In the chaotic environments where transmigrators often find themselves – sprawling port cities, dangerous border towns, the shadowy underbellies of seemingly civilized metropolises – information is a currency as vital as coin, and often far more treacherous to acquire. Understanding the flow, and manipulation, of knowledge is key to survival.
Common Information Channels (and their inherent unreliability):
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Tavern Gossip & Street Rumor: The most accessible source, but also the least reliable. Fueled by alcohol, boredom, and exaggeration. While occasionally containing kernels of truth regarding local dangers, recent events, or faction movements, verification is essential and often impossible. Treating tavern talk as actionable intelligence is a common, often fatal, novice mistake.
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Posted Notices & Official Proclamations: Bounty boards, guard warnings, guild announcements. Generally factual regarding their stated purpose but often lacking context or deliberately omitting crucial details. Useful for identifying immediate, overt threats or opportunities, but rarely provide insight into covert activities.
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Merchant & Worker Chatter: Discussions overheard in marketplaces, workshops, or docks can provide insight into economic conditions, guild politics, supply shortages, or common travel route hazards. More grounded than tavern gossip, but typically focused on mundane concerns. Sensitive information is rarely discussed openly.
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Controlled Information Flow: Be aware that powerful factions (guilds, noble houses, criminal syndicates) often actively manage information within their sphere of influence. They may spread misinformation to discredit rivals, conceal illicit activities, or lure targets into traps. Question information that seems too convenient or perfectly aligns with a specific faction's interests.
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Specialized Dealers (High Risk): While rumors may speak of individuals who trade exclusively in secrets (information brokers, spies, corrupted officials), accessing such sources is exceptionally dangerous. They operate outside conventional channels, demand exorbitant prices (coin, dangerous favors, binding oaths), and their loyalty is solely to themselves. Verifying their information is difficult, and approaching them often marks you as someone involved in dangerous games, attracting unwanted attention from multiple sides. Engaging with such entities should only be considered in dire circumstances and with extreme caution. (See Section 101: Underworld Interactions - Risk Assessment).
Ultimately, navigating urban information networks requires constant vigilance, critical assessment, and cross-referencing disparate sources. Assume most of what you hear is incomplete, biased, or deliberately false. Relying on unverified information is akin to navigating a minefield based on a treasure map drawn by a known liar. Patience and observation (Module 3) are often more valuable than hasty inquiries.
(Inkstained Prophet's Clarification: Disregard any fictional accounts depicting charmingly roguish information brokers operating out of quaintly clandestine tea shops. Reality is invariably grimier, costlier, and involves a significantly higher chance of being found floating face-down in the harbor.)
[Kevin's Story: Part 24 - Below the Boardwalk]
The stench was the first thing that hit him – a thick, cloying miasma of rotting fish guts, stagnant seawater, creosote from the pier pilings, and something vaguely fecal. Kevin huddled in the cramped, damp space beneath the decaying planks of an old, seldom-used fishing pier on the edge of the Mud Flats district. This was his new sanctuary. High tide sometimes washed through the lower sections, leaving behind slick mud and shivering puddles. Drafts whistled constantly through gaps in the planking above, carrying fragments of dockside noise and chilling him despite the rough burlap sack he’d managed to scavenge. It was leagues worse than Martha’s storeroom, a miserable, lightless hovel that screamed 'rock bottom'. But it was anonymous. Hidden. And crucially, far from the Merchant Quarter and the likely patrols of vengeful City Guards.
He’d spent the first day after his escape mostly healing and hiding. His ankle throbbed, the [Minor Sprain] debuff still active on his status screen, making movement painful and slow. He ate sparingly from the Veteran’s rations, conserving them, supplementing with a truly disgusting hard biscuit that tasted like sawdust and regret. Sleep was fitful, punctuated by the creaking of the pier above, the slap of water against the pilings, and the constant fear of discovery.
Stolen story; please report.
By the second day, desperation began to outweigh pain and fear. He couldn't stay hidden forever. He needed information. Who were the armed men at the temple? Sea Serpents looking for the cufflink? Wharf Rats investigating the Sea Serpents? Someone else entirely? And what was the status of the City Guard’s interest in him? Was ‘Finn the Fixer’ now ‘Finn the Fugitive’?
He began making cautious forays out, timed for the deepest night or the confusing bustle of early morning fish unloading. He kept his hood pulled low, favouring the densest warren of alleys, relying heavily on [Urban Navigation (Slums)] and his newly volatile Luck to avoid patrols. He couldn't risk going near the Drunken Sailor or Boltar's stall. His world had shrunk to the grimiest fringes of Port Azure.
His attempts at eavesdropping yielded little beyond confirmation that the Wharf Rats and Sea Serpents were indeed escalating their conflict. More skirmishes reported in the Narrows, more accusations of stolen goods and informants. Finn O'Malley's name still occasionally surfaced in angry whispers, usually associated with betrayal. No specific mention of the temple incident or his own public disturbance reached his ears, but that didn't mean the information wasn't circulating in circles he couldn't access. The [Public Disturbance Notice] remained stubbornly on his status screen.
He also tried, cautiously, to probe the nature of his altered Luck. Standing in the damp darkness under the pier, he took one of his remaining coppers. "Okay, LUK ???," he muttered, "Let's see what you do." He flipped the coin. Instead of landing neatly in his palm, it struck a low-hanging beam, ricocheted off a piling, spun improbably on its edge in the mud for a second, and then vanished with a soft plip into a patch of particularly deep, foul-smelling water.
Ding!
[LUK ??? Effect Triggered: Minor Action (Coin Flip) -> Result: Unpredictable Trajectory, Item Loss (Negligible Value), Mild Annoyance.]
Kevin stared at the spot where the coin disappeared. So, not necessarily bad luck, just… chaotic and unhelpful. Later, while scavenging behind a fish smokehouse, hoping for discarded scraps, he stumbled over a loose crate. Instead of crashing loudly or injuring himself further, the crate tipped over silently, revealing not rotten fish, but a small, intact coil of usable fishing line someone had carelessly left behind.
Ding!
[LUK ??? Effect Triggered: Minor Hazard (Stumble) -> Result: Unexpected Resource Discovery (Fishing Line - Poor Quality), Positive Outcome (Minor Value).]
Volatile. Unpredictable. Capable of minor good or minor bad seemingly at random, amplifying simple actions into strange outcomes. It wasn't the reliable curse of LUK 3, but it wasn't exactly comforting either. It felt like walking on eggshells laid across a minefield – maybe you'd find a dropped coin, maybe you'd trigger an explosion. Trying to rely on it felt incredibly dangerous.
The need for reliable information became paramount. Eavesdropping wasn't cutting it. He needed someone who traded in secrets, someone beyond the casual rumor mill. He remembered the Guide's warnings about specialized dealers – dangerous, costly, hard to verify. But the fragments he was gathering painted a picture of escalating tension, making his position increasingly precarious. Someone, somewhere, must know more about Finn's last days, about the Sea Serpents' moves, about who might have been searching the temple.
Huddling near the back entrance of the Gnawed Barrel one evening – one of the few places he felt relatively safe lurking nearby, given its low reputation – he overheard two rough-looking sailors arguing in hushed, angry tones.
"...told you Slip wouldn't fence it! Said it was too hot, probably Serpent marked."
"Slip's getting spooked. Used to handle anything. Now he just points you towards 'Whispers'. Damn information tax..."
"Whispers knows things, though. Knew about that Guard crackdown near the Spice Market before it even happened. Costs silver, but sometimes it's worth it..."
Whispers. An information broker, apparently. One who charged silver – potentially the silver piece Kevin still had hidden. And associated, somehow, with someone named Slip, a fence. The name felt suitably clandestine, exactly the sort of high-risk, high-cost source the Guide warned against. The sailors didn't say where to find this 'Whispers', only that they were expensive and knowledgeable.
Kevin filed the name away. It was a lead, the first real one he’d had since fleeing the temple. Finding Whispers would be risky. Approaching them even riskier, especially trading silver which, as Boltar warned, attracted attention. But what choice did he have? Living under a pier, dodging guards and guild thugs, waiting for his unpredictable luck to save or doom him wasn't sustainable. He needed knowledge. He needed leverage, even if acquiring it meant stepping deeper into the dangerous games the Guide cautioned against.
He retreated back to his damp hovel under the pier as the tide began to creep in, the smell of brine intensifying. He checked his dagger, counted his meager coppers (now barely enough for a few days' worth of biscuits), and felt the weight of the hidden silver piece and the cufflink. They represented his only real assets, his bargaining chips. It was time to find Whispers. Time to risk the underworld.