The map
The pane knows where you are and changes with it. Indoors and in
ordinary rooms it is Mudlet's own mapper, given a quadrant rather than a window you
have to go looking for — and it fills in as you walk, a room at
a time, working out which way you went from the exits the last room listed rather than
from what you typed. Recall, a portal, a follow or a command that failed cannot send
it the wrong way. Step onto the overworld and it becomes
a painted map of Thera — the continent as a picture rather than
a grid of letters, with your sprite standing on it and a cross on every way into an
area. The info box names the country and the square you are on, Eastern
Roads 14,10, rather than a room number nobody types; indoors it
names the room and the area it is in. It stays one line, and it answers for whichever
room the mouse is over, so you can read the name of a room you are not standing in.
The tile view is still there and lua solarPaintedMap()
swaps between the two. It draws the same 25×15 grid of country the game draws,
centred on you and running into the regions around you, in a tile font of the game's
own: conifers for forest, waves for water,
peaks for mountains, rounded swells for hills, courses of brick for a wall so you can
see which way it runs, worn paving for the roads and laid planking for a pier or a
boardwalk, its boards running across the way you walk — the roads
turn corners and meet at junctions rather than breaking into a jagged
run of bars and slashes. The sea comes ashore on a curve instead of
down a staircase, because a square on the coast is drawn part water and part land
rather than one or the other. You are a sprite standing on top of it all, filling
exactly one square, and he turns to face the way you are walking
— standing still keeps the way you last went rather than snapping back.
Take a ship out and the map goes with her. At the helm or on deck it
draws from where the vessel is rather than where you are standing, and she takes your
place on it — ship, submarine or airship, each with her own four facings, and
each pointing the way she was last steered rather than the way she has drifted.
Your own hulls are drawn where you left them, on the square they are
anchored on, so a ship you can step onto looks like one. Only yours — the map is
not a fleet tracker and will not tell you where anybody else's is — and the one
you are aboard is left off, because she is already the marker you are standing on.
Take a coach, a ferry or a turtle and the map does the travelling.
It works its route a square at a time while you sit on it, so the country goes past
under you rather than arriving as a wall of text, and the sprite on the map is the
coach, the boat or the turtle you are on, pointed the way it is going.
Go underground and the picture goes with you. The caves are painted
the way the continent is: ledges shaded so a shelf reads apart from the floor below
it, falling water drawn in waves across the drop, bridges over the water, and a mouth
where one chamber opens into the next. In a tunnel you are a silhouette
rather than the figure you are out in the light, and where something crosses
above you it is drawn over your marker — which is what tells you that
you are under the span rather than on it. It is drawn as whatever is actually up
there, so planking covers you over the water and stone covers you inside a castle.
Some things lying on the floor draw themselves on it. An item left
where it lies shows on its own square, over the ground and under you, and it goes
from the map the moment somebody picks it up — so a room can be read for what
is still in it rather than looked at twice.
Where the ceiling comes down, you duck. Your sprite crouches for
as long as the roof above your square is low, and stands again the moment it
lifts — so you can see from the map alone whether it is safe to be where you
are standing. Press a button and the map shows what it did: a
bridge thrown across a gap is drawn where it now lies, and taken away again when
it runs out.