he remembered was walking into a dance club with Shelly, Ajay, and the prince. The sky shifted to a soft grey in the window, jasmine dancing against the pane. He scrambled to sit up. “Oh, crap! I’m going to be late.”
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“You got a glitch?” Marjorta grabbed Fane by the shoulders to steady him.
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“Is this what you do in the evenings when I leave you here?” Fane leaned against Prince Orlov’s doorframe to watch the man hacking and slashing at the air in his Nurvo Gear.
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“You want me to believe this djinn newb has never played in a gear before? At that level?” A built half-orc woman looked the party up and down.
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Fane stood inside a massive wood-panelled hall with a high elf, an orc, and a mouse person. Tables crowded with a variety of beast people, elves, and other species sprawled across the big room. A few waved and called out to Ishan and the team.
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Chapel Orahamm 